Despite the storm that brewed between Cregan and the Sand Snakes, when he met Prince Oberyn Martell, there was no venom. They embraced as men do who know one another's worth—warriors with different blades, yet kindred all the same.

"My apologies for not finding you sooner, Oberyn," Cregan said with a half-smile.

Oberyn's dark eyes glittered with mischief. "No worries, Stark. You would not have found me regardless. I was… busy enjoying the pleasures of King's Landing."

Cregan loosed a laugh. "Of course you were."

Beside them, Tyrion Lannister dipped his head politely. "Prince Oberyn."

The Prince's gaze slid over him, the old loathing for Lannisters simmering just beneath the surface. "Tyrion Lannister," he acknowledged curtly.

Tyrion shifted, the tension pricking him like needles. Better to slip free than linger where vipers strike. "It seems you two have much to discuss. I'll leave you to it. Lord Cregan—we shall talk later. Family-in-law should get better acquainted, don't you think?"

Cregan inclined his head. "We shall, Lord Tyrion."

He remembered the whispers of Myrcella's love for her uncle—true affection, rare among Lannisters. This was no green-eyed cunning natured lion of Casterly Rock. There was humanity here.

Oberyn, however, was less indulgent. "Early for you, Lannister." His words bit, but lightly, almost for Cregan's benefit.

Tyrion only smirked before taking his leave.

A Private Room

Steel and sharp humor lingered as the two men found themselves alone at last, wine between them, truths unmasked.

Oberyn leaned back, studying the Stark across the table. "Tell me true, wolf—do you truly think it wise? Waiting for dragons to grow?"

Cregan's reply came with the certainty of a man who had measured every path. "Aye. That is best. And truth told, Oberyn, it shouldn't trouble Dorne regardless. You are the safest of us all from dragonfire."

Viper smirked. "That much is true."

Silence held for a moment before Cregan's tone sharpened. "So. How bad is it truly?"

Oberyn's teeth flashed in a wolfish grin that mirrored his companion's. "Oh, it's bad. They thought of killing you, Stark. That's how bad. My daughters are... furious."

Cregan did not flinch. "Aye. And yet you don't seem as mad as I thought you'd be."

The Dornishman poured another cup, his voice low. "Myrcella's a sweetling. Grandfather's sins should not damn the granddaughter. Besides—it was I who told you once: a political marriage is sometimes the sharpest blade. Still… I was shocked you chose a Lannister bride."

Cregan chuckled grimly. "She's Baratheon by name—a stag, not a lion. Truth be told, it shocked me as well. My brother set it in motion with the betrothal to the Crown Prince. When that broke, it was left to me, or to my sister. The North stands stronger with a princess than without."

Oberyn studied him, then nodded slowly. "I do not blame you. You did it for family. For the future."

"I just hope," Cregan said, tone heavier now, "that this union won't poison what lies between the North and Dorne."

Oberyn's smirk faded into something near solemn. "My brother Doran approves. He even supports it. But the Sand Snakes… that will be different. You'll need to face them in Dorne, sooner rather than later."

Cregan's jaw set. "I will come when the North is steadied, and matters here allow it. Till then, keep your daughters' tempers reined on my behalf. For me."

The Viper gave a slow nod, lips curling faintly. "They inherited too much of my hatred for Lannister blood. Had it been anyone else, they'd have curbed their fangs more easily. But this?" His hands spread like blades laid out on a table. "They will not make it easy for you."

Cregan's reply was calm, resolute. "That's why I will come. Some battles must be fought face to face."

The two men looked at each other across the table then. The Viper and the Wolf. Dangerous. Patient. Reluctantly, they both smiled.

---

Days have passed and Day of marriage has arrived.

The sun poured through the stained glass of the great sept in King's Landing, splashing fractured colors onto the polished stone floor. The air was thick with incense and whispered prayers, carrying a scent of myrrh and sandalwood that clung to the backs of throats and lingered long after breathed in.

Lords and ladies gathered in tightly woven rows, their finery glinting like shards of a shattered rainbow, but the weight of the day pressed heavy on all. Torch flames flickered in towering sconces, casting dancing shadows beneath the painted ceilings, a quiet warning that even beneath gilded walls, politics hummed like a serpent coiled.

The High Septon's voice rang out clear, venerable and sonorous, calling upon the Seven—the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Maiden, the Smith, the Crone, and the Stranger—to bless this union.

At the sept's great entrance, Myrcella Baratheon stood resplendent, a vision of southern grace and dignity wrapped in gold and white silks embroidered with a thousand tiny stags and crowned lions. Her hair, braided with orange blossoms, trailed long like a flame in the soft breeze that stirred the heavy tapestries. Her pale face was serene but steeled beneath soft eyes, the Princess poised between duty and desire.

Behind her, stepped Cregan Stark weathered and fierce beneath the weight of Stark gray and northern black wool, a stark contrast to the light silk of the south. His dark eyes searched the crowd briefly, finding Myrcella's before lowering as respect demanded.

His step was measured, deliberate, as he crossed the sept's aisle, and with each step the murmurs grew—North and South united under one roof, yet their worlds apart in blood and custom.

The High Septon's gaze lifted to them both, ritual weaving round their hands as they clasped, fingers shaking beneath the heavy weight of vows unwritten yet understood.

"Do you, Cregan of the House Stark," the High Septon intoned, "take Myrcella of House Baratheon, to be your lawfully wedded wife? To hold in honor, in love, and in protection?"

Cregan's voice was rough but unwavering, "I do."

"And you, Myrcella of the Baratheon, do you take Cregan of House Stark , to stand beside him in sickness and death?"

Her voice came quiet but clear, "I do."

The sept's bells tolled as vows slipped into the hallowed air, sealing a fragile alliance more political than passion—but beneath that, something fierce flickered. The wolf and the stag, northern storm and southern flame, bound in the eyes of gods and lords alike.

As the rings were exchanged—heavy iron, cold and unyielding on Cregan's calloused fingers; delicate gilded gold around Myrcella's slender hand—the crowd held their breath. The match was made, the game shifted.

Outside, the sun dipped low, casting a blood-orange glow over the city. The wedding feast awaited—tables groaning with spiced meats, sweet cakes dripping honey, flagons of Dornish red and Arbor gold flowing free.

But amid the laughter and toast, in quiet corners shadows lingered—whispers of alliances born and betrayals yet to come.

For this union was not only of two souls, but of kingdoms on the edge of war.

---

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