Northern Camp Outside King's Landing
The Northern camp sprawled across the fields south of King's Landing like a temporary city built from canvas and steel, its ordered rows of tents and horse lines speaking to the disciplined efficiency that had won Robert's Rebellion. Cook fires sent thin streams of smoke into the afternoon sky, and the sound of men's voices—discussing everything from the quality of the ale to the likelihood of getting home before winter—created a backdrop of comfortable military routine that felt almost peaceful after months of war.
Ned stood outside his command tent with the solid presence of a man who'd learned to carry the weight of impossible decisions, watching the dust cloud on the southern road that announced the approach of their expected visitors. His grey eyes held that particular Northern combination of wariness and determination—the look of someone who'd seen too much death but refused to let it break him.
"Well," he said in that quiet way that somehow carried more authority than most men's shouts, "here they come. Time to see if our grand conspiracy can survive first contact with the people we're supposedly protecting."
Beside him, Ashara held eighteen-month-old Cregan with the practiced ease of someone who'd discovered that motherhood was simultaneously the most natural and most terrifying thing she'd ever done. Her violet eyes—so like her son's—tracked the approaching riders with sharp intelligence, cataloguing threats and opportunities with the instinctive wariness of someone who'd learned that even safety was temporary.
"They look... composed," she observed, her voice carrying that musical Dornish accent that could make even tactical assessments sound like poetry. "Though I suppose Princess Elia has had plenty of practice at maintaining dignity while her world falls apart around her."
Arthur leaned against a supply wagon with that casual grace that never quite concealed his readiness for violence, all dangerous elegance and barely contained power. Even in simple traveling clothes, he moved like a predator—beautiful, deadly, and utterly confident in his ability to handle whatever threats might arise.
"Ser Jaime's lost weight," he said with the kind of observational precision that came from years of protecting people by reading the smallest changes in their circumstances. "And his sword arm's favoring the left side slightly. Whatever he's been through since the Sack, it's taken a toll."
*So this is it,* thought baby Cregan, his violet eyes tracking the approaching riders with unusual intensity for someone his age. *Time to meet the other players in our little conspiracy. Including Princess Rhaenys, who according to everyone is remarkably intelligent for a three-year-old. Though given that I'm having complex political thoughts at eighteen months, I suspect there may be more to that story than anyone realizes.*
*Also,* he added with the kind of dry internal commentary that had served him well across lifetimes, *I should probably prepare myself for the emotional complexity of seeing Hermione again. Even if she's currently wearing the face of a Targaryen princess and I'm trapped in the body of a Northern lordling who can't even properly walk yet. Nothing about this reincarnation business is remotely straightforward.*
"There," Arthur said, straightening as the lead riders became clearly visible, his voice carrying that slight Swedish accent that added an exotic edge to his perfectly articulated Common Tongue. "Ser Jaime's golden head catches the light like a beacon. Hard to miss, even at this distance. Though he's riding like a man who's forgotten how to trust his own shadow."
"And Princess Elia," Ned added, his grey eyes picking out the elegant figure riding beside the former Kingsguard knight with the kind of careful assessment that had kept him alive through Robert's Rebellion. "She looks... controlled. That's good. These conversations will be difficult enough without emotional complications we can't predict or manage."
The party that rode into camp was small but carried the weight of kingdoms on their shoulders: Princess Elia Martell on a bay mare, her legendary beauty unmarred by months of uncertainty and fear but somehow sharpened by them, as if adversity had refined her into something more dangerous than mere loveliness; three-year-old Princess Rhaenys riding in front of a careful guardsman, her silver-gold hair catching the afternoon light like spun starlight, violet eyes already scanning their surroundings with intelligence that seemed far too mature for her age; baby Prince Aegon secured in a traveling basket with the kind of careful protection that spoke to his value as both precious child and political liability; and Ser Jaime Lannister, whose golden hair and green eyes seemed somehow dimmed by recent events, as if the man who'd once been the epitome of Lannister confidence had discovered that some stains couldn't be washed out with gold or charm.
*Jaime looks like a man who's had his entire world rearranged,* Cregan observed with growing understanding as he studied the approaching party. *The relaxed confidence is still there—you can see it in the way he sits his horse, the casual competence with which he handles the reins—but underneath it... he's lost, isn't he? Everything he thought he knew about his place in the world has been systematically dismantled, and he's still trying to figure out what's left.*
As the party dismounted, Princess Elia moved with that fluid grace that had once enchanted half the court, but now carried an edge of controlled tension that spoke to hard lessons learned about the difference between admiration and protection. She wore traveling clothes of fine quality—dark blue wool that complemented her Dornish coloring and practical leather riding boots that suggested she'd learned to prioritize function over pure elegance—but her posture spoke of a woman who'd discovered that survival sometimes required being ready to run at a moment's notice.
"Lord Stark," she said formally, inclining her head with precisely the degree of courtesy appropriate between equals, her voice carrying that distinctive combination of warmth and steel that had made her legendary in the capital. "Thank you for extending your protection to my children and me. I understand the... complications... such protection might create for you personally and politically. Not many men would risk their own standing for the sake of children who aren't their own blood."
"Your Grace," Ned replied with equal formality, though genuine warmth colored his voice like sunlight through storm clouds, "the North protects those who cannot protect themselves. It's not a complicated principle, though I'll grant you the application can get bloody intricate. Your children are innocents caught up in circumstances beyond their control—they deserve safety, not punishment for the accidents of their birth or the ambitions of their fathers."
*Trust Ned to make it sound simple,* Arthur thought with affectionate exasperation as he watched his old friend navigate the treacherous waters of royal courtesy with typical Northern directness. *'We protect the innocent.' As if that explains why he's risking everything for the children of a man who kidnapped his sister and started a war that killed his father and brother.*
But it was when Princess Rhaenys was lifted down from her horse that something extraordinary happened—something that made all the careful political calculations and practiced courtesies suddenly irrelevant.
The moment her small feet touched the ground, her violet eyes found Cregan's across the small space of the camp clearing with the kind of magnetic precision that suggested cosmic forces rather than mere coincidence. For a heartbeat that seemed to stretch into eternity, the two children stared at each other with an intensity that had nothing to do with casual childhood curiosity and everything to do with recognition that cut deeper than memory or logic or any rational explanation for how two people who had never met could look at each other with such desperate, joyful understanding.
*Harry?*
*Hermione?*
The names weren't spoken aloud—couldn't be spoken by children too young for such complex words—but the recognition was absolute and immediate, like lightning finding its target or water flowing downhill. After lifetimes of searching, after death and rebirth and the strange mercy of whatever force had brought them here, they had found each other again.
*Oh, thank God,* Cregan thought as relief flooded through him with overwhelming intensity. *It's really her. Those are Hermione's eyes, Hermione's fierce intelligence, Hermione's way of looking at the world like she's already three steps ahead of everyone else and just waiting for them to catch up. She's here, she's safe, and she remembers me.*
Cregan made a sound—not quite a word, but something between a cry of joy and a sob of relief that carried enough emotional weight to make every adult present pause in confusion. His small arms reached toward Princess Rhaenys with desperate urgency, his entire body straining against his mother's hold as if physical distance was a barrier that could not be tolerated for even another moment.
"Well," Ashara murmured, her voice carrying a mixture of wonder and maternal concern, "that's... not a typical reaction to meeting strangers."
Rhaenys responded instantly, breaking away from her escorts with the determined stride of someone who knew exactly where she needed to be and had no patience for obstacles. She covered the distance between them in quick steps, her young face transformed by an expression of fierce joy that seemed far too mature for her years—the look of someone who'd been searching for something precious and had finally, finally found it.
"Cregan!" she said, the name coming out with perfect clarity despite her age, carrying a weight of emotion that made every adult present freeze in bewilderment. Her voice was already showing hints of the musical quality that would make her legendary, but right now it simply rang with pure, unfiltered happiness.
*She knows his name,* Ashara realized with growing bewilderment, her sharp mind immediately cataloguing all the reasons this should be impossible. *But how? They've never met, never even been in the same region of the kingdom. How does a three-year-old princess who's lived her entire life in King's Landing know the name of an eighteen-month-old Northern lord who's spent the last months in Dorne?*
"How does she—" Ned started, then stopped, his grey eyes studying the two children with the kind of careful attention he usually reserved for potential battlefield threats.
"I have absolutely no idea," Princess Elia said quietly, her maternal instincts clearly struggling to process what she was witnessing. "Rhaenys has never mentioned meeting a Northern lord. I would have remembered."
When Rhaenys reached them, she immediately wrapped her small arms around Cregan in a hug that spoke of desperate reunion rather than childhood affection—the kind of embrace shared by lovers separated by war, not toddlers meeting for the first time. The baby responded by clinging to her with surprising strength, burying his face against her shoulder as if she were the only solid thing in a world of uncertainty.
*She smells like books and sunshine and that particular soap they use in the Red Keep,* Cregan thought as he held her, *but underneath all of that, she smells like Hermione. Like home. Like the person I've been looking for without even realizing I was searching.*
Both children began to cry—not the distressed wailing of upset toddlers, but the complex tears of people who had found something precious they thought they'd lost forever. It was a sound that made every adult present feel like they were witnessing something profoundly important that they couldn't begin to understand, something that existed in a category beyond their experience or expertise.
*My God,* thought Ser Jaime, studying the scene with the sharp eyes of someone who'd learned to read human nature through years of court intrigue and personal betrayal, *they're acting like... like lovers reunited after years of separation. But they're babies. This makes no sense whatsoever. Unless...*
*Unless what?* he asked himself with growing unease. *Unless three-year-olds and eighteen-month-olds can somehow carry emotional connections that transcend normal human experience? That's madness. Isn't it?*
"How do they know each other?" Princess Elia asked quietly, her voice carrying the particular concern of a mother witnessing her daughter's inexplicable emotional reaction to a complete stranger. "Rhaenys, sweetheart, how do you know this baby's name?"
"They don't know each other," Ned replied with equal bewilderment, his practical Northern mind struggling to find rational explanations for irrational behavior. "This is the first time they've ever been in the same location. Rhaenys has been in the capital, Cregan has been in Dorne and then here in the camp. There's no way they could have encountered each other before today. No way they should even know of each other's existence."
Arthur moved closer, his tactical mind clearly working through possibilities with the kind of professional interest he usually reserved for analyzing potential security threats. "Children sometimes have... intuitions... that adults don't understand. Perhaps they recognize something in each other that we can't perceive. Some quality of personality or spirit that transcends normal social introduction."
*Intuitions,* Ashara thought with growing unease as she watched her son cling to the little princess with desperate intensity. *Is that what we're calling this? Because this looks less like intuition and more like recognition. Like they know each other intimately and haven't seen each other for a very long time. Like they're confirming that something they hoped was true has turned out to be real.*
The two children had stopped crying but continued to hold each other with that desperate intensity that suggested their connection was literally sustaining them. Now they were looking into each other's faces with the kind of careful study that suggested they were memorizing every detail, confirming that this reunion was real and not some cruel dream that would dissolve if they looked away.
Cregan reached up with one small hand to touch Rhaenys's cheek, his violet eyes bright with tears and something that looked remarkably like wonder. She responded by taking his hand in both of hers, pressing a kiss to his palm with the kind of unconscious intimacy that made the adults exchange increasingly concerned glances.
*This is not normal childhood behavior,* Princess Elia thought with maternal protectiveness warring against intellectual curiosity. *Three-year-olds don't act like this with strangers. They don't demonstrate this kind of... emotional sophistication. This kind of casual physical intimacy. What am I witnessing? What is my daughter involved in that I don't understand?*
"Right," Ser Jaime said with characteristic directness, his voice carrying that particular combination of amusement and concern that had served him well through years of navigating impossible situations, "I've seen a lot of strange things in my time at court, but I have to say, this is definitely a new one. Should we be concerned that two small children are displaying more emotional maturity than most adults I know?"
*Leave it to Jaime to point out the obvious while everyone else is still trying to pretend this is normal,* Arthur thought with dry appreciation for his former colleague's refusal to dance around uncomfortable truths.
"Rhaenys," Princess Elia said gently, moving closer to her daughter with the kind of careful approach one used when trying not to disturb something fragile, "sweetheart, can you tell Mother how you know Lord Cregan's name? Have you met him before in a dream, perhaps?"
Rhaenys looked up at her mother with those remarkable violet eyes that seemed to hold far too much knowledge for someone so young, far too much understanding of complex emotional landscapes that shouldn't have been accessible to a three-year-old mind.
"He's my friend," she said simply, as if this explained everything, her voice carrying absolute certainty about something that made no rational sense. "My best friend. I was looking for him."
*My best friend,* Cregan thought with fierce satisfaction. *Yes, exactly. The person who's always been there, who's always understood, who's made everything make sense even when the world was falling apart around us. She remembers. Not everything, maybe not clearly, but she remembers the essential truth: we belong together.*
"Looking for him where, little princess?" Ned asked gently, his grey eyes studying Rhaenys with the kind of careful attention he usually reserved for reading enemy battle formations. "How does one look for someone they've never met?"
"Everywhere," Rhaenys replied with absolute seriousness, her small face reflecting the kind of focused determination that had probably driven her tutors to distraction. "Every day. In the gardens, in the books, in the places where people go when they're sleeping. I knew he was somewhere, and I knew I had to find him before... before bad things happened."
*Before bad things happened,* Ashara repeated mentally, her sharp intelligence immediately latching onto the implications of that particular phrasing. *A three-year-old with prophetic instincts? Or something else entirely?*
"What books, sweetheart?" Princess Elia asked with the gentle persistence of someone trying to understand something that seemed to defy rational explanation. "You've been reading?"
"All of them," Rhaenys said matter-of-factly, as if this were perfectly normal behavior for someone barely past toddlerhood. "The ones in Uncle Lewyn's chambers, the ones in the Maester's tower, the ones people leave lying around in the sept and the gardens and the kitchens. I wanted to learn things, so I could be ready when I found him."
*She's been teaching herself to read,* Arthur realized with growing amazement, his tactical mind immediately grasping the implications of such accelerated intellectual development. *At three years old, she's been seeking out books and teaching herself to read them. That's not just unusual—that's extraordinary. Almost impossible. The kind of thing that suggests...*
*Suggests what?* he asked himself uncomfortably. *That there are forces at work here that I don't understand and can't protect against?*
"And what did you learn from all this reading?" Ser Jaime asked, his green eyes bright with genuine curiosity about what a three-year-old genius might conclude from unrestricted access to adult literature.
"That there are lots of different ways to be brave," Rhaenys replied with the kind of philosophical insight that would have been impressive from a court scholar, "and that sometimes being smart means being quiet about what you know until the right moment. And that the most important thing—the only thing that really matters—is taking care of the people you love."
*The people you love,* Cregan thought as he continued to cling to the girl who had been his best friend across lifetimes, his partner in impossible adventures, the person who'd always understood him even when he didn't understand himself. *She remembers. Not everything, maybe not clearly, but she remembers enough. She knows we belong together, knows we're supposed to protect each other.*
He made a soft sound—something between a coo and a sigh of deep contentment—and settled more comfortably in Rhaenys's embrace. For the first time since awakening in this medieval nightmare of political intrigue and constant mortal danger, he felt completely safe. Whatever challenges lay ahead, whatever political complications threatened their lives, they would face them together.
*Just like always,* he thought with satisfaction that warmed him from his core. *Harry Potter and Hermione Granger against the world. Though I suppose it's Cregan Stark and Rhaenys Targaryen now. The names change, but the essential partnership remains. The trust, the understanding, the absolute certainty that we'll figure it out together—that's eternal.*
"They seem... bonded," Princess Elia observed with the kind of careful neutrality that suggested she was trying very hard not to jump to conclusions that might be both impossible and deeply disturbing from a maternal perspective.
"Bonded," Arthur repeated thoughtfully, his violet eyes studying the two children with growing understanding of something that transcended normal human experience. "Yes, that's... that's actually a very good word for it. They look like they've been searching for each other their entire lives. Like they've found something they didn't even realize they'd lost."
*Their entire lives and then some,* Ashara thought with intuitive understanding that she couldn't quite explain rationally but felt with absolute certainty in her bones. *There's something here that goes deeper than childhood friendship, deeper than normal human connection. These children know each other in ways that shouldn't be possible, in ways that suggest...*
*What?* she asked herself with growing unease. *Past lives? Prophetic dreams? Some kind of magical connection that transcends ordinary human experience? In a world where dragons existed and kings can die from prophecies, is that really so impossible?*
"Well," Ser Jaime said with characteristic pragmatism, rising from his slight bow with fluid grace that suggested his recent trials hadn't affected his physical conditioning, "whatever the explanation for this touching and slightly unnerving reunion, we still have practical matters to discuss. Lord Arryn's decisions about their futures, the political arrangements we've all committed ourselves to maintaining, the small matter of keeping everyone alive while the realm adjusts to its new realities."
*Politics,* Rhaenys thought with the kind of weary understanding that should have been beyond her years. *Always politics. Even when magic brings you back from death, even when you find the person you've been searching for across lifetimes, there's still politics to navigate. Still careful lies to maintain and dangerous truths to hide.*
*Though,* she added with growing optimism as she studied the adults around her, *at least these are the kind of politics that might actually work in our favor for once. These people actually seem to care about protecting children rather than using them as game pieces.*
"Before we discuss the formal arrangements," Ned said with that particular tone that suggested he was about to share information that would complicate everyone's understanding of an already complex situation, "there's something you need to know about what we discovered at the Tower of Joy. Something that changes the political landscape considerably."
Princess Elia looked up with sharp attention, her maternal instincts clearly recognizing the tone that preceded important revelations about family. "What do you mean?"
"Lyanna didn't die," Ashara said quietly, her violet eyes bright with barely contained emotion. "She gave birth to a son—Rhaegar's son—and both mother and child survived. They're alive and safely hidden away from all of this political maneuvering."
The silence that followed was profound and dangerous, heavy with implications that could destroy the carefully constructed lies holding the realm together if misunderstood or misused by the wrong people at the wrong time.
*Lyanna is alive,* Princess Elia thought with a complex mixture of relief, joy, and growing understanding of just how elaborate their deception had become. *She survived the birth, she's safe, and there's another Targaryen prince hidden somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms. My husband loved her enough to start a war, and now she's raising his other son in secret while I sit here planning the constrained futures of my own children.*
*The political implications are staggering,* she continued, her sharp mind immediately working through possibilities and complications. *If anyone discovers she exists, if anyone learns about her son, it could restart the entire conflict. Or it could provide the perfect alternative to the current succession crisis. A hidden prince with both Stark and Targaryen blood...*
"Where?" she asked simply, trusting these people enough to believe they wouldn't tell her about such dangerous secrets without good reason.
"Greywater Watch," Arthur replied with quiet satisfaction at having successfully orchestrated such an impossibly complex evacuation under impossible circumstances, "Lord Howland Reed's protection, in a place that exists precisely where it needs to be and nowhere else. The perfect refuge for people who need to disappear completely."
"She could have stayed dead," Princess Elia said with wonder, understanding the full scope of what Lyanna had sacrificed by choosing life over political convenience. "The story was perfect—tragic, final, politically clean. She could have remained officially dead and lived quietly somewhere safe for the rest of her life. Instead, she's chosen to exist in the shadows, watching the world believe she's gone, raising a son who can never acknowledge his true heritage."
*And raising a son who represents an even more direct threat to Robert's dynasty than Aegon does,* Cregan realized with growing appreciation for the byzantine complexity of the situation they were all navigating. *Lyanna's child carries both Targaryen and Stark blood—the union of ice and fire that prophecies speak of, the perfect combination of royal legitimacy and Northern honor. If anyone ever learns he exists, he becomes either the most valuable prize or the most dangerous enemy in the Seven Kingdoms.*
"His name is Aemon," Ashara said softly, her voice carrying the reverence due to children born into impossible circumstances, "Prince Aemon Targaryen, though I suspect he'll grow up with a different name entirely. Something more suited to the moving castle and the people who protect those who cannot protect themselves."
"Two sons," Princess Elia murmured, looking down at baby Aegon with new understanding of how many children's lives hung in the balance of their careful political arrangements. "Two Targaryen princes, born of two different mothers who both loved their father completely. Both hidden away from a world that wants them dead for the circumstances of their birth."
"But only one that anyone knows about," Jaime pointed out with tactical precision, his strategic mind already working through the implications of their expanded conspiracy. "Which means only one that anyone needs to plan around politically. Aegon's future is constrained by his official existence—Aemon's future is limited only by how well we maintain the fiction of his death."
*Lucky Aemon,* Cregan thought with dark humor that would have been perfectly at home in any political court across any century. *Born into a world of endless possibilities because everyone believes he doesn't exist. While poor Aegon gets to choose between dusty books and ice zombies because everyone knows he does. There's a certain poetic justice in that—the hidden prince gets freedom while the acknowledged prince gets honored exile.*
"The question," Ned said thoughtfully, his grey eyes distant as he considered possibilities and complications with equal measure, "is whether we tell them about each other eventually. Whether Aegon grows up knowing he has a half-brother hidden away in the Neck, whether that knowledge helps or hurts his ability to accept the limitations we're placing on his future."
"When he's older," Princess Elia decided with maternal wisdom that cut through political calculations to focus on what would actually benefit her child's emotional development. "When he's old enough to understand the complexities without being overwhelmed by them, old enough to appreciate the gift of having family he never knew existed. Children need some hope for the future, some sense that they're part of something larger than their immediate circumstances."
*Hope for the future,* Rhaenys thought as she continued to maintain protective contact with Cregan, her small hand tangled in his dark hair with possessive tenderness. *Yes, hope is important. Especially when you're being told that your adult life will be constrained by choices other people made before you were even born, when your entire existence has to be justified in terms of political convenience.*
*But,* she added with growing satisfaction as she looked around at the adults who were taking such care to plan futures that prioritized their safety over political advantage, *at least we're in the hands of people who understand that children are more than just political pieces. People who'll fight to give us as much choice and freedom as the circumstances allow.*
"So," Ser Jaime said with that particular tone that suggested he was about to summarize complex situations in ways that cut straight through diplomatic niceties to the essential truths, "let me see if I understand our situation correctly. We have two Targaryen princes: one officially dead and free to become whoever he chooses to be, one officially alive and destined for honored exile. We have one Targaryen princess who's betrothed to a Northern lord and will presumably live a relatively normal life as a great lady of the North. And we have one former Kingsguard knight and one Dornish princess who are both hoping to fade into comfortable obscurity while helping to raise children who represent ongoing political complications."
"That's... remarkably accurate," Arthur said with appreciation for his former colleague's ability to distill complex political arrangements into manageable summaries. "Though you're forgetting the part where we all have to maintain elaborate lies for the rest of our lives and hope that nobody ever asks uncomfortable questions about the details."
"Ah yes," Jaime replied with dry humor that suggested he was finding their situation more amusing than terrifying, "the comfortable lies. My personal favorite part of any political conspiracy. Nothing could possibly go wrong with that approach."
*Leave it to Jaime to find the humor in a situation that could get us all executed if we make one mistake,* Ashara thought with reluctant affection for the former knight's ability to maintain his sense of humor under impossible circumstances.
"The lies are manageable," Ned said with quiet confidence that came from successfully navigating political deceptions for months without discovery, "as long as everyone understands their role and sticks to the agreed-upon story. The challenge will be maintaining consistency as the children grow older and start asking questions about their own histories."
"Questions like why Rhaenys and Cregan seem to have known each other since birth despite never having met before today?" Princess Elia asked pointedly, gesturing toward the two children who remained wrapped around each other with the kind of desperate intimacy that suggested their connection was literally sustaining them.
*That,* Cregan thought with internal amusement that would have been perfectly recognizable to anyone who'd ever known Harry Potter, *is definitely going to be one of the more interesting conversations when we're old enough to have it. 'Well, you see, we're actually reincarnated souls who've been best friends across multiple lifetimes, and we found each other again through what was probably magical intervention. Also, we were going to be married. Any other questions about our family dynamics?'*
The adults looked at each other with the kind of meaningful glances that suggested they were all thinking the same thing: that raising these particular children was going to involve challenges that went far beyond normal parental concerns about education and marriage prospects.
"We'll figure it out," Ashara said finally, with the kind of maternal determination that had kept the human race going through countless impossible circumstances. "Whatever's happening between them, whatever they think they remember or understand, we'll help them navigate it. That's what family does."
*Family,* Rhaenys thought with warm satisfaction as she settled more comfortably against Cregan's small form, listening to the adults continue their planning around them. *Yes, that's what this is. Not just the biological connections of blood and marriage, but the chosen connections of people who've decided to protect each other no matter what the cost.*
And as the afternoon faded into evening, as the adults worked out the practical details of their shared conspiracy, two children who had found each other across lifetimes held onto each other with absolute trust that whatever came next, they would face it together.
Just like they always had.
Just like they always would.
---
*Later that evening, in Ned's command tent*
The oil lamps flickered like captured stars in the canvas-walled confines of the command tent, casting dancing shadows across maps of the Seven Kingdoms that suddenly seemed to chart an entirely different world than the one any of them had awakened to that morning. The adults sat in a rough circle on camp chairs and supply chests, their voices kept low out of long habit and immediate necessity, while the business of reshaping the future of the realm continued with the kind of careful precision that had won Robert's Rebellion.
Princess Elia held baby Aegon with practiced maternal efficiency, her dark eyes thoughtful as she processed the political arrangements that would govern the rest of their lives. Her legendary beauty seemed somehow sharpened by the challenges she'd faced, refined into something more dangerous than mere loveliness—the kind of elegant strength that suggested she'd learned to survive by being smarter and more determined than her enemies.
Beside her, Princess Rhaenys sat cross-legged on a pile of traveling cloaks, still maintaining physical contact with Cregan despite the adults' gentle attempts to separate them for practical conversation. Every time someone suggested the children might be more comfortable apart, both would immediately cling to each other with the desperate intensity of people who'd found something precious they couldn't bear to lose again.
*Let them stay together,* Ashara had finally decided with maternal wisdom that overcame tactical considerations. *Whatever's happening between them, whatever they think they recognize in each other, forcing separation will only create distress without serving any practical purpose. And frankly, given everything else we're dealing with, two happy children is not a problem I'm interested in creating.*
"So," Princess Elia said quietly, her Dornish accent lending musical quality to words that carried the weight of life-changing decisions, "Lord Arryn proposes to make my children Wards of the North, under Lord Cregan's theoretical authority and Ned's practical governance. A political arrangement that provides protection while establishing clear boundaries about future succession."
"And a betrothal between Rhaenys and Cregan that ensures any future children of their union would be Starks rather than Targaryens," Ned added with careful precision, his grey eyes studying the two children who seemed utterly untroubled by having their romantic futures planned by adults they barely knew. "Eliminating potential succession disputes while acknowledging her royal blood through marriage to a great lord."
*Eliminating succession disputes by ensuring the problematic bloodline gets absorbed into a more politically acceptable one,* Cregan thought with growing appreciation for medieval political strategy. *Marry the inconvenient princess to the baby lord, and their children become Northern problems rather than Targaryen ones. Efficient, practical, and completely indifferent to the personal preferences of the people whose lives are being arranged.*
*Though in this case,* he added with satisfaction that probably showed in his violet eyes, *the personal preferences actually align with the political convenience. I can think of worse fates than being betrothed to my best friend.*
"What of Aegon?" Ser Jaime asked with sharp interest, his green eyes reflecting the lamplight as he studied the baby prince who represented such complex political challenges. "A male Targaryen heir, even one under Northern protection, remains a potential rallying point for future rebellions. How does Lord Arryn propose to address that particular complication?"
Princess Elia's arms tightened around her son with protective instincts that needed no explanation, her voice carrying barely controlled pain at the necessity of planning her child's exile from the world of normal ambition and choice.
"The Citadel or the Wall," she said quietly, each word carefully controlled to prevent the emotion underneath from overwhelming the practical discussion. "When he reaches his majority, he'll be given a choice between forswearing worldly ambitions to serve as a maester, or forswearing worldly ambitions to serve in the Night's Watch. Honorable paths that remove him from succession while allowing him to contribute to the realm in meaningful ways."
*Honorable exile,* Cregan observed with dark humor that would have been perfectly at home in any political court across any century. *Study dusty books and heal people while forswearing marriage and inheritance, or freeze to death on the edge of civilization while fighting ice zombies and wildlings. What wonderfully appealing options for someone born a prince of the blood. I'm sure he'll be thrilled to learn about his glorious future.*
"Both are respected positions," Arthur pointed out gently, his voice carrying the kind of diplomatic tact that had served him well through years of protecting people by managing political complications before they became violent ones. "The maesters serve the realm through knowledge and healing, the Night's Watch protects everyone through their service at the Wall. There are worse fates than being honored for your contributions rather than feared for your bloodline."
The conversation continued deep into the night, adults planning the futures of children too young to have meaningful input into decisions that would shape the rest of their lives. But through it all, Rhaenys and Cregan remained together—two small figures holding onto each other as if their connection could provide stability in a world that seemed determined to rearrange itself around them.
*Whatever happens,* Rhaenys thought as exhaustion finally began to claim her, *whatever politics we have to navigate, whatever roles we have to play, we'll face it together. Just like we always have, just like we always will.*
And in the flickering lamplight of a military tent, surrounded by adults making impossible decisions about impossible circumstances, two children who had found each other across lifetimes settled into sleep with the absolute trust of people who knew they were exactly where they belonged.
The game of thrones would continue, the lies would need to be maintained, the futures would unfold according to plans made by people who thought they understood the forces they were trying to control.
But love—the love that had brought them back from death, that had guided them across kingdoms to find each other again, that would sustain them through whatever trials lay ahead—love would endure.
It always did.
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord (HHHwRsB6wd) server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Can't wait to see you there!