A/N Hope you're enjoying the story so far. Please vote and comment. I'd really like to hear your thoughts.
**
Cregan POV
The northman had little sleep the night before. The feast had carried on to well after midnight and the sounds of drunken revelry and jubilation permeated the wall of his rooms.
To make matters worst, Ragnar's time in captivity had made him restless. His anxiety and temper traveled across their bond. He'll have to take him to the Kingswood later today or on the morrow. If he keeps the apex predator trapped any longer, he'll be forced to warg him day and night to prevent any unwanted bloodshed.
One thing that wasn't a complete disaster was the dances he shared with the princess Heleana.
He was no southern gentleman, concerned with intricate ball dances and chivalrous gestures, but he acclimated to his surroundings accordingly.
Ned had received word from his household guards about an organized ball at the Keep for the Warrior's feast. Why such matters must be relayed to him was his first inquiry.
That his intended had dressed in a breathtaking golden dress, yet refused
demands from all who asked the honor of dancing with her bar her younger brothers and briefly, was a most pleasing answer.
It's a bit cliché but wolves are territorial beasts. The wedding was in nearly two months so he couldn't spend all his time with his future bride without raising quite a few eyebrows.
But this was an apt occasion to try his hand at courtship. He was an actually brilliant dancer. His father Rickon had hopes of arranging marriages between his children and key houses outside the North, to finally plunge the Starks into the fold. Learning matters of court and propriety was paramount.
Bennard sneered at his southern ambitions and unfortunately quite a few shared this sentiment, else his coup wouldn't have been possible.
His uncle's good-family the Karstarks were his loudest supporters. The second he cleaned Bennard's treasonous blood off Ice, he sent his good-brother Lord Harrion of Karhold to the Watch.
Harrion's only heir is his daughter Alys. Not wanting to take her home as her father and uncle tried to do to him, he arranged a marriage between her and his youngest cousin Benjen. The two are both of similar age and following the wedding their children will take the Karstark name.
He isn't a merciless butcher but decisiveness is necessary for survival.
A royal match would've been father's masterpiece. It's a shame he died before he saw his dream come into fruition.
Bennard questioned the worthiness of both son and father to rule. Mayhaps he was right.
I
s one actually worthy of the Stark seat if a bloody cold takes him overnight. Rickon Stark was a weak mean with too grand ambitions. Cregan has no desire to emulate his example.
But he'll make use of the southern wisdom he imparted. He'll charm both his betrothed and her family. He'll gather information to prevent a bloody succession that will probably rely on fire breathing monstrosities. He'll play the game of thrones.
***
Evidently his first taste of the southern games came sooner than expected.
Prince Aegon had asked to meet.
He didn't think he'd be up this early if he's honest. Cregan himself had partaken in a few glasses at the feast. The King's firstborn son was rumored to possess a great fondness for drinking unrivaled in King's Landing. So surely he must suffer from a debilitating hangover.
Nonetheless, he took the servant at his word and made way to the prince's room. Upon entering, he spent some time looking over the place.
The contrast between Aegon's and the Queen's set up was less than he expected.
Emerald green dominated the space of course. And there was at least a few paintings with particularly impressive if not baffling positions for bedding. He grew to hide his surprise early enough.
Supposedly the castle was saturated with such imagery before the King's illness.
Maybe he should've come south sooner.
But other than that, the prince's dwelling wasn't some den of debauchery and low morals to match his reputation.
There was a table filled with exotic foods and beverages on the balcony. Aegon had taken his seat and already started breaking his fast.
Rude.
He made a small bow that could be confused with a nod and sat quickly. The prince was consumed with his plate so the offense was swept under the rug.
When the royal made no attempt at starting a conversation, Cregan started selecting some cakes to try. They seemed appetizing and he had not intention to wait with an empty stomach.
He asked the servant to poor him some arbor gold and was met by a laugh from his host. The little shit.
"Forgive me my lord for my impertinence. I just thought a man who's hoping to teach one such as I to be a worthy leader, whose mind isn't addled with wine, won't share my fondness for drinking." The sarcasm could very well bleed an ocean from his mocking not-apology.
Cregan had sincerely doubted the Queen would share the condition he made for the prince until after the marriage was done. His potentiel refusal would endanger the alliance between their Houses after all. Aegon's impulsiveness was said to mirror that of Rhaenyra's.
It seemed he underestimated him. A mistake he won't ever repeat.
"If you are aware my prince of my terms, then you must've already agreed to them. That means on some level you acknowledge you could be better, do better for the sake of your people. It seems you have the potentiel for greatness." The sycophants at court always embellished their thoughts with compliments and praises so as to make sure their demands are met and royal favor remain at their side. Cregan felt no guilt at using this tactic. Especially considering he wasn't being a complete liar.
"You speak such sweet words, my lord. You northmnen are supposed to be uncultured barbarians. That display with your direwolf on the day of your arrival certainly gave me that impression." While the prince spoke with almost disinterest as he cut a blood sausage, his eyes told a different story.
"Mayhaps I was wrong. For some reason only the Seven are privy to, you're to be my good-brother. I'm to spend a year in the desolate north, we should get to know each other."
Aegon was no more a follower of the southern faith than Cregan himself. Still, the ease at which he pretended to be a godly man showed a decent understanding of politics. To shun the Seven irrevocably is to invite rebellion for the whole duration of your reign. Maegor rode Balerion and still struggled to hold the Starry Sept off.
The prince seeking information is another steeping stone. This alliance isn't hopeless. Only gentle steering and he'd make an alright king.
The Gods have blessed him.
"Very well. What exactly do you wish to know, my prince?"
"Is it true you sacrificed your uncle and his entire supporters to the weirwood trees? I have read of your pagan rituals."
On second thought, maybe an accidental fall from the balcony is a more suitable fate.
The lonely servant had run off to bring more Dornish red so the time to act is now.
Aemond could always be the next king.
***
Thoughts of the one-eyed prince seemed to summon him from thin air. He and his younger Daeron had appeared at the table and had challenged him for a fight.
He has grown restless. Ragnar wasn't the only one feeling like a boxed beast. Pummeling the arrogance out of the face of nobles and royals always improved his mood, so he accepted.
Aegon picked up his plate and declared he'd join them as a spector. Actually, the words he used were 'first hand witness to the worst beating of Aemond's life'. There was no love lost between the two so ironically enough he might sheer Cregan in the courtyard.
As their party of three entered the fighting grounds, the elder prince took to the stands with the courtiers and ... the princess. He must be mad but he's certain she looks lovelier by the day. He waved his hand in her direction and a beautiful blush spread across her face.
What suprised him was that she didn't wave back but left the stands altogether. Surely he didn't do anything too outrageous.
His doubts are quickly erased as he sees her coming in his direction. She's holding a grey piece of cloth that she hands with great care. He flips it to the side to discover a white direwolf with a blue eye sewn on the side.
She's made him a favor. Using Ragnar instead of his house sigil. He doesn't mind his madness anymore.
"Thank you, my princess. I would do all I can to be worthy of this honor." He ties the cloth over his tunic, next to his beating heart. It's only fair.
"I wish you good luck, my lord." She leaves as she came. With the grace of a fluttering butterfly.
While he was busy feeling his heart melt into a gooey substance, Aemond and Daeron had picked their respective weapons.
Both were bastard sword. Daeron's had the head of a silver dragon with a sapphire eye on the pommel. If he is to make an educated guess it's Blueflame. The sword granted to him at last night's celebration. Aemond on the other hand carried no castle forged blade. The reflected light and the encrusted ruby confirmed his suspicions. It was Blackfyre, the infamous valyrian sword of the Targaryen king and his heir.
Carrying such a symbol is proof the Greens have all but legitimized their claim.
He's surprised and equally excited. He can count the times he's sparred against other valyrian sword users on one hand. Both the rarity and skill necessary to use such a fine weapon make worthy opponents a mere pipe dream.
This will be fun.
"Daeron asked test your metals first but I propose we both fight. Have one of your companions join us."
The center of the yard has substantially been cleared. All eager to see the princes teach the brutish northman a lesson. Any other day Cregan would fight both on his own. He's gotten a good read on Aemond's fighting technique back in Winterfell. But Daeron is an unknown variable. And the one-eyed prince might use his own insight to keep up. The true danger in this is the valyrian blade. It cuts like no other. And he can't risk his own neck for pride's sake alone.
He would never suffer the indignation of losing with Helaena watching and him carrying her favor.
"Ned, would you like to join me?". His foster brother is a man of many talents. An efficient killer with a quite disposition. His cousin Bran enjoys fighting but he doesn't want impulsive battle rage at this moment.
"Very well." Edric draws his own blade Redsnake and meets him halfway. Cregan pulls Ice and holds the longsword with one hand. An absurd feat for anyone other than the unnaturally tall and broad descandants of the first men.
"Let's begin."
**
The fight was better than expected. The princes worked with a coordination truly bizarre for two who haven't fought side by side for quite a while. Any lesser team would crumble and yield at such a savage onslaught failry quickly.
Fortunately, Cregan and Edric weren't any ordinary warriors. They fought together since they picked up a sword at six.
Lord Rickon had wanted to spread his influence to the south and before that can happen the north must stand united.
He decided their Houses' long time animosity must come to an end. So he proposed to Lord Balthazar to have his heir foster at Winterfell. He wasn't to be a hostage he clarified. If the Bolton lord wanted to refuse he could and he wouldn't be displeasing his liege or incurring his wrath.
For the first time in centuries, a Bolton had not spit at an offer out of perceived deception or over inflated ego.
Rickon's own blood wasn't blessed with the same foresight.
Ned came to Stark territory and was raised as the heir's brother.
Cregan read his body language like no other. When Aemond began his attack to do away with the weakest link no doubt, he was met with a rude awakening.
Ned dodged his sword and backed away, letting Cregan strike at the one-eyed prince. When Aemond met his blade with his own, the clash of swords produced sparks of fire. It was glorious.
Ned now fought Daeron. Someone so young and a knight already must be a formidable fighter. He was. He could see Ned struggled to disarm him. It was never a good idea to maim a royal. If an other higborn had injured Aemond instead of his nephew Lucerys, the Wall or the execution block awaited them.
He made sure to keep that in mind as the Wraith and the Daring both retreated. It was a duel for the songs. Time for the end.
He moved forward, away from his foster brother and made himself open to attack. Too vulnerable one might say. Overeagerness blinded his opponents and they circled him like a thunder of dragons or a pack of hungry wolves.
He came down at Aemond with Ice like a crescent moon. Ned struck at Daeron's unsuspecting back and Aemond's defense lacked the northerners upper body strength.
For a moment moment silence reigned than Heleana and Aegon's claps started encouraging others to follow along.
Victory was theirs.