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idkyetxoxo · 1 day ago

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Harwin Strong - Queen of Beauty

Summary - She struggles for the affection of her cold betrothed, a proud knight of the Vale. Her heart is unexpectedly drawn to another whose warm gaze offers hope. When fate intertwines their destinies, she must navigate love, rivalry, and her betrothed's dangerous wrath.

Pairing - Harwin Strong x reader

Warnings - None

Word count - 2205

Masterlist for Harwin • House of the Dragon General Masterlist.

My betrothed was a hard, unfeeling man—a knight of the Vale, with eyes that barely found their way to me, and words that rarely acknowledged my existence.

He was a Royce, one of the proudest of their house, a man who thought himself invincible, untouchable—a noble of iron and ice.

I sat in the stands, perched in a small section reserved for the families of the knights who would soon be fighting.

Though I wasn't family yet, my parents and his had insisted I attend, to show him support as his intended, to cheer him on before the eyes of our houses.

I smoothed the folds of my gown, a dress I had chosen carefully to suit his family's colours, a small, ridiculous attempt to make him notice me, to perhaps see something in me worth caring for.

"I'll take the victory, there's no doubt of it," he was saying to a fellow knight.

His voice caught my attention, and my gaze drifted to where he stood, fitting his armour into place with that unshakeable arrogance that had already grown so familiar. He flexed his arms as his squire buckled the last of his pauldrons, adjusting his helm as though it were a crown.

"And who do you plan to crown as Queen of Beauty, then?" the other knight asked with a grin, his voice loud and teasing.

I felt the faintest smile curl on my lips, daring to hope, foolishly perhaps, that he might glance my way, might offer me some sign that I held even a small place in his thoughts.

I braced myself for a flicker of acknowledgement, a gesture, a word... something.

But instead, his gaze drifted right past me, not even pausing as if I were invisible.

His eyes landed instead on a different maiden nearby—a girl with bright eyes and a shy laugh, one who whispered eagerly to her friend as she looked out over the field, her cheeks flushed with excitement.

"She is rather fair, isn't she?" he muttered to his companion, a note of admiration slipping into his voice that struck me like a blow.

He was silent a moment, watching the girl as she looked away, unaware of the attention she'd captured.

The other knight chuckled, clapping my betrothed on the shoulder. "Ah, so even the stone-hearted Royce can have his head turned. Maybe there's hope for you after all."

My throat tightened, and I forced myself to swallow the hurt rising in my chest. My faint smile vanished, leaving only the empty ache of foolish hopes dashed.

Had I truly expected him to care? To look at me and see anything more than a contract, a name he would one day inherit alongside land and title?

My fingers clenched the fabric of my gown, knuckles whitening as I fought back the bitter sigh trembling on my lips. I looked away, willing my gaze to find anything, anyone, that might save me from the cruel reality unravelling before me.

And then I saw him—Ser Harwin Strong, standing on the other side of the field.

He wore no armour yet, only the plain linen shirt of a man waiting for his turn, his dark hair falling carelessly over his brow as he leaned against the railing, watching me with an intensity that was disconcerting and strangely comforting all at once.

His gaze held a warmth, a softness that took me off guard.

Had he seen my humiliation? Had he watched it all?

He held my gaze, his eyes full of unspoken understanding, a compassion that unsettled me as much as it soothed. He did not look away, nor did he turn his gaze in pity or embarrassment.

Instead, he tilted his head, a faint crease forming between his brows, a silent acknowledgement of the injustice he had witnessed.

I looked back at him, feeling a strange defiance flare within me. Let him see, I thought. Let him see the indifference I suffer.

But as I stared, his expression shifted, the smallest, softest smile tugging at his lips, as if he found something in me worthy of defending, of saving. His expression, tender and unguarded, was as far from the stony pride of the Royce as the sun from the moon.

Without thinking, I inclined my head toward him, a silent thank you, a tiny gesture that I hoped would suffice to express the relief and strange gratitude swelling within me.

His lips parted, and he lifted a hand as if to wave, though he paused, uncertain.

For a moment, it seemed as though he might speak, might call out, offer some words to soothe the sting of my betrothed's cruelty.

But then he only nodded, a barely perceptible dip of his chin, a promise left unspoken.

"Ser William," my mother's voice came sharp at my ear, jolting me. "Sit straighter. We are here to watch him," she said, her voice filled with the same unyielding pride she had harboured ever since our match had been arranged. "Your future husband. A Royce knight, no less."

I straightened, fighting the urge to pull my gaze back to where Ser Harwin stood, to where that gentle understanding had found me when I needed it most. But my mother's grip on my wrist was iron.

"Pay him your respect," she hissed, nodding pointedly toward my betrothed.

Reluctantly, I forced myself to watch as he strode to the centre of the field, his posture strong, confident, indifferent to any eyes but his own.

Untouchable. Unbreakable.

And yet in that moment, all I could see was the hardness, the coldness that would become my fate.

But as I sat there, my hands clenching tightly in my lap, I knew that somewhere across the field, a kinder gaze was watching me, holding me upright against the weight of the indifference beside me.

The tourney began with the customary fanfare, trumpets blaring as banners fluttered in the brisk air, and knights from all corners of the realm gathered to prove their skill and valour.

The air was thick with the scent of trampled grass and the faint tang of sweat and leather, mingling with the buzz of eager voices, all awaiting the clash and fury that only a tournament could promise.

I watched from my seat, heart pounding as each knight took his turn in the lists.

The lances shattered in clouds of splinters, swords clanged with ruthless precision, and the crowd roared, each cheer echoing louder than the last.

Somewhere in that sea of voices, I heard my own, though I knew it was hollow, a cheer forced and distant.

My gaze was restless, flickering between my betrothed and another knight, my heart pulling toward the quieter strength of Ser Harwin Strong.

Beside me, my mother leaned in, her whisper sharp in my ear. "See how your betrothed fights. His every move is impeccable—just as one would expect of a Royce."

I nodded absently, watching William's form as he fought, coldly efficient and methodical, each strike landing with the inevitability of a winter storm.

But even as I forced myself to applaud his victories, my heart was drawn elsewhere, to a knight whose every movement spoke of something deeper.

Ser Harwin Strong fought with a grace that seemed effortless, his skill alive with purpose, the way he wielded his sword not merely to conquer but to command. He didn't fight for show; he fought with soul.

More than once, I caught his gaze upon me, a look so steady and thoughtful that it sent my heart stammering.

Finally, the field dwindled, and knight after knight was eliminated until only two remained: Ser William Royce and Ser Harwin Strong.

A hush settled over the crowd as the two prepared for their final match, a silence so deep that the mere sound of hooves echoed like distant thunder.

"Do you see?" my mother whispered, an eagerness lacing her voice as William adjusted his helm, his visor lowered in readiness. "This is his moment. Your betrothed is about to seize his rightful victory."

But something within me ached a silent cry that seemed bound to Ser Harwin's figure.

My hands twisted in my lap, my breath catching as I watched them ride to the centre of the arena, their horses pawing the ground, both men poised as if cast from bronze, unyielding and ready.

The horn sounded, and in an instant, they charged. Their lances met with a crash, splintering as wood met steel, but neither man wavered.

They circled, tossing aside the broken lances, swords drawn now as they clashed in a deadly dance. Their blades sang each strike more intense than the last, every parry so swift it was a blur of motion.

I barely breathed, my heart pounding with the rhythm of the blows as they exchanged strike for strike, neither yielding.

And then, with a deft movement that seemed almost effortless, Ser Harwin's blade found its mark.

His strike was precise, sweeping my betrothed from his horse and sending him sprawling to the ground in a tumble of dust and armour.

The crowd erupted, an ocean of gasps and cheers that rose like a wave, as Ser Harwin dismounted, extending a hand to help his fallen opponent rise.

But William ignored him, lifting himself with a snarl, his face twisted in fury, his wounded pride visible in every rigid line of his body.

The herald stepped forward, his voice rising above the crowd's cheers. "Ser Harwin Strong stands victorious! By the right of his triumph, he shall name and crown the Queen of Beauty."

The words echoed, and all at once, the arena's attention shifted, murmurs passing like ripples through the crowd as they speculated whom he would choose.

My heart raced as Ser Harwin's gaze found mine.

Could it be possible? I wondered, my fingers trembling as I watched him stride toward me, his dark eyes intent, his expression warm and without pretension.

He approached, the floral crown for the Queen of Beauty held reverently in his hands—a delicate circlet of wildflowers and woven ivy, each petal and leaf trembling in the afternoon light.

I held my breath as he stopped before me, and the crowd seemed to fall away, leaving only the soft warmth of his gaze.

With a steady hand, he lifted the crown and placed it upon my brow, his fingertips brushing my skin with a gentleness that stole my breath. His face held a quiet respect, free from arrogance, his expression as sincere as his actions.

Around us, whispers of surprise fluttered through the crowd, some approving, others scandalized.

I felt every eye upon me, the weight of their gazes pressing down, yet all I could see was him, his face close to mine, his eyes kind.

Tradition dictated the next step—he was to seal his choice with a kiss.

I stiffened, my nerves stirring, caught between a feeling of exhilaration and fear.

His hand came to rest lightly on my shoulder, steadying me as he looked at me, sensing my unease. He smiled, barely a curve of his lips, but it was enough to reassure me.

He leaned down, his lips brushing my cheek in a gesture so tender and unassuming that it seemed to defy the very air of spectacle surrounding us.

"Fear not, my lady," he murmured softly, his voice warm and meant only for me. "I am not here to unsettle you."

A rush of gratitude bloomed in my chest, mingling with something softer, something new, as his words lingered in the air.

The crowd's applause surged around us, filling the arena with thunderous approval, but the moment felt impossibly intimate as if no one else could see or hear.

As he pulled away, his hand leaving my shoulder, I felt the absence of his warmth, a strange longing threading through me.

But that feeling vanished the instant I turned and caught sight of William.

He stood at the edge of the field, his face contorted with barely suppressed rage, his fists clenched at his sides, his eyes dark and full of something dangerous.

Though he held his silence, the threat in his gaze was unmistakable, his wounded pride radiating like the heat of a flame.

I met his eyes for a fleeting moment, feeling the unspoken storm between us, the shattered pieces of whatever fragile peace had held us together as betrothed.

I could feel it slipping away, replaced by something colder, harsher, something that would not rest easy.

In that gaze, I saw a man who had been humiliated, who would not forgive.

Ser Harwin lingered, as if sensing the shift, his eyes flickering between William and me. His expression held a quiet resolve, a silent promise as if to say that he would not leave me vulnerable.

A weight seemed to settle over us, a silent understanding that whatever lay ahead, it would not be simple.

As the crowd began to disperse, whispers and curious glances following us, I looked once more to Ser Harwin.

He met my gaze, his eyes steady and sure, his presence a balm to the uncertain ache in my chest.

And though I didn't yet know what the future held, I knew with unwavering certainty that something within me had changed—some ember within that he had kindled with a single, soft touch.

A/n - Edited this half asleep so if there's any mistakes just close your eyes x

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soulsuckker1 · 9 hours ago

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I’m tired of hiding and pretending as if I’m not a sucker for those modern reader x fantasy world stories. Like one of us falling into the hotd universe? The hobbit one? Start wars? Anything? Anytime I see modern reader and some fantasy word I start barking like a dog. I need more of those

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damn-stark · 2 days ago

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Thank you everyone once again for all the support!! I really hoped you all liked it as much I did!! Thank you, thank you

Epilogue

Epilogue for Moonlight

A/N- You are all so loved by me thank you!! I hope you like it!!

Warning- Some angst, FLUFF!!!! Talks of death, SPOILERS!! FOR FUTURE EVENTS OF HOTD, USING FIRE AND BLOOD, long chapter.

Pairing- Aemond Targaryen x Velaryon!fem-reader, Cregan Stark x Velaryon!fem-reader

Episode/Pages- Past 578

(If you want to be tagged let me know)

————

*SEVERAL YEARS AGO. WINTERFELL*

“I need you to close your eyes now,” Cregan commands with his eyes glimmering under the cloud littered sky, while seven-year-old Rickon and five-year-old Aerion start to giggle, piquing your curiosity that much more while also making you wary.

“Why?” You probe with your eyebrow raising.

Cregan shrugs, refusing to give you a hint as to why he’s brought you out to the gardens.

“I need to show you something, but it’s a surprise that you cannot spoil.”

“Well if I walk in so you can show me I will spoil it—”

“Just close your eyes,” Cregan cuts off your witty remark, causing you to drop your head to hide your teasing grin.

“Yes, mama, just close your eyes, it's a surprise!” Aerion exclaims as he jumps up and down.

You blink and drift your eyes up to dig your eyes into your son. “Have you seen it?”

Aerion giggles and Rickon quickly covers his mouth to avoid having Aerion say what it is. However, Aerion pulls his stepbrother's hand off his face and gives you a response. “Father showed us.”

You hum and flash them both a small smile before you roll your head up and sigh deeply before closing your eyes. “I am trusting you two boys to lead me and your unborn sibling to the surprise,” you let the boys know as you finally give in.

“We won’t make you or our brother fall,” Rickon assures you as he grabs your hands first, causing Aerion to mimic him by grabbing your other hand.

“Ah, so you want another brother?” Cregan asks his son as he starts to lead the way inside the gardens, making the boys carefully pull you after him.

“I want only brothers. Daenys and Daenerys are the exceptions because they were already born before I could decide,” he says as if he has any say whatsoever over the gender of his sibling forming in your belly. It’s adorable that he’s so insistent on his desire though, you have to giggle.

“Well if the gods are good you’ll have many brothers,” Cregan tries to reassure his son, making you scoff as you hear the keyword “many”; does he finally accept the vision the red priestess told you about you having seven kids? As of now, you have four, and the fifth one is on the way, which leaves two more if the red priestess is right (which she is).

“You will have many siblings Rickon,” you tell the boy too with more certainty. “Seven in total.”

“Do not start,” Cregan warns you lightheartedly, but you only laugh knowing that you will in fact continue to bring up that vision.

“Now are we almost there?” You add impatiently. “I’m growing quite eager.

“Just about,” Cregan tells you, making you sigh before Aerion suddenly starts picking up his pace as he squeals.

“It’s there!”

“Aerion! Wait!” Rickon calls out after his brother and quickly matches his pace, causing you to be dragged ahead. And rather than telling the boys to slow down so you wouldn’t risk falling, Cregan begins to laugh before you hear his footsteps against the ground quicken too.

Once you finally make it to a stop, you giggle out of excitement and Cregan quickly exclaims. “Don't open your eyes just yet.”

You pout and drop your head. “Come on, the suspense is killing me! I must know!” You whine.

Cregan falls by your side, you hear his footsteps and the fabric of his clothes as he does. The boys proceed to let your hands go and one of them seems to have plucked something out of place, you can hear them well since you can’t use your vision.

“I’m going to put this in your hand,” Cregan fills the short silence as he grabs your hand and raises it off your side to extend it out with your palm facing the sky. Shortly thereafter before you can throw out another impatient question something smooth and round is placed on your hand that you can easily identify as a rose's head.

“Ah, well since we are married, you cannot be asking for my hand, so…”

“You can open your eyes now,” Cregan fills your silence, making you slowly peel your eyes open and blink to get your eyes used to the clarity before you raise your head and immediately feel your breath catch in your throat as you see the surprise that Cregan has for you.

“This surprise has been in the making for quite a while now,” he shares as he watches you with his grey eyes missing that brewing storm as they’re completely captivated by your reaction—“I wanted everything to be just right, with no details wrong or missing.”

Tears cloud your vision and that breath you’re able to catch shudders as it unfurls out of your nose. Aerion and Rickon are excitedly watching your every reaction, waiting for what you'll respond with, but you can’t muster a word. They’re lucky you’re even conscious, your shock, awe, excitement, and joy are swirling so fast that you think you’ll pass out with it all overwhelming you.

“Father said it would be impossible to have Astraea done the size she is,” Rickon explains, making your eyes shift to the small hatchling-sized Astraea carved there on your stone shoulder.

Yes…the statue right in front of your eyes is you. Yes, the intricate and tall marble statue in the middle of a bunch of Blue Winter Roses is you. The carved eyes, the carved hair, the carved lips, and the carved hand that extends out to ask for an offering is all you. You. You, and you. You were made into a marble statue.

“Why?” You finally speak and Cregan quickly enters your peripheral view before he cups the back of your hand and moves your hand forward so you can drop the blue rose on the palm of your carved hand forever frozen in place.

“Because well…” he pauses and sighs. “I love you and I want my love for you to be seen by every single descendant that will come down the line. They need to know how much I love you. Plus the gardens needed something that would always make them beautiful.”

Tears roll down your burning face and your thumping heart only keeps skipping beat after beat. The two boys see the tears running down the curve of your cheeks and Aerion hugs your legs first before Rickon follows.

“Mama,” Aerion’s voice travels to your ears. “Do you like it?”

You caress Astraea’s marble head and then run your fingers down her body forever wrapped around your neck before you lift your hand and let your fingers hover over your cheeks as you’re still in disbelief at what you’re seeing.

“I love it,” you whisper breathlessly and then let your fingers meet the cold marble before finally finding Cregan’s gaze and offering him a tender smile that matches the affection in your eyes.

“Thank you. I will forever be grateful,” you share what you can muster to put into words before you reach your hand out for him, making him close the gap between you so you wouldn’t move the boys out of place, and so you can twist your body to wrap your arms around him.

“I love you,” you whisper against his chest. “I will always cherish it.”

Cregan cradles the back of your head and you nuzzle your face into his chest, making him press a gentle kiss on the top of your head before he whispers, “I will always love you. Now everyone will know it.”

You grin and feel a wave of pride at the thought of it.

——

*A HUNDRED YEARS LATER. DAENERYS. WINTERFELL*

What is it about this cold frigid weather that the people like so much? They’re so proud of the cold and wet snow, but she can’t figure out why that’s so. Don’t they like the warmth embracing their skin? Don’t they like long days where the sun dances in the sky for longer than an hour? Or do they prefer this weather because it keeps everyone inside and close to one another to seek warmth and company?

She watches everyone gathered in the hall after having dinner in honor of her arrival. She sees them avoiding being outside to share stories, laughs, drinks, and dances, and she wonders if this is what they seek from this cold weather.

She can imagine it being so but she doesn’t understand it, the unity, because she never had it. Daenerys never was able to grow up surrounded by her family. She only had her brother, but they were never rich with community.

If her family were still alive she can imagine they’d prefer the hot weather so they could soak in the sun just as her dragons do, so they would never live here, but they would laugh too. They would share bizarre stories of beautiful dragons, glorious wars, recklessness, and histories. They would also gather around in huge halls and listen to traditional Valyrian music to dance to, maybe even sing just like her brother Rhaegar sang.

It would be so beautiful and full of life and full of people who were like her and wanted to talk to her. She wouldn’t be lonely watching from the table. She would be gawked at with admiration instead of fear. It would be warm…

Alas, she could only imagine such things the same way she always had since she could remember because they’re all gone. Every single one of them except for her, but she knows one person is not enough to rebuild that long-lost community, so she’s left envious of the bond the Stark’s have.

And she feels bad for letting such a twisted feeling get a hold of her, but she can’t help it when she sees everything they have even after all the loss. And yes, Daenerys has her dragons, she's grateful and loves them, but she also has a home made of rubble…and she stands alone in the middle.

“I am going to get some air,” she lets Missandei know before getting out of her seat and then peering back to glance at her trusted friend and advisor. “It’s quite alright Ser Jorah, I will be alright.”

The man doesn’t argue even if he wants to, he just watches her leave with guards trailing behind her. And not so much later someone follows her outside without her knowing, like a stalking wolf.

“Your Grace!” A call gets carried out through the bitter air, catching Daenerys’ attention and bringing her to a stop to turn on her heels and come face to face with Jon Snow, or as his people call him, King of the North, but she doesn’t address him as such, offering him a tightlipped smile instead.

“It's cold out here. You shouldn’t linger out too long,” he offers some lighthearted advice to start the conversation.

“I just needed some air,” Daenerys explains without that same emotion clinging to her voice. Not because she dislikes his presence, more so because she sees him now and sees everything she doesn’t have.

“Are you heading inside soon? Or do you still need more air?” He asks teasingly, causing the corner of her lips to twitch up but not fully form into that genuine smile just yet.

“I might stay out here longer.”

He nods stiffly and glances at an archway before he meets her gaze with a change in his eyes. “Good. Would you accompany me to the Gardens? I have something I have been meaning to show you.”

Daenerys debates the choice between giving in or denying the invitation. She does have nothing better to do but return to the hall and continue to be a little envious or stay out here all by her lonesome.

“You will like it,” Jon tries to sweeten his offer to tempt her into agreeing, and after a second longer that seemed like a dragging hour, she sighs deeply and offers him an agreeing nod, bringing a faint smile to his face before he points his hand to the archway before he leads the way through the large grounds.

When they arrive at the archway that leads to the gardens, Daenerys can’t help her awe as she sees that the gardens aren’t surrounded by the free and wild air, but it’s protected and surrounded by glass. Its entirety as far as she can see is all protected from the natural elements by glass, providing warmth against the bitter air.

“It’s all glass?” Daenerys muses, making Jon nod and hum as he falls by her side to continue leading the way at her side now. And this time Daenerys is far more curious and captivated by the sights of the gardens thriving thanks to its protective glass.

“The glass is used to help us grow food for winter and summer snows,” Jon shares while Daenerys takes back everything she had begun to assume about the gardens. She had thought there would be no life, that it wouldn’t compare to the gardens in Meereen where the sun is out and blazing and the water isn’t frozen, but she’s wrong and maybe it is because she’s having a hard time adjusting to this bitter climate with nothing but grey skies, but she’s wrong. She can see that the gardens here are special and truly unique with strong flowers and trees still bearing their fruit and green leaves.

“Just over here,” Jon lets her know as her eyes dart from plant to plant with curiosity, causing her to miss what exactly he’s leading her to until they finally come to a stop in front of a towering marble statue that begins to cast a large shadow over her as the sun begins to peek out of the white skies.

As Daenerys drags her eyes up the towering marble statue she begins to realize that it’s a statue of a woman forever bearing a long flowing gown that she holds the skirt of with the tip of her marble fingers. The end of the gown and the way it flows down the statue's body looks like a wave; that’s how precise and intricate the statue is. Yet she soon comes to realize that her gown isn’t the most fascinating thing about her. There’s a dragon as big as a hatchling forever wrapped around the woman’s neck.

That’s right…a dragon.

Why? She wonders and scales her eyes up, feeling her breath catch as she sees the way the sunlight captures the face of the woman almost as if the sun just wanted to shine for her. And why wouldn’t it? Even though the woman is a statue she can note how breathtakingly beautiful the woman is. She’s truly ethereal and will forever be so. However, why doesn’t she look like a Northerner?

Even though the woman’s delicate features are forever captured in marble, Daenerys can note the difference considering she’s currently surrounded by Northerners, and the woman bears no resemblance. She actually looks familiar in a sense, but why would she? And why is Daenerys so captivated by her and her alone? She barely notices the beautiful Winter Roses surrounding the statue, or the hand stretched out holding a wilting Blue Rose.

“Arya and Sansa…like to come and give her a flower,” Jon shares as he removes the Blue Rose out of the statue's hand and drops it on the ground. “Both for entirely different reasons but it seems they still like to do it.”

“Who is she?” Daenerys finally finds her breath and thoughts to voice her question.

Jon drifts his gaze away from Daenerys to look at the statue and speak your name, giving Daenerys a hint as to who you are, but not the exact answer just yet, so Jon proceeds and this time looks back at Daenerys to keep watching her admiration. “She was the granddaughter of King Viserys Targaryen, and daughter to his eldest child, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

Daenerys recognizes the names from the books she’s read about her family and finally starts to piece you together.

“On her shoulder is her dragon…”

“Astraea,” Daenerys finishes for Jon and finally raises her hand to brush her fingers on the dragon's head as she speaks your name before she shares what she knows. “She’s the eldest daughter of Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. She was born sick so the Maesters did not know if she’d live. That is until passed the age she was supposed to die. And unlike her brothers, her first dragon egg failed to hatch so another egg was given to her and that one successfully hatched. Later in life, she married her uncle, but he died and she married his brother and became Queen for a short time. She was known as the Realms Golden Girl or The Sire of Driftmark, but she was also the last Dragonrider along with Lady Rhaena Targaryen…”

“Until you,” Jon adds, matching Daenerys softness as she trails off—“but there’s a lot more to the story,” he piques her attention, making her drop her hand to look at him, however, he averts his gaze and bends down to pick a flower from the bunch.

“She wasn’t just a Princess, dragonrider, or a Queen. Arya wouldn’t come visit her if she was just that. Her favorite flowers were also Blue Winter roses. That’s why she’s always surrounded by them,” he says while he pushes himself up and looks at the rose in his hand. “She was the only woman of your family to wield Blackfyre, your family's Valyrian Sword.”

Daenerys eyes fill with much more admiration as Jon goes on sharing things she missed? She never read that about you in any books she had.

“She fought in a battle whilst expecting twins. She actually fought in many battles, it's why men donned her ‘Blood Dragon’.” He says with an amused smile as he turns his body to face Daenerys and hands her the Blue Winter Rose he had plucked.

Daenerys admires the rose in her hand and its delicate and unique blue petals.

“She was graceful. She loved the sea and was an exceptional singer. She was Funny. Fierce. Strong. Egotistical. Tactical. Charming. Loving. Adventurous. Proud. And so beautiful that no sun, star, or moon could ever compete.”

Daenerys giggles and then her eyebrows pinch together. “How do you know so much?” She asks.

Jon sighs with a smile on his face. “Along with the book of the Conquerors. Arya made me read the book the Princess’s husband wrote for her. You see she was married to Lord Cregan Stark.”

Daenerys blinks in surprise and shakes her head in disbelief because nothing she read ever said any of what he just said.

“Lord Cregan Stark loved the princess so much that he had a statue made for her as a display of his love for her, and had it live here,” Jon adds with a sense of admiration as he looks back at the statue. “She lived and died here. Her dragon died a day after her probably due to heartbreak, or so that’s what Lord Cregan wrote. Her ashes were spread in the sea and it was after she died that Lord Cregan wrote her book so she may be remembered by who she really was and not what the Maesters painted her as; a mere woman in a man’s story. And maybe she wanted it that way…to be forgotten, but Lord Cregan couldn’t let her be forgotten.”

Daenerys looks back at your statue, and admires you for who you really were; as someone grande and exceptional and not the simple princess written by maesters that never met you. She looks at you like you are something rather than nothing.

“Oh,” Jon interjects and glances at her. “And she was immune to fire too.”

Daenerys eyes shine brighter and an awe-struck smile grows on her face. She had grown fond of you as Jon shared what he knew, but now with that last detail, that crippling loneliness vanishes here in the distant North as she feels like she has you; a Targaryen just like her. The only daughter, Queen, dragon rider, and a survivor.

Maybe you have been gone for a long time now, your bones have turned to ash and those ashes have vanished from this earth, leaving only a story of who you used to be, but she feels your presence now and embraces it.

“The book is still here,” Jon lets her know. “If you would like to read it.”

Daenerys smiles brightly and reaches over to leave the Blue Winter Rose on your wanting head before giving Jon an eager response. “I would love to read it.”

A/N- I would just like to thank everyone for supporting and following this story! It truly means a lot to me and you all mean so much to me too!! Thank you!

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targtowerxstark · 2 days ago

Text

Exploring Lord Stark-Part two

Part two (can be read as a stand alone)

The sun hung low beneath the clouds in the sky, casting a soft golden hue over the Godswood as Lord Cregan Stark and Princess y/n Targaryen settled on a moss-covered stone. The air was cool, filled with the scent of damp earth and the sweet fragrance of blooming flowers. y/n, with her playful spirit, leaned back against the stone, her silver hair glinting like spun moonlight.

“Cregan, tell me again about the direwolves,Are they really as big as you say or do you lie to humour me ?” she teased, her violet eyes sparkling with mischief.

Cregan, ever the formal lord, straightened his posture, a slight smile tugging at his lips. “They are,Your Grace. It is said that a direwolf pup could bite a man’s arm clean off.” Yet, as he spoke, he felt the rigid formality of his demeanor begin to fade in her presence.

y/n giggled, her laughter echoing through the trees. “I bet they are as sweet as a newborn babe, I’d love to see one up close.” She leaned forward, her excitement palpable, and Cregan found her enthusiasm refreshing. It was the same old North to him, but through her eyes, it felt alive and vibrant. “Seeing as you wield a dragon as a pet princess, i doubt you’d find them too vicious, should you plan to travel to the wall you will cross paths with one” he said with amusement in his voice. Cregan found his thoughts were drifting, this conversation was unlike his usual day to day ones he found himself enjoying the light and unserious side she brought out of him. He hadn’t felt like this with the noble ladies he had conversed with before but, he could get use to it.

“come with me” y/n said, eagerly awaiting a reply.

“Forgive me princess, what are you asking” he replied

“Travel with me to the wall, As the princess of the seven kingdoms I shall relieve you of your noble duties and ask you to be my guide to the North. Should you be hesitant I shall throw myself on my knees infront of you and beg Lord Cregan, I’ll only take no for a challenge” she laughed.

“Well if they’re my options princess, I shall be hesitant and then get the honour of both hearing a princess beg and serve as a guide for her too” Cregan would never try be as bold as to pass a comment like this but being around her brings out a different side of him.

The Princess could only blush in reply. Lord Stark seems so old in comparison to what he really is. Only one and twenty and yet you’d think he’s ruled for a lifetime, forgetting he is only a young lad. “Thank you Lord Stark”.

“Cregan” he whispered back

“Thank you Cregan” she said with a smile.

The Godswood was a sanctuary of ancient trees, their twisted branches reaching toward the sky like gnarled hands. The heart tree stood proudly at its center, its red leaves whispering secrets to the wind. Cregan glanced at y/n, her expression filled with wonder as she took in the beauty around them.

“Isn’t it magnificent?” he asked, his voice softer.

“It’s enchanting, I thought the red keeps garden was wonderful but this is something else” she replied, her gaze locking onto his. In that moment, the world around them faded, and all that mattered was the connection forming between them. Her playful nature drew him in, and he found himself leaning closer, the distance between them shrinking.

“Would you like to see something truly special?” Cregan asked, a spark of determination igniting within him. He rose and gestured for her to follow him to the ancestral hall, where the legendary sword, Ice, rested.

As they entered, y/n’s eyes widened in awe at the sight of the massive blade, its double-edged steel glinting ominously in the dim light. “That’s Ice?” she breathed, stepping closer, her fingers itching to reach out.

Cregan nodded, pride swelling in his chest. “Yes, it belonged to my father, and before him, to our ancestors. It was forged from the finest Valyrian steel.” He carefully lifted the sword, its weight familiar and comforting in his hands. “I won Winterfell from my uncle in a war, and this was my true prize. It symbolizes our house’s strength and honor and it means a lot to know my father once yielded it.”

Y/n felt all of Cregains pain, the faint smile as he spoke about his father made her heart hurt for him. “I’m very sorry for your loss, He’d be truly proud to see what you’ve done since he passed. Him and your brother”

“Why thank you Princess, to receive praise from a member of the royal family means a great deal” Cregan face was stern and his voice steady.

Y/n’s face was stern too but it quickly started to wrinkle and a smile formed on her face. “We both know you Northerns think the southerners are drunk, lazy fools who wouldn’t survive down here, but thank you for your kindness” Lord Stark she chuckled.

“Well that may be true princess” he laughed in return. But you are not of the South, You are of Valyria, and praise from a brave dragon rider like yourself truly does mean a lot.”

As they laughed, he noticed y/n leaning closer, her breath catching in her throat. The way she looked at him, filled with awe and respect, made his heart race. He couldn’t help but wonder if perhaps, in this moment, they were forging something new together—something that could withstand even the harshest winters.

“Cregan,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper, “May you show me to the crypts?”

He felt a warmth spread through him, it is obvious the princess wants him specifically to guide her, she could’ve chose anyone or nobody at all but she chose him, and for the first time, he allowed himself to believe that perhaps he could be more than just a Stark—he could be someone worthy of the Targaryen princess beside him.

And off they went to the crypts…..

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