133 AC
Cregan Stark POV
The end of our studies at Winterhold was just three moons away. Visenya and I were sitting on our usual bench in a secluded corner of the College grounds, talking idly, enjoying the quiet intimacy of our shared secret. All her brothers had already finished their education and returned South, leaving us with a unique sense of peace in their absence.
As we talked, a messenger approached at a hurried pace. He bowed, out of breath. "Prince Cregan, Princess Visenya. King Antares requests your presence in Winterfell, urgently."
My brow furrowed. "What is this about?" I asked, a prickle of unease starting in my gut.
The messenger shook his head. "I don't know, my Prince. Only that His Grace commanded me to bring you both immediately."
I turned to Visenya. "We'll leave in an hour," I told her, my voice calm despite the sudden knot in my stomach. Why would my grandfather summon us so abruptly? My mind raced through possibilities. Had he found out about us? Our secret relationship? Or was it something else, something far more grave? The urgency in the messenger's tone suggested a weightier matter.
We made the journey to Winterfell in under an hour, the train speeding across the familiar snowy landscape. As soon as we arrived, we made our way directly to my grandfather's solar. The guard outside, recognizing us, announced our presence without delay.
Inside, **King Antares Stark** sat at his desk, his expression chillingly grim. My blood ran cold. This wasn't about us. This was about the world outside Asgard's safe borders.
"Grandfather," I said, bowing, with Visenya curtsying beside me. "You sent for us."
He nodded, his gaze heavy. "Cregan. Visenya. Welcome." His voice was devoid of its usual warmth. He then held out a letter to Visenya. "This is for you, Princess."
Visenya took the letter, her brow furrowed in intrigue as she broke the seal. As she read, her face became a canvas of rapidly shifting emotions: initial intrigue, then a sadness, which swiftly morphed into rage, and then, uncontrollably, tears. The letter dropped from her trembling fingers.
Without a word, a choked sob escaping her, she spun around and bolted from the room. "Visenya!" I called out, my heart leaping into my throat. "What happened?" But she didn't listen, running out of the solar, her footsteps echoing down the hall, then fading.
I turned back to my grandfather, my stomach twisting. "Grandfather, what happened?"
Antares looked at me, his gaze solemn. "Cregan... King Viserys is dead."
The words hit me like a physical blow. *Viserys is dead*. I knew instantly what that meant. The Dance. It was here. It was upon us.
Antares continued, his voice heavy with the grim details. "Prince Aegon has usurped the crown. He has been proclaimed king and sits on the Iron Throne, unlawfully taking Crown Princess Rhaenyra's rightful position." A fresh wave of cold dread washed over me. "And... Lucerys Velaryon was injured. he was attacked near Stormlands. By Aemond Targaryen."
The final blow. Lucerys. Injured. he should be dead, that was the flashpoint of the civil war in the old timeline. This timeline changed because of Theon Stark. Because of the Winterhold medicine, Viserys lived an additional four years. In the original timeline, he would be dead in 129 AC. Maybe the size of Lucerys's dragon increased; that's why he could've escaped death. My chest tightened with a mixture of grief and an unsettling sense of inevitability. All my hopes for a quiet life, a safe distance from the chaos, shattered around me.
"Grandfather," I said, my voice strained, "may I have leave?"
He simply nodded, his eyes understanding. "Go, Cregan."
I turned and left the solar, the grim news echoing in my mind, the urgent need to find Visenya and understand the full scope of the disaster overriding everything else. The Dance of the Dragons had begun. And this time, I was living it.
I found Visenya in the Godswood, a solitary, heartbroken figure huddled by the ancient heart tree. She sat with her knees drawn up, her face buried in her hands, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders as silent sobs wracked her slender frame. The raw grief emanating from her was a stark contrast to her usual composed demeanor.
I approached quietly, my footsteps barely disturbing the snow. I sat down beside her on the cold ground and, without a word, wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She stiffened for a moment, then recognized my touch. With a choked cry, she turned, burying her face against my chest, her tears hot against my tunic. I held her, stroking her hair, whispering what little comfort I could. "It's alright, Visenya. Let it out. I'm here." But she just cried, a torrent of grief for her murdered brother and the betrayal of her house.
Time seemed to stretch, measured only by the intensity of her sobs. Eventually, her tears dried up, leaving her shuddering against me, exhausted but still raw. She pulled back slightly, her eyes red-rimmed but now focused, a desperate fire burning within them.
"Cregan," she rasped, her voice hoarse, "what... what will happen now? What will happen to my mother? To Jace, to Luke, to Joff? To Baela and Rhaena? And to me? What will happen to us?" Her questions tumbled out, each one laced with fear and uncertainty, touching on the very future I had seen, the future I had hoped to avoid.
My heart ached seeing her so broken. I knew the answers, the terrible, bloody answers, but I couldn't speak them. "Everything will be okay, Visenya," I said, the words feeling hollow even to my own ears.
But she saw through the platitude immediately. Her eyes welled up again, fresh tears beginning to fall. "No," she whispered, shaking her head. "It won't. I know it won't."
I couldn't bear to see her cry anymore. The sight of her despair, the knowledge of the horrors that awaited her family, shattered my carefully constructed neutrality. My own emotions, long suppressed by foresight and pragmatism, surged forth.
I pulled her closer, my voice low and fierce, imbued with the ancient power of my lineage and the desperate conviction of my love. "Listen to me, Visenya," I said, looking her directly in the eyes. "I, Cregan Stark, swear to you now, by the Old Gods, by the heart tree that stands before us," My grip tightened on her shoulders, my gaze unwavering. "I will make sure they all will be okay. And your mother will sit on the Iron Throne. I swear it."
It was a Stark oath, a vow made before the ancient gods, a promise that bound me to her fate and to the coming conflict. There was no going back now. The Dance had truly begun, and I, the quiet observer, was now a player.
I gently led Visenya from the Godswood, her steps still faltering from exhaustion and grief. We found an empty chamber within Winterfell, one with a comfortable bed. I helped her settle, pulling a thick fur blanket over her. She was utterly spent, her eyes closing almost immediately as she surrendered to sleep.
Leaving her to her much-needed rest, I made my way through the castle, my thoughts now fully consumed by the grim news. I headed towards my grandfather's solar, knowing precisely what I would find there. I requested permission from the guards outside, and after a moment, was ushered in.
The air inside was thick with tension, palpable even before I fully stepped into the room. As I expected, the key figures of the Stark family were gathered. My grandfather, King Antares Stark, sat at his chair, his face still grim. Beside him were my father, Rickon Stark, and my uncle, Bennard Stark. Their expressions mirrored my own heavy heart. They were undoubtedly discussing the war which was now inevitable in the South.
My entrance seemed to pause their grim discussion. I walked to the table, my gaze meeting my grandfather's. The news of Viserys's death, Lucerys's injury, and Aegon's usurpation had solidified my resolve. I had made a vow, and now it was time to lay my cards on the table.
"Grandfather," I began, my voice clear and steady, "there is something I must tell you all. Visenya and I... we love each other." I looked around the table, meeting the surprised, then assessing, gazes of my father, my uncle, and my aunt. "And I hope to marry her, with your blessing."
My grandfather, Antares, studied me for a long moment, his grim expression softening almost imperceptibly. Then, a slow nod. "You can marry her, Cregan."
A wave of relief washed over me, so potent it nearly made me sag. I hadn't realized how much tension I'd been holding until that moment. I let out a silent sigh of gratitude.
Then, his voice, though still calm, hardened with an unmistakable finality. "However," Antares continued, his gaze sweeping over each of us, "Asgard will not take part in the wars of the South. We will not be sending support for the Blacks."
Grandfather Antares's words hung in the solar, heavy and unyielding. The relief I'd felt moments before, at his blessing for Visenya and me, curdled into a cold dread. This wasn't just about our future anymore; it was about the future, a future I knew far too well, a future of fire and blood that would consume everything.
"Grandfather, you cannot mean that," I said, my voice sharper than I intended. "This isn't just some squabble. This is usurpation. King Viserys named Rhaenyra his heir. Aegon's claim is unlawful. If we stand by, we legitimize a false king."
My father, Rickon, stepped forward, his expression weary. "Cregan, we have discussed this at length. Theon Stark fought to free us from the South, to make Asgard an independent kingdom. Are we to throw that all away for a Targaryen quarrel? Their wars are not ours."
"But it affects us!" I countered, gesturing vaguely south. "If the Greens win, if Aegon sits the Iron Throne, what then? Do you think they will respect Asgard's independence? Do you think they will forget that Rhaenyra, the rightful queen, was educated here, that Visenya is here? They will see us as a threat, a bastion of their enemies."
It was Uncle Bennard who spoke next, his tone practical. "Cregan, we have spent decades building Asgard. Our industries, our infrastructure, our alliances within the North itself. A war with the South would drain our resources, halt our progress, and cost countless Northern lives."
"But think of the opportunity!" I pleaded, my voice rising. "A grateful Queen Rhaenyra, once on the Iron Throne, would be a staunch ally. The alliance forged by the Great Wolf would be stronger than ever. We could solidify our independence, expand our influence without direct conflict, simply by helping the rightful heir."
Grandfather Antares finally spoke, his eyes stern. "We are kings of Asgard, Cregan, not vassals to the Iron Throne. Our primary duty is to our people, to protect them. The Great Wolf ensured that we would never again be dragged into the Southron wars. To abandon that principle now, for a crown we do not seek and a war not our own, would be a betrayal of his legacy."
"His legacy was foresight and strength!" I retorted, frustration bubbling. "He saw the threat of the South and broke away. Now, a different threat emerges, a threat of instability that will eventually spill into Asgard, regardless of our neutrality. A united, just realm under Rhaenyra is our best defense against that instability."
"And if Rhaenyra loses?" Father Rickon interjected, his voice quiet but firm. "If we commit our forces, our airships, our dragons even, and she falls? We would be crushed. Our independence would be lost forever, and Asgard would be brought to its knees."
"That is a risk, I admit," I conceded, "but one we can mitigate. We have superior technology, superior training. The dragons...The dragons alone are a force, and we have many more bonded riders than they."
Uncle Bennard next said his expression was unreadable. "Dragons are weapons of immense power, Cregan. But they are also unpredictable. And fire consumes all, friend and foe alike. Are we to unleash that upon our own continent? For a queen who cannot even secure her own capital?"
"She was usurped!" I slammed my hand on the table, the map rattling. "She needs our aid! She needs Asgard's wisdom! Winterhold has taught us strategies of war, yes, but also diplomacy, logistics, and infrastructure! We can provide more than just soldiers; we can provide the means to win and rebuild."
"We will provide humanitarian aid if needed," Grandfather Antares stated, his voice calm but absolute. "Medical supplies. Refuge for those fleeing the conflict. But our men, our airships, our direct military might will remain within Asgard's borders. That is our position. That is the will of the Council."
"But you just gave me permission to marry Visenya!" I pressed, desperately trying a different angle. "How can I marry the daughter of a queen whose throne we refuse to defend? What kind of husband would I be? What kind of prince?"
Grandfather Antares met my gaze, his eyes softening slightly, but his resolve remained steel. "Your marriage to Visenya is a personal matter, Cregan, and one we bless. It does not bind Asgard to war. Her mother's crown is for the South to fight over. Our peace, our people's prosperity, comes first. We will not sacrifice Asgard for the ambitions of others."
The words of my grandfather, firm and final, echoed in the solar: "We will not sacrifice Asgard for the ambitions of others." My jaw clenched. I felt a surge of frustrated rage, impotent against the collective will of my family. I had argued, pleaded, even used my own personal happiness as leverage, and it had been for naught.
Without another word, I spun on my heel and stormed out of the solar, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a Valyrian steel blade. I strode through the familiar corridors of Winterfell, my boots echoing ominously on the stone, my mind a storm of furious thought.
I made my way to my private room, a place of quiet solitude I often sought. Inside, I moved to the small cabinet where a bottle of Northern whiskey sat. I poured a generous measure into a glass, the amber liquid glinting dully in the low light. Slumping into my chair, I stared at the dancing flames in the hearth, the warmth doing little to thaw the cold knot in my gut.
The war. The damned war. And the oath. My oath to Visenya. I had sworn by the Old Gods and the New, by the heart tree itself, that I would make sure her family was safe and her mother would sit the Iron Throne. And now, my own family had effectively forbidden me from honoring that oath. I took a deep breath, the fumes of the whiskey burning in my nostrils. How could I reconcile my duty to Asgard with my solemn promise to Visenya and my own burgeoning feelings?
With a defiant grunt, I lifted the glass and downed the whiskey in a single gulp, the fiery liquid scorching a path down my throat. It was a foolish, impulsive act, but it cleared my head, hardening my resolve. If Asgard would not act, then I would.
I pushed myself up from the chair and made my way out, my steps purposeful. The courtyard was cool, the evening air crisp. My eyes scanned the familiar faces, the warriors who were the backbone of Winterfell's might. My gaze landed on Rodrick Dustin, often called Roddy the Ruin for his boisterous nature and love of a good fight. He was one of my closest companions within the Wolf Pack, a unit of the most skilled and daring warriors of the North, loyal to the Starks and always hungry for action.
I approached him, a grim smile touching my lips. "Roddy," I greeted, my voice low.
He turned, his eyes lighting up in recognition. "Prince Cregan! To what do we owe the honor?"
I leaned closer, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Prepare a few Wolf Pack members for me. Those who are hungry for battle. Those who crave glory."
Roddy's smile widened, a glint entering his eyes. "Always, my Prince. Consider it done."
I nodded, already turning to leave, a plan beginning to form in my mind.
"How many, my Prince?" Roddy called after me.
I paused, turning my head slightly, my gaze sweeping over the moonlit courtyard.
"300"