Chapter seven          𓃦          Winning

The Seven finally granted her something for her silent prayers and pleads. With victory on his shoulders, Theon followed Cregan inside the chambers, a goblet of wine in one hand, the other one still holding Ice, "did you not say something about Criston Cole being unbeatable?"

"The Seven finally granted me a wish," Daenys smile gently, her fingers gently tracing patters on Daella's stomach, just moments after she stopped fussing in her sleep.

Theon snorted as Cregan placed a kiss on top of his wife's head, moving to take Ice from his brother's grip, "your Seven had nothing to do with me beating the famous Criston Cole. Northern bastard won over a Kingsguard."

"Or, you know," Theon continued as he moved to place himself down on one of the armchairs with a thud of his boots, "your sworn protector is getting old."

"He's not my sworn protector, I do not have one," she replied, fingers tracing Daella's belly as she kicked her brother in her sleep.

"You have Cregan," her brother-in-law replied with a grin to his brother as he moved from Ice, flashing a small smile to Robb and moving towards his children, "which, you know, not a sworn protector because he is far too slow for being one."

"I will strangle you in your sleep," Cregan flashed the same grin to Theon as he bends closer to the twins in the crib, "just a heads up."

"Good thing I am to celebrate my win in Flee Bottom," he replied with the same grin, fingers excitedly tapping against his stomach where he had them pressed.

Ignoring his words, Daenys prompted to Cregan, "is my uncle still with the Maesters treating his wounds?"

Her husband shook his head, "not that I know off. They took him to see one but I think he was with your mother already."

She nodded with pursed lips together and looked down at her children, not daring to look at Robb shuffling on his feet, his thumb caught between his teeth, biting off any remaining skin around it until it started to bleed. Cregan – unaware of what happened prior to the tourney – look at his brother with furrowed brows, "are you not supposed to be with Grand Maester? Robb, it's important that you –"

"I told him to not go," Daenys cut his words which made him look at her, brows still furrowed,

"What?"

"Grandsire said that Robb is prohibited from training with Grand Maester," she almost whispered; ashamed, guilty, not daring to look up, her eyes seeking comfort in her children.

Tension risen within the chambers as did silence. Cregan straightened from where he was bending over the crib. Even Theon pulled himself in a straighter sitting position. With furrowed brows, her husband spoke, "since when do you care what your grandsire says?"

"Since the day I was born," Daenys replied, looking up, "it's not like I had any choice in the matter. My grandsire is the Hand of the King and – and if he says Robb is prohibited from seeing the Grand Maester, I cannot undo his decision."

"Prohibited?" Cregan repeated the word in a slow manner, words in echoes like daggers to the back, to the heart, "he prohibited Robb from seeing the Grand Maester?"

"It is no trouble, Cregan, really," Robb tried to calm his brother's temper as he watched Daenys' eyes land back on the children, fingers gripping the edge of the crib, "I – I can do other things while we stay here."

"Stay out of this," his brother replied, eyes not leaving Daenys' form on the bed's edge.

"Calm down, Stark," Theon replied, fingers clasping at his knees before pulling himself off the armchair, "it is not doomsday. Robb can find other things; he said it himself. Mayhaps he can actually train with me."

"Have I asked you for your opinion, Snow?" Cregan bit back at his brother like he was a wounded dog, licking his own wounds. For it is the Stark's most important trait to protect its family. Cregan Stark, in his eyes, failed.

"Perhaps breath, yeah? And do not be so offended, alright?" Theon's own patience was growing thinner by the words spoken by his brother.

Cregan was about to say something when Daenys interrupted, a hand on her belly when the pain became stronger, "can both of you calm down for one fucking second?"

All three heads snapped in her direction at the sudden cursing they never expected for the usually calm Daenys. She breathed out a laboured breath, calming herself, before pulling herself off the bed's side, "Robb, I am truly sorry for giving you hope that you will be able to train with Grand Maester Orwylle while we are here. If it came down to me, you know I would allow you to do so."

Robb shook his head by the doors, nails digging in the soft skin around, "you do not have to apologize, it is not your fault, I know it."

Before she could continue, Cregan squeezed her arm gently, fingers tracing patterns, "I apologize. For my actions."

Daenys simply nodded her head, tongue poking the sides of her cheeks.

Daenys' feet nervously shifted across the hallways that lead within the servant quarters inside the Red Keep; eyebrows rose, heads bowed wherever she stepped her feet. Fingers nervously turning the wolf ring on her finger, she slowly came to a stop by a room – twice the size smaller than her chambers, laundry pressed high by the small windows, steam coming from the inside of the fireplace.

The girls' heads turned – dark red clothing, bags under their eyes, hair messy and all over their foreheads. One of them; the oldest among them, a year or maybe two the elder of Daenys murmured with fingers clenching by her side, "my – my princess, are you in the need of an assistance?"

Her lips twitched in what she hoped was a smile, "I, uhm, I am looking for Dyana. I was told she might be here."

"She went to wash the princess Helaena's clothing, my princess," the girl responded, not daring to look up for she has heard stories of the Targaryen princess.

Daenys nodded and as she took a step closer to the girl, she flinched backwards, "apo – apologies, my – my princess."

She shook her head, trying to show any sort of comfort to the girl as she took a small bag from under her belt and offered it to the girl, "for your troubles and assistance."

The girl looked up; lilac eyes though barely noticeable, strings of hair pushed back off her forehead with dripping sweat, "my princess, there is no need."

"Please," Daenys pushed the bag closer to her hands, "I insist."

The girl's trembling fingers reached for the bag, clasping themselves around and taking it from her hand, "thank you, my princess."

Daenys offered her one less smile before she stepped over a pile of old clothing and took a few steps down the hallways. Before she could continue, her eyes landed on Trevas leaning on the wall. His head tilted to the side when he heard her sigh, "I'm not here because of Cregan."

"Then why are you here for?" she asked, fingers clasped on the dress as she pushed through piles of clothes on the floor and everything else.

"If you had not noticed before, my lady," Trevas spoke with the accent that was a mixture between a Northern and some sort of an accent from the Free Cities, following right behind her with his arms clasped on his back, "I am quite fond of you. I do not exactly wish to see you get slaughtered down here."

"I doubt they would slaughter me here," she responded, eyes darting along the barely lit hallways as her shoes clicked along.

Trevas chuckled from behind, "for someone who claims to read every book known to the Seven Kingdoms you are quite naïve, my lady."

Daenys stopped for her head to turn to the side to look at him, tilting to the side. Trevas held his palms up in defence, "wrong choice of words, apologies."

She shook her head, almost embarrassed at the thought of agreeing, "not an issue. But surely, you are more needed with my lord husband or my good brother?"

Trevas clicked his tongue and tilted his head, words laced with teasing, "it makes it sound like you do not enjoy my presence, my princess."

"You think too deep in it," she replied, a small smile twitching on her lips as did on Trevas'.

Daenys turned the corner to where she knew the maids go to wash the clothing. She remembers Ser Criston moving down these corridors when she was a child, searching for her older brother. She trailed behind these men and boys like a pale shadow, like a ghost. There was a small figure crouching on the floor, aching fingers washing a dark green gown. She turned her head when she heard the click of her shoes that she knew could never be a servant. She quickly pushed herself off her knees and bowed her head when the princess and the guard walked in. Daenys wasn't sure if the girl was scared of her or Trevas who stood behind her.

She tried to offer her a smile; a comfort of some sort, "Dyana?"

Dyana then thinks it must be the end; she'd be sent away, she'd be sold, she'd be killed. She lets out a shaky exhale and nods her head, eyes trained to the floor covered in faeces, dust and others, "yes – yes, my princess."

Daenys thinks her heart might fail on her. She feels her chest tighten again. It's almost like every Stark man knew she might lose her senses – Trevas' hand gently ran up and down her back as if to tell her to breathe and that she is going to be alright. She lets out a small exhale, "I, uhm, I am not sure how to even approach this, I have not thought it through."

"My – my princess, I swear I did not mean anything," Dyana suddenly stumbles out, her knees hitting the ground underneath, "the prince – he – he – I did not see him coming, my princess."

Suddenly, Daenys' hands reach out and gently pull the girl from the floor, "no – no, I did not mean it this way, Dyana, I believe you. I did not – not for a second did I think otherwise."

She looks up then – soft eyes filled with tears, staring at the Targaryen girl in disbelief, "you did not?"

Daenys shakes her head quickly, strains of silver hair falling on her forehead, "no, no, of course not. I just –"

She didn't know what to say then, how to continue. She removes her hands from her forearms and takes a small brown bag from under her belt and offers it to Dyana, "I know my mother must have given you this but I wish to do the same. I know it does not erase what my brother did nor does it make it any less painful for you but . . . it is all I can offer."

Dyana stares at her and doesn't know how to respond, "my princess, I cannot accept."

"Please," Daenys whispers and pushes the bag in her palm, "take it."

The princess leaves the coins on her open palm and retrieves a pin from where it hung on her shoulder – a small and rounded pin; like the Hand wears; but there was a direwolf embroiled on it. A symbol of House Stark, of Daenys' escape. She pins in on Dyana's clothing, "if you . . . if you ever desire to leave the Keep and go somewhere else . . . Winterfell has its gates open for you. If anyone asks, just show the pin and says it is I who gave it. They will know it was one of us; we all have them."

Dyana is not sure who Daenys speaks of – who us is in her words. But still she nods, "thank you, my princess."

Trevas comes from behind, fingers gently tugging on the sleeve of Daenys' dress – grey, dragons and wolves sewn onto it, "I think we should go. The hearing will start soon."

"Yes – yes, right," she nodded quickly with furrowed brows before she looked at Dyana again, "Winterfell, alright?"

The girl gave her a quick nod of her head though her mind was far away, fingers twisting the pin. If she squeezed it any harsher, her skin would break. The princess forced her lips in a twitch of a smile before she turned on her feet and allowed Trevas to help her out of the servant quarters. When her face hit the sunlight out the Red Keep, there were nothing but tears in her eyes and on her cheeks.

Daenys found herself inside the Iron Throne chambers. Though she and Cregan stood by Aegon and Helaena's side, their eyes would wander off to her half sister and her family. She'd often think what life was like for them on Dragonstone – if the children played outside, if the sand became their home, if they speak in their mother tongue, if they train with swords or if they are happy. But what Targaryen can ever truly be happy, she then thinks. They might have been doomed from the start, from the creation.

Cregan squeezes her fingers where they lay on the side of her gown. He can tell her mind wandered off, she thinks he knows her to her bones and it scares her – how much can a person know her. He leans into her slightly, almost a head taller, "where did you go off?"

"Hm?" she hums and turns her head to look at him – a small scar on the eyebrow of his right eye: a match to her scar on her left side. Both scarred by his direwolf.

"You went off somewhere just now," he whispers – he isn't demanding an answer, he's almost pleading: he wants to know her, to help her, to give her some rest and peace, "just then. You acted all skittish."

Daenys smiles, her lower lip caught in between her teeth, grazing the old skin off them, "can you know me any more?"

Cregan mirrors her expression and smiles, "I believe so."

Her grandfather sits on the Iron Throne: he looks unfit, like he doesn't belong there. Rhaenyra does, Daenys mindlessly thinks when she looks at him. She watches the Throne, the spikes, the swords of thousands of men. She doesn't think she belongs anywhere near it. When she was a young child, she feared the Throne when Aegon would tell her stories of their ancestors – how it cuts the unfit, how it killed Maegor (or so they say, at least). Her body, soul and mind might grow but her fear never disappeared. The Iron Throne scared her more than life did.

She watched Vaemond Velaryon fight for what he believed was correct. She saw him but she didn't hear him – there was ringing in her head, shadows dancing across the room and people. There was fire next to Rhaenyra. A wave crashed over Jacaerys. Daenys didn't dare to look at Cregan, fearing she might see something she wouldn't want. She sees her father walk inside the Throne room and she wasn't sure that it wasn't just a dream until his crown fell and a whisper escaped her lips, "heavy is the head that holds the crown when blood spills from it."

"A dragon falls but the wolf survives," muttered Helaena and only Aegon heard her. He didn't mind her, too focused on the rotting corpse they call their father sit the Iron Throne and their uncle placing the crown upon his head.

Daenys watches her father speak from the Throne and she wondered if he'd ever defend her or the children he had with her mother the way he defends Rhaenyra and her children. He wouldn't, she understands that. He loves her but not enough to save her. She finds comfort in the fact that Cregan would defend Daella or Jon if it came to it. She thinks he'd kill people with bare hands if it meant it would keep them safe and protected. He holds remorse for not being able to protect his other children. He wasn't a religious man but he'd pray to his Gods to keep his children safe with them. He often wondered if they heard him.

She wasn't sure what happened in the moment when Aegon reached for her and Helaena and when Cregan tugged her behind him. She heard the screams of horror and her uncle's words, "he can keep his tongue."

She feels Aemond and Aegon's eyes on her and she steps on her toes to look over Cregan's shoulder. She quickly pushes herself down with a gasp, head pressed onto her husband's back and shuts her eye at the sight. Cregan's fingers kept curled around her wrist, his thumb drawing small patters onto her skin to ease her – it's alright, you're alright, he means to say. She turns her head slightly to look at her family. Helaena, really – she watches her place her hands on the sides of her head, turning away and to Aegon who looks as sober as he was at birth. Aemond looks amazed. Alicent tries to shield her children. Daenys was only thankful that Daeron was in Oldtown and didn't have to see it.

Cregan turns his body when they try to pull Vaemond's body away from the sight. He still shields her, still doesn't let her see the blood. His fingers curl to her cheeks, thumb running across the scar on her eyebrow, "breathe."

Daenys nods with eyes wide and bright. Tears formed on the lines but she doesn't allow them to fall.

Daenys suddenly seeks out for her children's comfort. She still feels strange about it and she still sees them as something foreign, something that doesn't belong to her. They never did belong to her – they belonged to the North, they belonged to the people they will one day rule over, they belong to the Iron Throne by her claim. They may be her blood, sweat and tears but they were never truly hers.

Jon sleeps on her chest where she lays in the bed. He hasn't learnt that his mother won't always be around when he wishes to sleep but he keeps crying for her. Aranna tries to calm him down but with no success. Daella was her twins opposite; she could be calmed by anyone but she often wished for her father. Cregan sits on the armchair that's close to the lit fireplace, Daella's cheek mushed against his doublet. Like his wife, he wears wolves and dragons sewed in his clothes. His daughter's fingers curl in small fists and she reaches for the dragon on his shirt. She prefers the warmness of the fireplace and her father's arms while Jon prefers the cold – his mother's arms feel just like that.

There's a small knock of the doors. Daenys is already pulling herself from her position to open them but Cregan moves swifter – like a wolf. Daella shifts in his arms when he reaches the doors, opening them only to reveal Gwayne Hightower. Cregan tried to hide a grin at the cut lower lip – a reminder that Theon won, "lord Hightower."

"Lord Stark," he replied in a low tone, seeing through his mockery, "is my niece here?"

By then Daenys already reached their side, Jon sleeping peacefully in her arms, his face pushed in her arm and close to her stomach. She wore a smile – bright, soft and sticky like honey, "uncle."

Gwayne's arm reaches out and wraps it sideway around his niece, making sure not to squeeze Jon, "I have not seen you yet, part of the Tourney, I had to visit."

Daenys hums in his shoulder and Cregan moves to the crib, "I wanted to find you after the tourney but I was busy."

Before Gwayne could continue, she smiled up at him, "my favour did not help you, did it?"

He returned the same smile, "it helped me not to break every bone in my body, if it means anything. I also wished to see my family – I was yet not introduced to your children."

Her smile suddenly lights at the mention of her children. A strange feeling she had not felt before. She nods eagerly and positions Jon in her arms for Gwayne to see, "this is Jon. He is the elder of them."

Though Gwayne smiles, his fingers gently caressing the baby's head, his tone didn't shift, "a Stark name?"

Cregan bit his tongue from where he stood by the crib. Daenys nods, "well, it means the Gods have given and we thought it suits him. Besides – he is to become the Warden of the North one day and I believe the Northerns would much prefer to have a ruler with a name that fits it. I think they had enough Targaryen's already."

Her words leave an ache in Cregan's heart. She's not wrong either – there are stories and whispers among the people of the Targaryen's, of their blood magic, of their marriages, of their children being born with scales, tales; that they are creatures doomed by the Gods. He couldn't save Daenys from the fate of being lynched by his own people. But Daenys doesn't mind – her fingers curl around Gwayne's wrist and she tugs him to the crib where Cregan stands. She's proud of the children, "and this is Daella. We wanted to give her a Targaryen name. It means protector too. I thought it fit."

Daella is wide awake in the crib, kicking her tiny legs up at the sky, her fingers curled in tiny fists and in between her lips. Her eyes are wide open as she stares up at Gwayne who wears a smile. His hand reaches for the side of Daenys' head and presses a kiss on her temple, murmuring, "I'm proud of you, sweet girl."

His niece smiles, "thank you."

"There are cubs awaiting for them back home," Cregan speaks – he's proud of his wife, of his children and his direwolf then, "four of them. Mayhaps they can bond."

Gwayne hums in response, too focused on the small babe in the crib kicking her feet up. He sees glimpses of Daenys, Alicent and Helaena in her. There's a gleam in her eyes that remind him of his own mother before her passing. He turns to his niece, "I shall see you at dinner."

Her smile dropped slightly, "you are leaving already?"

Gwayne nods, arms linked on his back, "I am, yes. I leave for Oldtown in the mor. Daeron is already awaiting for me."

She tilts her head to the side and has never been so eager to speak, "how is he? Is he well?"

"Daeron?" Gwayne asks and when Daenys nods, he speaks, "he is, yes. He is coming to be a great knight. He's gentle, really. A kind boy. He says he misses you terribly."

There's a pang of heartbreak in her words, "I miss him too. Tell him to visit me in Winterfell. I could barely convince Maester Kennet to allow me to travel here, I doubt I will be allowed to go anywhere. For the sake of my health."

Gwayne nods and squeezes her hand, "I will."

"Lord Stark," he turns to her husband and nods his head in acknowledgment.

"Lord Hightower," Cregan speaks in the same tone and manner.

And then Gwayne slips out of the dimly lit chambers. Jon gently kicks his foot against his mother's arm while she watches her uncle leave. A murmur left her lips when he closed the doors, "black blood by turncloaks."

Daenys had her arm closed around Cregan's – red dress in contrast to his grey one. There was a small wolf pin attached to her chest; a reminder she escaped this cemetery she once proudly called home. Her husband pressed a gentle kiss against her temple, murmuring, "you went somewhere again."

"Apologies," she whispers back in a soft and quiet tone. Her lips twitch in a small smile when she looks at Cregan.

"No need," he smiles back at her, fingers squeezing her arm as he leads her to the table.

Daenys moves to the back of Helaena's seat where she's on her knees, showing their grandfather a bug Aegon got her as a gift. Though Otto nods along at every word she says, he's not interested in the passion his granddaughter has. Daenys' hands slide to Helaena's shoulders and she presses a kiss on the top of her head, "Robb says he brought some bugs for you from Winterfell. There are in our chambers if you wish to see them later. Or in the mor, whichever you prefer."

She knows Otto feels disgusted by the thought of a bastard boy bringing gifts to one of his own. Helaena turns her head to Daenys and offers her a rare smile, "thank you."

Her sister smiles back at her and squeezes her shoulder. As she tries to move away and to Cregan where he sits next to Jacaerys and Baela, engaged in a conversation, fingers curled around her elbows, gently pulling her away. A cup of Dornish red is placed in her hands and Aegon smiles at her, "I thought you needed it."

"I must disappoint you brother but I'm not like you," she replies and offers him the cup.

He grins, takes the cup and downs the wine before placing it on the table, "and for that I'm grateful."

"Will you go back to Winterfell?" Aemond asks, fingers wrapped around his own cup. It was his first of the evening while Aegon had far more.

"It is my home," his twin replied with a small nod, "it's appropriate to go back, no? Besides, Cregan's wolf had cubs and they must meet Daella and Jon."

Aegon scoffed and let out a chuckle, "a wolf? They are dragons, what are they in the need of a wolf?"

"There are far less dragons to claim out there, brother," Daenys replied, fingers twisting the ring, "there are more wolves to claim or to bond with."

"They do not want you back," Aemond spoke suddenly, interrupting a jest from their older brother.

She knows he means the Northerns. She's quite aware they don't like her, nor do they like any Targaryen for their long history of it. They call her a dragon whore, whispering of her dead children, of how she used blood magic to have Cregan wrapped around her finger. She nods, "I know. But I must return. For the sake of my lord husband and my children."

Daenys knows Aemond wants her by his side. He used to say he'll marry her one day – that Helaena is meant for Aegon and she was meant for him. Their mother would weep for days after their father announced the marriage between their older siblings. It's against the Faith, she'd sob, to which her husband would reply: The Dragon blood does not bend to the Faith. Because it's all that women were fit for in their eyes: a property of the men. She knows Aemond doesn't love her in that way – it might be obsession or the dreadful feeling of possession, of being able to hold her down and make her to as he says, wishes. She loves him. Maybe she's blinded by this idea she created of her twin in her head, or maybe she still sees him as the boy she'd run around the garden, who'd take the blame for her, and the boy who'd read her stories when she was sick and who took care of her cat Balerion when she couldn't.

"I will visit," Daenys reassures Aemond, her fingers wrapped around his wrist. He turns his hand slightly, holding her wrist as well. His eye casts down and observes – the golden wolf ring glistering, the old and dried blood around her nails, the destroyed skin, "soon, mayhaps. We have work to do with the Wall and all but when I feel better and the children can go on without me, I will visit."

The doors open and the guards call for Viserys. The people that are considered a family in his eyes stand to welcome the ill king. Daenys presses a quick kiss on Aemond's cheek and then on Aegon's before swiftly moving to Cregan's side. He smiles at her.

They bring Viserys to sit between his wife and his daughter. Daenys sits down in front of her – there's Cregan and the Blacks on her right, her family on her left. She can't look him in his face; there's an eye lost, skin cracked open, patched and treated. She can hear his coughs and laboured breaths. There's a dire realization she might not see him in the morning when she leaves for home.

"It is," the old king starts but doesn't finish the sentence when he coughs. His fingers grip the edge of the table, trying to stay on his feet, "it is . . . a great honour to see the family together like this again."

Daenys looks on her left at her siblings and they all wonder the same – does he even remember that his youngest son is away? Viserys continues in labour breaths, "I must admit . . . I do not have much time left with all of you. 'Tis why it's an honour to have you all gathered here, together, one last time. To see my children content."

He may mock them, his children think. Which of them is happy? Helaena is forced in a marriage, carry children for the Realm. Daenys still grieves the children she lost, the person she can't be for her living ones. Aemond grieves what he could never be, bitter about the boy that sits across from him. Aegon drowns himself in cups the moment he wakes up. Daeron is far away from his family. Rhaenyra might be happy – she's content at Dragonstone, at least. Maybe he only means Rhaenyra. Maybe he only remembers her. Or maybe he remembers his children that he lost with Aemma.

"And to see my grandchildren content," he continues and looks at those he has by Rhaenyra, "to see them to be wed in a few moons. My – Rhaenyra informed me of the happy news, of the betroths. With which I'm more than happy. The dragon blood must remain powerful."

Daenys fingers twitch and she seeks Cregan's comfort. His own fingers already reached for her hand and she slides it to his skin, holding it on her lap. Viserys pulls the mask off his face, letting it drop against the table. His youngest daughter looks away – there's only rot and filth left, "I will not live much longer. I believe we are all aware of that. Do keep peace and love between each other. We are family. Let all your pass choices fade. Shake hands and be friends. For the sake of the king, the Realm, your brother, father and grandsire. I wish to see you all content."

He stumbles back in his chair. There's dreadful silence which Viserys breaks, "now eat, enjoy."

Daenys doesn't reach for food, neither does Helaena. The eldest of the two plays with the bug, eyes focused on it as if to keep the world out. Daenys watches Cregan's fingers in her hand, thumb running circles across her skin. The sisters suddenly feel an awful feeling; House of the Dragon will break and burn.