# King's Landing, Red Keep - Tower of the Hand
*A Fortnight Later*
The Tower of the Hand felt like a tomb dressed in silks and gold, its stone walls seeming to swallow the afternoon sun that streamed through the tall windows with their diamond-shaped panes. Dust motes danced in the golden beams like the spirits of forgotten courtiers, and the very air seemed thick with the weight of decisions that would reshape the Seven Kingdoms whether anyone was prepared for it or not.
Ned Stark stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his weathered face a mask of controlled tension as he studied a tapestry depicting Aegon the Conqueror's triumph at the Field of Fire. The formal doublet he wore—black wool with the grey direwolf of House Stark embroidered in silver thread—felt like a costume from a play he'd never auditioned for. After weeks in travel leathers and mail, the court clothes served as a constant reminder that he was playing a different role now: not the war leader who'd helped topple a dynasty, but the regent preparing to surrender power to its rightful heir.
*Which, when you put it like that,* he thought with the kind of dark humor that had sustained him through months of war, *sounds rather like political suicide dressed up as honor.*
Beside him, Ashara Dayne held eighteen-month-old Cregan Stark with the practiced ease of someone who'd learned to manage a remarkably active child while maintaining the appearance of effortless nobility. She'd chosen her attire with the tactical precision of a general planning a campaign—a gown of deep purple silk that complemented her legendary violet eyes while remaining appropriately modest for a formal court appearance. Every line of her posture spoke of controlled power, a woman accustomed to being the most dangerous person in any room while appearing as harmless as morning dew.
The effect was rather like watching a panther pretend to be a house cat, and about equally convincing to anyone with functioning eyes.
*She's absolutely magnificent when she's orchestrating political theater,* thought baby Cregan with the appreciation of someone who'd learned to recognize tactical brilliance in all its forms. *Like watching a master painter work, if master painters specialized in potentially treasonous deception and looked this good while doing it. Though I suppose Mother's always had a talent for making the impossible seem perfectly reasonable. It's quite unsettling, really, how easily she can make "elaborate conspiracy to falsify royal succession" sound like "sensible childcare arrangements."*
Arthur Dayne stood near the window with that fluid grace that marked all the Daynes, his six-and-a-half-foot frame somehow managing to appear both completely relaxed and ready for instant violence. The pale blade Dawn hung at his side like captured starlight, its star-forged metal seeming to drink in the afternoon sun. His violet eyes—so like his sister's, so like his nephew's—surveyed the courtyard below with the professional interest of someone who'd spent years evaluating potential threats and finding most of them wanting.
"You know," Arthur said conversationally, his voice carrying that slight rasp that came from too many formal audiences in dusty throne rooms and not enough proper wine, "I never fully appreciated how exhausting it is to be officially rehabilitated. All these ceremonies and declarations and formal recognitions—it's rather like being processed through a very slow, very expensive mill run by people who've never actually done anything more dangerous than cut their meat with the wrong knife."
"At least you're being rehabilitated rather than executed," Ashara pointed out with that particular brand of sisterly pragmatism that had been honed by decades of managing her brother's dramatic tendencies. She adjusted Cregan's position as he studied the room with those unsettling violet eyes that seemed to catalogue every detail for future reference. "Though I suppose that's largely thanks to your perfectly choreographed surrender and touching conversion to the cause of legitimate succession. Very moving, that speech you gave about honor and duty conquering personal loyalty. I particularly enjoyed the part where you nearly wept."
"I did not nearly weep," Arthur protested with wounded dignity, his hand moving unconsciously toward Dawn's pommel in a gesture that had become habitual over the years. "I displayed appropriate emotional gravity befitting the solemnity of the moment. There's a difference. A significant one."
"Of course there is," Ashara replied with the kind of smile that had once made princes forget their own names and currently suggested she was enjoying herself far more than was appropriate given their circumstances. "Just like there's a significant difference between 'strategic retreat' and 'running away very quickly while shouting about tactical repositioning.'"
"That happened one time," Arthur said with the long-suffering tone of someone who'd been having this argument for the better part of two decades. "And it was a perfectly legitimate tactical withdrawal in the face of overwhelming odds. The shouting was merely... battlefield communication."
*Uncle Arthur appears to have a rather creative relationship with military terminology,* Cregan observed with the kind of dry internal commentary that would have made his professors proud, assuming any of his professors had been available to appreciate infant wit. *Though I suppose when you're the Sword of the Morning, you're allowed a certain amount of creative interpretation when it comes to describing your less glorious moments.*
"My conversion was quite genuine," Arthur continued with dignity, settling into that particular stance that suggested he was prepared to defend his honor with steel if necessary, though hopefully it wouldn't come to that in the Hand's tower. "I've always believed in supporting the rightful heir. It's just that my definition of 'rightful' has become more... intellectually flexible... over the years."
*Intellectually flexible,* Cregan thought with appreciation. *What a delightfully diplomatic way of saying 'I've learned to ignore inconvenient laws when they conflict with doing the right thing.' Though I suppose that's rather the hallmark of truly great knights—the ability to serve the spirit of their oaths even when the letter becomes problematic.*
Ned turned from his contemplation of ancient Targaryen triumphs, his grey eyes carrying that particular weight that came from making decisions that would echo through generations. "Flexible definitions of rightful succession," he said thoughtfully, his Northern accent lending gravity to words that might have sounded flippant from anyone else. "That's rather what we're all engaged in, isn't it? Deciding which laws matter more than others, which oaths supersede which other oaths."
"The alternative," Ashara said with characteristic bluntness, her musical voice carrying an edge that could cut glass, "is watching innocent children murdered in their beds because we were too prideful to compromise our precious principles. I find intellectual flexibility considerably more palatable than infant corpses, personally."
The silence that followed her statement was profound and uncomfortable, heavy with truths that everyone understood but no one particularly wanted to acknowledge directly. These were not conversations that belonged in tapestried chambers with servants potentially listening at doors, but necessity had a way of making private thoughts into public policy whether anyone was prepared for the transition or not.
*Mother does have a talent for cutting straight to the heart of moral complexity,* Cregan thought. *Rather like surgery, actually—painful but necessary, and considerably more effective than dancing around the issue with euphemisms and diplomatic niceties.*
The great doors opened with their characteristic groan of ancient hinges that had witnessed the rise and fall of kings, admitting Lord Jon Arryn with his usual measured stride. The Hand of the King moved like a man who'd learned to bear the weight of kingdoms on his shoulders without letting that weight slow his step or bow his back. His grey hair was perfectly arranged despite the morning's council meetings, his blue eyes sharp with the intelligence that had made him indispensable to three kings and counting, and his expression carried that particular mixture of affection and barely concealed exasperation that came from managing rulers who possessed all the political sophistication of adolescent boys with too much power and too little sense.
*Ah,* Cregan thought as all the adults straightened into appropriately formal positions, *here comes the man who's going to officially transfer power from the uncle who never wanted it to the nephew who can't even reliably control his own bladder yet. How perfectly fitting for the current state of Westerosi politics.*
"Lord Stark," Jon Arryn said with formal courtesy, though genuine warmth colored his voice as he looked at Ned with something approaching paternal pride. His weathered face bore the lines of someone who'd spent decades navigating the treacherous waters of court politics and somehow managed to maintain both his sanity and his principles, which was rather more impressive than most people appreciated. "Lady Ashara. Ser Arthur." He paused, his expression softening as his keen gaze settled on the dark-haired child in Ashara's arms. "And Lord Cregan, I presume. The rightful Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North."
*Lord Cregan,* the child in question thought with a mixture of pride and existential bewilderment. *Still getting used to that particular title. Though I suppose it has a nice ring to it—much better than 'Prince Cregan' would have been, given current political circumstances and the general hostility toward anyone with Targaryen blood.*
"Indeed, my lord Hand," Ned replied with equal formality, though something in his grey eyes suggested profound relief at finally being able to speak something resembling truth instead of the careful omissions and managed revelations that had characterized most of his recent conversations. "Brandon's trueborn son, born in lawful wedlock to his legal wife and acknowledged by all who witnessed their union before the old gods."
*All who witnessed and survived to tell about it,* Cregan amended silently, *which, given our careful management of inconvenient historical details, represents a remarkably select and well-rehearsed group of individuals.*
Lord Arryn moved closer with the careful deliberation of someone accustomed to evaluating potential heirs and their various capabilities, studying the child with those keen blue eyes that had assessed three generations of nobility and found most of them wanting in various spectacular ways. When baby Cregan looked up at him with those remarkable violet eyes—so distinctively Dayne, so unsettlingly aware—the Hand's expression shifted to something approaching genuine wonder.
"By the Seven," he said quietly, his carefully maintained political facade cracking to reveal honest amazement. "He has the look of Brandon about the jaw and the set of his shoulders, but those eyes... those are Dayne eyes if I've ever seen them. Quite remarkable, actually. Northern steel tempered with Dornish fire—that's a combination that could reshape the political landscape of the realm, assuming he survives long enough to do any reshaping."
*Survival being rather the operative consideration,* Cregan thought grimly. *Though I have to admit, the political implications of my bloodline are rather more interesting than most babies get to contemplate. Not sure whether that's a blessing or a curse, really.*
"He's remarkably alert for his age," Ashara said with carefully controlled maternal pride, her voice carrying just enough warmth to seem natural while maintaining appropriate political distance. "Already walking with considerable determination, already speaking simple words with what I can only describe as suspicious clarity, already demonstrating that particular Stark stubbornness that seems to manifest regardless of which parent contributes it to the bloodline."
*Stubbornness,* Cregan thought with internal amusement. *Is that what we're calling my tendency to evaluate every situation with the intellectual rigor of someone who's lived through considerably more political complexity than the average toddler? I prefer to think of it as an early appreciation for the strategic value of selective cooperation. Much more sophisticated than mere stubbornness.*
"The North will need strong leadership in the years to come," Lord Arryn observed, settling into a high-backed chair with the careful movements of a man whose bones had seen too many winters and whose mind had navigated too many political crises. "The realm is... unsettled... by recent events. Wars leave scars that take generations to heal properly, and this particular war..." He paused, his expression growing troubled as he considered implications that stretched far beyond the immediate succession crisis they were addressing. "This war has left scars that may never fully heal. Questions of legitimacy, questions of justice, questions of whether the cure wasn't potentially worse than the disease."
*Particularly given that a significant portion of our resolution is built on carefully constructed lies,* Cregan thought with growing appreciation for the complexity of the situation they'd all committed themselves to maintaining. *Though I suppose successful lies become indistinguishable from truth if you maintain them with sufficient conviction and sufficient time. Something to remember for future reference when I'm old enough to participate in these conversations instead of merely observing them.*
"With your permission, my lord Hand," Ned said with formal courtesy that barely concealed his obvious relief at finally being able to address this situation openly, "I would be deeply honored to serve as Lord Cregan's regent until he comes of age. To hold Winterfell and the wardenship of the North in trust, as I have been doing, until he can claim his inheritance with the maturity and wisdom it requires."
Lord Arryn nodded approvingly, though something in his expression suggested he'd been expecting exactly this request and had already given considerable thought to its implications. "That arrangement seems both appropriate and necessary," he said with measured deliberation. "Though I feel compelled to warn you, Ned—and I speak now as someone who has watched you grow from a boy into a man and cares for you as a father cares for his son—you may face considerable... complications... from this decision."
*Complications,* Cregan noted with growing familiarity. *That appears to be the universal diplomatic euphemism for 'everything you think you understand is about to become dramatically more difficult, possibly in ways involving armed conflict.'*
"What sort of complications?" Ashara asked with the sharp interest of someone who'd spent years navigating the treacherous waters of court politics and understood that warnings from the Hand of the King were never casual observations about theoretical possibilities. Her violet eyes had taken on that particular intensity that meant she was already three moves ahead in whatever chess game was about to begin.
Lord Arryn's expression grew decidedly grim, his weathered hands folding in his lap with the careful precision of a man choosing his words like a master archer selecting arrows for particularly important targets. "Lord Hoster Tully, for one rather significant example," he said with the kind of diplomatic precision that made bad news sound almost reasonable. "He arranged the marriage between his daughter Catelyn and our Ned here believing that union would someday make his blood part of the ruling line of the North. That his grandchildren would inherit Winterfell in their turn, would become Wardens of the North and thus elevate House Tully's political position considerably."
*Ah,* Cregan thought with understanding that was probably inappropriate for someone who should theoretically be focused on more basic concerns like learning to walk without falling over. *Political miscalculation based on incomplete information. Lord Tully gambled his daughter's marriage on a succession that was never actually available, and now he's about to learn that his carefully planned political alliance has yielded him precisely nothing except a son-in-law with no inheritance to speak of.*
"Learning that Ned was never the rightful heir," Lord Arryn continued with the dry precision of someone delivering potentially catastrophic news in the most diplomatic terms humanly possible, "that his marriage to Catelyn was essentially a political nullity from the perspective of Northern inheritance—well, that revelation will not be received with what one might call gracious acceptance of circumstances beyond anyone's control."
*Political nullity,* Cregan mused. *What a delightfully brutal way of describing Uncle Ned's marriage. Though I suppose from Lord Tully's perspective, that's exactly what it represents—all the disadvantages of having invested a daughter in a political alliance with none of the expected returns.*
"The Riverlands," Lord Arryn continued, his tone growing more serious as he addressed the broader implications, "have just concluded a war in which they invested considerable blood and treasure, partly motivated by the expectation that their political position would be substantially improved through their connection to the North. Discovering that expected improvement never existed will be... challenging... for Lord Tully to accept with equanimity."
"How challenging?" Arthur asked with the professional interest of someone who'd spent years evaluating potential military threats and their various capabilities. His hand had moved unconsciously toward Dawn's pommel, a gesture so habitual he probably wasn't even aware of it. "Are we discussing strongly worded letters and formal diplomatic protests, or are we moving into the realm of armies and siege engines and creative interpretations of feudal obligations?"
*Trust Uncle Arthur to cut straight to the practical implications,* Cregan thought with appreciation. *Though given Lord Tully's reputation for political maneuvering and his considerable investment in what he's just learned was a fundamentally flawed strategy, I suspect we're closer to the armies end of that spectrum than anyone would prefer.*
"That," Lord Arryn replied with the careful honesty that had made him invaluable as Hand to multiple kings, "depends entirely on how Lord Hoster chooses to respond to what he will undoubtedly perceive as having been significantly outmaneuvered. He's not a man who accepts political disappointment with particular grace, even when that disappointment stems from circumstances entirely beyond anyone's control."
*Unintentional from his perspective,* Cregan observed silently, *though I suspect Uncle Ned's marriage was always more about love than political calculation, which probably makes it even more irritating for someone who approaches marriage as a purely tactical alliance.*
"There may also be challenges from certain Northern houses," Lord Arryn continued, his blue eyes studying Ned's face with the intensity of someone reading a particularly complex and potentially dangerous legal document. "Lords who bent the knee to you personally, who swore oaths to you as an individual rather than to your position, who followed you through months of war and bloodshed based on their understanding of the political situation. They may have... questions... about the timing of these revelations."
"What sort of questions?" Ned asked, though his voice carried that dangerous edge that reminded everyone present that beneath the diplomatic courtesies and political maneuvering, this was still a man who'd fought his way through the bloodiest war in recent memory and emerged victorious.
*The sort of questions that could get people executed for treason if asked too loudly or in the wrong company,* Cregan thought grimly. *Though I suppose that's rather the point—political legitimacy is always a delicate balance between actual law and general acceptance, and challenging that balance tends to make people nervous.*
"The suspicious-minded among them," Lord Arryn explained with gentle precision, his tone suggesting he was merely reporting potential problems rather than endorsing the suspicions themselves, "might wonder why Brandon's marriage was kept secret from his family and his lieges. Why his son's legitimacy wasn't revealed immediately upon Brandon's death, when such revelation would have clarified the succession and prevented months of... irregular... governance."
*Because revealing it immediately would have created a succession crisis during an active civil war, potentially destabilizing the entire Northern contribution to the rebellion,* Cregan thought with the kind of strategic analysis that was probably excessive for someone whose primary concerns should involve learning basic motor skills. *Because managing the politics of a one-year-old lord paramount during wartime requires considerably more delicacy than most people appreciate.*
"They might suspect," Lord Arryn continued with ruthless honesty that cut through diplomatic niceties like a blade through silk, "that the marriage itself was a convenient fiction created after the fact to serve some larger political purpose. That young Lord Cregan is Brandon's natural son, legitimized through creative documentation and presented as trueborn to advance some agenda that remains unclear to them."
The silence that followed was profound and potentially dangerous, heavy with implications that could destroy kingdoms if spoken in the wrong ears or interpreted by the wrong minds. Arthur's hand had moved to rest fully on Dawn's pommel now, while Ashara's violet eyes had gone cold as winter ice, carrying that particular intensity that had once made hardened knights reconsider their conversational choices.
*And there's the heart of our potential problem,* Cregan realized. *Political legitimacy based on documentation that can't be independently verified, presented at a time that's convenient for current political needs. Even if everything we're claiming is absolutely true—which it is—it has all the characteristics of an elaborate deception.*
"I see," Ashara said with deceptive calm, her musical voice carrying undertones that would have made wise men suddenly remember urgent appointments elsewhere. "And what is your assessment, my lord Hand? Do you believe my marriage to Brandon Stark was some sort of convenient fiction? Do you consider my son to be an elaborate political fabrication designed to serve ends that remain mysterious to you?"
*Mother's using the voice,* Cregan observed with professional interest. *The one that sounds perfectly reasonable right up until you realize you're standing in a room with someone who could destroy your political career with a carefully worded letter to the right people.*
Lord Arryn met her gaze directly, his weathered face completely serious and bearing no trace of the diplomatic evasion that characterized most political discourse. "I think, my lady, that I've observed enough of politics over the decades to understand that truth and convenience don't always align as neatly as we might prefer. I also think that I've witnessed enough genuine honor to recognize it when it presents itself, regardless of how inconvenient that honor might prove to be for the people practicing it."
He turned to Ned, his expression softening with something that looked remarkably like paternal pride despite the gravity of their situation. "You could have chosen silence, Ned. Could have continued ruling the North as you have been, could have allowed your future children with Lady Catelyn to inherit what the entire realm believed was rightfully yours by blood and birth. Instead, you've chosen to acknowledge a truth that costs you everything you thought you'd inherited from your brother's death."
*Truth at the cost of personal advantage,* Cregan thought with growing appreciation for his uncle's character. *The kind of choice that defines a man's honor more clearly than any amount of battlefield heroics or political maneuvering. Though I do hope he's prepared for the practical consequences of that choice.*
"That," Lord Arryn continued with firm conviction that brooked no argument, "is the action of an honorable man. Whatever challenges you may face in the coming months and years, whatever questions certain people may raise about timing and motivations, you have chosen right over expedient. That carries considerable weight in my assessment of both your character and your fitness to serve as regent."
"Thank you, my lord," Ned said quietly, though visible relief flooded his grey eyes like dawn breaking over a winter landscape.
"However," Lord Arryn continued, his tone shifting back to the crisp efficiency of official business that needed to be conducted regardless of personal sentiments, "there are several practical matters we must address immediately. The political climate here in the capital is... shall we say unstable... following recent revelations about events in Dorne."
*Revelations,* Cregan noted. *Another diplomatic euphemism, this one referring to the carefully managed news of Aunt Lyanna's 'death' that apparently sent Robert into a grief-fueled drinking binge of legendary proportions.*
"Our king," Lord Arryn said with the kind of masterful understatement that made catastrophic situations sound like minor administrative difficulties, "is not managing the news of your sister's death with what one might call regal composure. He's been locked in his chambers for three days now, consuming enough wine to float a modest warship and refusing to see anyone who might attempt to discuss matters of state. When he does emerge briefly, his emotional state is..." He paused, selecting his words with surgical precision. "Let us say that his grief requires targets for his anger, and those targets are likely to be anyone whose bloodline he associates with his loss."
*Translation: Robert's rage needs somewhere to go, and Targaryen children represent convenient scapegoats for his pain,* Cregan interpreted. *Which brings us to the next phase of our carefully orchestrated political theater—protecting the officially existent members of the former royal family while keeping the officially nonexistent ones safely hidden.*
"Princess Elia and her children," Ned said with immediate understanding, his strategic mind clearly already working through the implications.
"Precisely. Your offer to extend the North's protection to them when you returned to the capital was both wise and timely, given Robert's current emotional state. However, the political implications of housing members of the former royal family in the North while Robert sits the Iron Throne are, as you might imagine, somewhat complex."
*Complex,* Cregan thought with growing familiarity. *The universal descriptor for situations that have no entirely satisfactory solutions and several spectacularly dangerous ones.*
"I've given this matter considerable thought over the past several days," Lord Arryn continued, his tone taking on the weight of official policy being established in real time. "Given the current political climate, given our king's emotional volatility, given the absolute necessity of protecting innocent children while maintaining the overall stability of the realm, I believe the most appropriate solution is to formalize Princess Elia and her children as official Wards of the North."
The implications of that statement hit the room like a physical force, carrying with it the weight of legal precedent and political necessity. Wardship was an ancient and honorable tradition in Westeros, but it was also a form of elegant imprisonment—protection that came with the explicit understanding that the protected parties would remain under careful supervision until such time as they were deemed safe to release into the wider world.
*Wards of the North,* Cregan repeated mentally, his infant mind already working through the ramifications. *Under my theoretical authority, with Uncle Ned serving as my regent and thus making all actual decisions. Effectively removing the Targaryen children from the capital's volatile political climate while ensuring they remain under the supervision and protection of a Great House that's demonstrated its willingness to prioritize child welfare over political expedience.*
"Wards of the North," Ashara repeated thoughtfully, her tactical mind clearly cataloguing implications and possibilities with the speed of long practice. "Under Lord Cregan's authority as Warden of the North, with Ned serving as regent until he comes of age. That effectively removes them from the immediate reach of court politics while ensuring they remain under the protection of one of the most powerful houses in the realm."
"Exactly so," Lord Arryn confirmed with satisfaction. "The arrangement serves multiple purposes simultaneously—immediate protection for the children, political distance from Robert's grief and anger, and a clear statement that the Crown recognizes the North's authority over its own internal affairs. It also establishes a precedent for how we handle... inconvenient... members of former royal families should such situations arise in the future."
*And it gets potentially problematic Targaryen heirs as far away from King's Landing as geographically possible,* Cregan observed silently, *while ensuring they remain under the supervision of people who've already demonstrated their commitment to keeping inconvenient royal children alive rather than allowing them to be murdered for political convenience.*
"There are, however, additional considerations we must address," Lord Arryn continued, his expression growing more serious as he moved into territory that would affect not just immediate political arrangements but the long-term stability of several major houses. "Princess Rhaenys will eventually require a suitable marriage alliance—something that acknowledges her royal blood and provides appropriate status while ensuring that any children of such a union pose no potential threat to the current dynasty."
*Marriage alliances,* Cregan thought with philosophical resignation. *The eternal solution to inconvenient bloodlines and potential succession disputes. I wonder what political calculation is about to reshape my personal future in ways I'm not old enough to have opinions about yet.*
"I propose," Lord Arryn said with the weight of official policy behind his words, "a formal betrothal between Princess Rhaenys and Lord Cregan. Such an arrangement would acknowledge her status as a princess of royal blood while ensuring that any children of their eventual union would be Starks rather than Targaryens—thus eliminating potential future succession disputes while providing the North with a marriage alliance of considerable prestige."
The suggestion hung in the air like a sword suspended over all their heads, sharp with implications that could echo through generations and reshape the political balance of the entire realm.
*Well,* Cregan thought with the kind of philosophical resignation that would have impressed ancient Stoic philosophers, assuming any of them had been available to appreciate infant wisdom, *that's certainly one way to ensure the bloodlines remain politically manageable. Marry the inconvenient princess to the baby lord, and their children become Northern problems rather than Targaryen ones. Though I do hope Princess Rhaenys turns out to be intelligent and reasonably pleasant, since we're apparently going to be spending the rest of our lives together whether either of us has any say in the matter.*
"She's three years old," Ashara pointed out with practical maternal concern, her voice carrying that particular edge that suggested someone was about to receive a comprehensive lecture about appropriate childhood development and the psychological damage caused by premature marriage arrangements.
*And I'm not even two yet,* Cregan added mentally. *Though I suppose the age gap becomes less significant once we're both adults. Assuming we both survive to adulthood, which given current political circumstances and the general hostility toward anyone with Targaryen blood, is perhaps not as guaranteed as one might hope.*
"The betrothal would be entirely ceremonial until both parties reach their majority," Lord Arryn assured her with the kind of diplomatic precision that made potentially objectionable arrangements sound perfectly reasonable. "No marriage would be contemplated, much less consummated, until Lord Cregan reaches at least his sixteenth year and Princess Rhaenys her fourteenth—and even then, only if both parties express genuine consent to the arrangement. But establishing the formal alliance now serves everyone's political interests while providing long-term security for the princess."
*Security in the form of inevitable marriage to someone she's never met, based entirely on political calculations made when she was far too young to have meaningful opinions about her own romantic future,* Cregan observed with growing appreciation for the brutal practicalities of medieval politics. *How perfectly feudal. Though I suppose it's considerably better than the alternative, which appears to involve her potentially being murdered for the crime of existing with inconvenient bloodlines.*
"And what of Prince Aegon?" Arthur asked with the sharp interest of someone who understood that male Targaryen heirs represented fundamentally different political challenges than female ones, regardless of their current age or personal capabilities.
Lord Arryn's expression grew noticeably more troubled, his weathered hands folding with the precise care of someone delivering news that absolutely no one in the room was going to enjoy hearing. "Prince Aegon, unfortunately, presents considerably more complex challenges than his sister. A male heir with Targaryen blood, even one under Northern protection, even one who's currently a toddler more interested in wooden toys than political power, represents a potential rallying point for future rebellions against Robert's dynasty. His very existence could destabilize the realm if certain ambitious lords decide to use him as a figurehead for their own political aspirations."
*Translation: the baby prince is far too dangerous to be allowed to remain a prince, regardless of his personal character or political inclinations,* Cregan observed with the kind of cold strategic analysis that was probably inappropriate for someone who should be focused on learning to use words of more than one syllable. *His bloodline makes him either an invaluable asset or an existential threat, but never simply a child who deserves to live free from political manipulation.*
"What do you recommend?" Ned asked, though his tone suggested he suspected he wasn't going to appreciate the answer.
"I recommend," Lord Arryn said with careful precision, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd thoroughly considered multiple scenarios and settled on the least objectionable option available, "that when Prince Aegon reaches his majority, he be presented with a choice between two honorable paths that would remove him from any potential succession while allowing him to serve the realm according to his talents and inclinations."
*Here we go,* Cregan thought grimly. *Time to discover what passes for 'honorable' when you're planning the future of someone whose bloodline makes him inconvenient.*
"The Citadel," Lord Arryn continued with measured deliberation, "where he could train as a maester and serve the realm through knowledge and healing, forswearing all claims to lands or titles in exchange for a life of learning and service. Or the Wall, where he could join the Night's Watch and serve as a guardian of the realm against threats from beyond, similarly renouncing all worldly ambitions in favor of duty and sacrifice."
*Honorable exile,* Cregan thought with dark humor. *Join the maesters and spend your life studying dusty books while forswearing marriage and inheritance, or join the Night's Watch and spend your life freezing to death on the edge of civilization while fighting ice zombies and wildlings. What wonderfully appealing options for someone who was born a prince of the blood.*
"Both paths," Lord Arryn added with what might have been genuine sympathy for the impossible situation they were all navigating, "carry considerable honor and provide opportunities for meaningful service to the realm. Many younger sons of great houses have found fulfillment and purpose in such roles."
*Many younger sons of great houses,* Cregan noted, *who chose those paths voluntarily rather than having them presented as the only alternatives to potential assassination for political convenience.*
"That seems..." Ned began, then paused, clearly struggling with the necessity of planning a toddler's entire adult life based purely on political expedience rather than any consideration of the child's actual preferences or capabilities. "That seems reasonable, given the circumstances we're all attempting to navigate."
*Reasonable,* Cregan thought with appreciation for his uncle's diplomatic phrasing. *What a perfectly tactful way of saying 'morally objectionable but politically necessary given that the alternative involves dead children.'*
"There is one final matter," Lord Arryn said, his tone shifting to something that actually sounded pleased for the first time in their conversation. "By way of compensation for the considerable blood and treasure the North invested in the recent war, and as a component of Princess Rhaenys's eventual dowry, the Crown will be funding several significant infrastructure projects that should substantially improve the North's long-term economic and strategic position."
*Infrastructure projects,* Cregan thought with sudden interest. *That sounds considerably more substantial than the usual monetary compensation that marks most political settlements. What exactly is the Crown prepared to invest in Northern development?*
"The complete restoration of Moat Cailin, for one rather significant example," Lord Arryn continued with obvious satisfaction, his expression brightening as he moved into territory where he could discuss positive developments rather than political necessities that left everyone feeling slightly uncomfortable. "That ancient fortress has been allowed to crumble into ruin for far too long, and a properly maintained Moat Cailin serves both specific Northern interests and the general stability of the realm. Control of the Neck represents control of the primary connection between North and South—that's far too strategically important to be left to crumbling stones and wishful thinking."
*Moat Cailin,* Cregan thought with growing appreciation for the scope of what was being offered. *The ancient stronghold that controls the narrow passage between the North and the rest of Westeros. When properly maintained and garrisoned, it's essentially impregnable—and it gives whoever controls it the ability to cut the North off from the southern kingdoms entirely if necessary. That's not just compensation, that's a significant shift in the balance of power.*
"Additionally," Lord Arryn continued, his expression growing more animated as he discussed the economic implications, "the construction of a proper deep-water port at Sea Dragon Point, complete with harbor facilities, warehouses, and the infrastructure necessary to support significant merchant traffic. The North has been economically disadvantaged for generations by its limited access to profitable maritime trade routes—this development would change that situation quite dramatically."
*A major port at Sea Dragon Point,* Cregan thought with something approaching excitement. *A fortress commanding the western waters, finally giving the North true naval power to challenge the Ironborn. No more would those reavers strike our eastern shores with impunity - they'd have to reckon with Northern longships sailing from our own stronghold on the western coast.*
He could envision it clearly: warships bearing the direwolf banners patrolling the waters between the North and the Iron Islands, merchant vessels under Northern protection carrying goods safely along the western trade routes, and most importantly, a fleet positioned to intercept any Iron Fleet that dared to sail around the North to raid the vulnerable fishing villages and smaller holdfasts along the eastern shores.
*The Starks have always been a land power,* he mused, *but Sea Dragon Point could change that. A naval base there wouldn't just defend our coasts - it would project Northern strength across the western seas.*
"That's... remarkably generous," Ashara observed, though her tone suggested she was calculating the political implications of such generosity. "Infrastructure projects of that scale represent significant Crown investment in Northern independence. Almost as if the Crown were buying insurance against future Northern discontent."
"The Crown," Lord Arryn said with diplomatic precision, "is investing in the stability and prosperity of all the realm's regions. A strong North serves everyone's interests, just as strong Riverlands or a prosperous Reach serve everyone's interests."
*Translation: we're paying the North to remain loyal despite having significantly less reason to be loyal now that they've discovered their recent war was based on a fundamental misunderstanding,* Cregan interpreted silently. *Remarkably practical, actually. Infrastructure investment in exchange for political stability is considerably more sustainable than relying on personal loyalty or military intimidation.*
"When would construction begin?" Ned asked with the practical interest of someone who understood that such projects required years of planning and massive resource coordination.
"Immediately for Moat Cailin—the Crown engineers are already preparing surveys and material estimates," Lord Arryn replied with satisfaction. "Sea Dragon Point will take longer to plan properly, but work could begin within the year. Both projects should be completed within five years, assuming normal weather and no significant complications."
*Five years,* Cregan thought. *By which time I'll be old enough to actually have opinions about the political implications of these investments. How convenient that the major infrastructure improvements to my theoretical domain will be completed right around the time I'm old enough to appreciate them.*
"There's something else," Lord Arryn said, his tone becoming more personal, less official. "Ned, I want you to understand that while I support your decision to acknowledge Lord Cregan's claim, you may face significant resistance from various quarters. People who feel you've betrayed their trust, people who question the timing of these revelations, people who simply don't want to accept that their assumptions were wrong."
*People who don't want to admit they've been politically outmaneuvered by circumstances beyond anyone's control,* Cregan amended silently. *People whose pride is more important to them than actual accuracy.*
"I'm prepared for that," Ned said simply, his grey eyes steady with the kind of resolve that had seen him through months of war.
"Are you?" Lord Arryn asked gently, his weathered face showing genuine concern. "Because some of this resistance may come from people you consider friends, people whose loyalty you've counted on. Political disappointment can turn allies into enemies faster than military defeat."
*Uncle Ned's about to learn that doing the right thing doesn't automatically make everyone happy,* Cregan observed. *Particularly people who had their own plans for the political benefits of his original inheritance.*
"Then I'll face that when it comes," Ned replied with quiet dignity. "I can live with friends who become enemies over questions of honor. I couldn't live with myself if I allowed personal ambition to override legitimate claims."
Lord Arryn studied him for a moment, then nodded with something that looked like approval. "Your father would be proud of you, Ned. And Brandon... Brandon would be grateful that his son has an uncle willing to sacrifice personal advantage for family loyalty."
*He would,* Cregan thought with sudden certainty, though he had no conscious memory of his father. *From everything everyone says about Brandon Stark, he would absolutely approve of Uncle Ned choosing family over politics, choosing truth over convenience.*
"Is there anything else we need to address?" Ashara asked with the practical efficiency of someone who understood that lengthy formal audiences had a tendency to generate additional complications if allowed to continue indefinitely.
"Just one more thing," Lord Arryn said, his expression growing more serious. "All of these arrangements—the wardships, the betrothal, the infrastructure investments, the political positioning—they all depend on maintaining stability in the capital. On Robert eventually emerging from his grief and resuming his duties as king."
*And if he doesn't?* Cregan wondered, though he suspected the answer to that question was too dangerous for anyone to voice directly in a room where the walls might have ears.
"He will," Ned said with quiet confidence. "Robert is stronger than his grief, even when that grief threatens to consume him. He'll emerge, he'll resume his duties, and he'll be the king the realm needs him to be."
*I hope Uncle Ned is right,* Cregan thought. *Because if Robert decides to drink himself to death or rage himself into madness, all these carefully negotiated arrangements become irrelevant very quickly.*
"I pray you're right," Lord Arryn said fervently. "Because the alternative is a succession crisis that could tear the realm apart before young Lord Cregan here is old enough to walk properly, much less rule the North."
*Succession crises,* Cregan mused. *The recurring nightmare of medieval politics. Though I suppose that's what we get for basing governmental legitimacy on bloodlines and personal loyalty rather than anything more systematic.*
But as the formal audience began to wind down, as the adults made their final arrangements for the transfer of power and the protection of inconvenient royal children, baby Cregan found himself thinking that perhaps—just perhaps—they had managed to navigate the immediate crisis without getting everyone killed.
The lies were holding, the politics were stabilizing, and the children were safe. For now, that would have to be enough.
After all, in the game of thrones, "safe for now" was often the best outcome anyone could reasonably hope for.
*And who knows?* he thought as Lord Arryn formally recognized his claim to Winterfell and the Wardenship of the North. *Maybe by the time I'm old enough to actually rule, the realm will have figured out how to resolve succession disputes without murdering children in their beds.*
It was, he had to admit, probably overly optimistic. But then again, optimism was a luxury that babies could afford in ways adults could not.
Even babies whose existence was reshaping the balance of power in the Seven Kingdoms.
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