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Chapter Text

Chapter 1: One of her kind

Lacy
The descent was brutal.

Lacy Morin had survived atmospheric entries before—Mars, Europa, even a hellish plunge through Titan’s dense nitrogen shroud—but this was different. The readings on her cracked helmet display made no sense. The atmosphere composition was inconsistent with Earth, yet breathable. The gravitational pull was Earth-like, but something about it felt… wrong, subtly disjointed, like a flaw in an otherwise perfect simulation.

Her Ranger module hurtled through turbulent skies, the plasma trail burning across the heavens like a second sun in the twilight. Alarms screamed in her ears. Impact imminent. Brace for crash landing.

Lacy barely had time to throw herself against the straps before the world twisted into chaos.

The ship slammed through the dense canopy of towering pines, branches shattering like brittle bones against its reinforced hull. The force of impact nearly wrenched her free of her seat, and then—silence. A heartbeat later, a deafening boom split the air as the remains of the Ranger carved a fiery scar through the frozen earth of an ancient forest.

Darkness threatened to claim her, but she forced herself to remain conscious. Her fingers trembled as she disengaged the safety locks, the harness snapping open with a hiss. Smoke filled the cabin, mingling with the acrid scent of scorched metal. The emergency lights flickered, casting eerie shadows against the warped interior.

She was alive.

A distorted voice crackled in her earpiece.

“Dr. Morin, atmospheric analysis complete.”

She let out a shaky breath. PLEX.

The AI was still functional, though its voice carried an irregular stutter—a sign of internal damage.

“Oxygen levels at 21.4%. Nitrogen at 78.2%. Trace elements consistent with Earth-like atmosphere. No detectable pollutants. Temperature: 4°C. Air pressure: 98.6 kPa. Conclusion: breathable.”

Lacy coughed, shaking off the dizziness. “You're telling me I just crash-landed on Earth?”

“Negative. Magnetic field strength inconsistent with Earth’s model. Planetary rotation variance detected. Gravitational anomaly: 1.02g. Celestial alignments… do not match any known star maps.” A pause. Then, almost hesitantly, “This world should not exist.”

That sent a chill down her spine, and not from the cold.

With a grunt, she forced the hatch open, the frozen air of this impossible world rushing in. Snow flurried through the opening, carried on a biting wind. The air was crisp, untouched by industrial corruption.

She stumbled out, boots sinking into soft, undisturbed snow. Around her, the wreckage of her craft steamed in the frigid air, its once sleek body mangled beyond repair. The surrounding forest stretched endlessly, gnarled pines rising like sentinels beneath a sky of unfamiliar constellations.

Then she heard it. The distant howl of a wolf.

Not just any wolf. Something larger. Something primal.

Lacy reached for the pistol strapped to her thigh, but she knew it was little more than a last-ditch defense. She was a scientist, not a soldier. And now, she was stranded in an unknown world.

A red warning flashed on her visor as PLEX spoke again.

“Alert: multiple lifeforms approaching. Quadrupedal. Estimated mass: 80 to 120 kilograms each. Recommendation: seek shelter.”

She turned her gaze toward the north, where the rising moon illuminated the faint silhouette of a distant fortress atop a hill, its towers stretching toward the heavens like fingers grasping for salvation.

She didn’t know where she was.

But she knew she wasn’t alone.

Cregan Stark
The night had been calm, the cold northern wind whispering through the ramparts of Winterfell. Cregan Stark stood in the courtyard, speaking with his guards near the main gate, his breath visible in the frigid air. The matters of the night had been routine—security rotations, hunting reports from the wolfswood, the state of their provisions—but his mind lingered elsewhere.

His rule had only just begun, and already, the weight of responsibility sat heavily upon his shoulders. Bennard and his sons were imprisoned, the blood of the old feud still warm, and the North watched to see what kind of Warden he would become.

Then the sky split open.

A streak of fire burned across the heavens, searing through the dark like a dragon’s fury. Gasps and shouts erupted around him, men pointing to the unnatural light as it plunged downward, crashing into the wolfswood beyond the walls of Winterfell.

A thunderous impact followed. The ground shuddered. A distant glow pulsed beyond the tree line. Flames.

For the first time in a long while, Cregan felt something unexpected—unease.

No dragon had been reported in the North. No raven had warned of riders from King’s Landing or Dragonstone. Whatever had fallen from the sky was not the work of the Targaryens. It was something else.

Something unknown.

Cregan did not hesitate.

“Mount up!” he barked, his voice cutting through the night like a blade. His men moved without question, accustomed to the urgency of their young lord. “We ride for the wolfswood. Bring water, blankets—axes. If the fire spreads, we’ll need to control it before it reaches the game trails.”

The Stark men rushed to their horses, the hurried clatter of hooves echoing through the courtyard as stable hands scrambled to prepare them. Cregan swung onto the back of his stallion, a great black destrier bred for endurance and war, and gripped the reins tightly. The night air bit at his skin, but he barely noticed.

His second-in-command, Ser Jory Forrester, rode up beside him. “Lord Stark, you saw it too?”

“Aye,” Cregan said grimly. “And I mean to find out what it is before the entire wolfswood burns.”

He turned his horse toward the open gate. “Ride!”

With a thunder of hooves, the Stark riders tore into the night, racing toward the place where fire had fallen from the sky.

Lacy
Lacy’s pulse quickened as the red warning flashed again on her visor.

“Alert: multiple lifeforms approaching. Quadrupedal. Estimated mass: 80 to 120 kilograms each. Recommendation: seek shelter.”

She didn’t have time to think—she needed defenses.

“PLEX, what’s the status of the landing pod?” she asked, already moving through the wreckage.

The AI’s voice crackled in her earpiece. “Landing pod integrity: 98.6% functional. Deployment system operational.”

Relief washed over her. The pod was designed to withstand extreme conditions, acting as a temporary shelter with reinforced plating and an energy shield. It would buy her time.

“Deploy the landing pod,” she ordered, her voice firm. “Set up the shield and prepare for an encounter.”

“Acknowledged. Deploying landing pod.”

With a mechanical hiss, a circular section of the wrecked Ranger’s hull shifted, revealing the compact landing pod housed beneath. It unfurled like a flower blooming, expanding outward in precise mechanical segments. Hydraulic arms locked into place, and within seconds, the pod began to inflate, the material hardening upon contact with the air to form a protective dome.

Lacy kept her eyes on the tree line, her heart pounding as she listened to the AI’s progress reports.

“Structural integrity at 35%... 52%... 78%... 97%… Landing pod fully inflated and hardened.”

A solid thud echoed through the site as the dome sealed.

Lacy exhaled, stepping back toward the reinforced entrance. “Shield status?”

“Deflector shield activation in sixty seconds.”

The countdown had begun.

She turned, scanning the wreckage one last time. The towering pines swayed in the icy wind, their silhouettes ominous against the night sky. The howls had stopped—but that didn’t mean she was alone.

PLEX’s voice remained steady. “Thirty seconds until deflector shield activation.”

Lacy tightened her grip on her pistol. “I need you to keep tracking movement outside the perimeter. No surprises.”

“Acknowledged. Monitoring for external hostiles.”

She shifted, her boots crunching against the snow, waiting as the seconds ticked away.

“Twelve seconds remaining.”

A new sound reached her ears. Not wolves. Hoofbeats.

Lacy turned sharply, eyes widening. Shadows emerged from the trees—men on horseback, at least a dozen of them, their breath visible in the cold as they galloped toward the wreckage. Their leader, a broad-shouldered figure clad in dark furs, pulled his black stallion to a halt just beyond the pod’s perimeter.

“Five seconds,” PLEX informed her.

Cregan Stark—narrowed his eyes, his expression unreadable as he surveyed the impossible structure before him. The wreckage, the fire, the unfamiliar armor worn by the strange figure in front of him.

Then—

A deep hum filled the air.

The shield activated.

A translucent blue glow spread across the dome, flickering before solidifying into an energy barrier. A shimmering wall of light separated Lacy from the approaching riders, casting a cold, unnatural glow onto their stunned faces. The air crackled as the shield repelled the snow drifting against it.

Cregan and his men instinctively reined in their horses, the beasts shifting uneasily. This was no wildfire, no forge-born glow of steel. This was something else. Something beyond their world.

Lacy could see their confusion, their tension. She needed information as much as they did.

She exhaled sharply and tapped her wrist controls, highlighting a section of the pod. The outer plating shifted, revealing a display panel, its screen flickering in the cold air.

She stepped forward, her voice steady as she spoke for the first time to the men beyond the shield.

“What planet is this?”

Cregan
Cregan Stark stared at the glowing dome, his breath misting in the cold air. The firelight from the wreckage flickered against the strange structure, its translucent barrier humming like something alive. He had expected a fallen star, perhaps a lost dragon—not this.

His men shifted uneasily, their horses skittish in the presence of the unnatural light. The shield cast an eerie glow on their faces, illuminating their wariness, their confusion.

Then the figure stepped forward.

The stranger.

She was clad in armor unlike any they had seen before—sleek, form-fitting, made of metal and materials that did not gleam like steel nor dull like boiled leather. A helmet covered most of her face, its visor glinting with an odd reflection, yet her voice carried clear through the still air.

"What planet is this?"

The question struck him like a blow.

Cregan stiffened, his grip tightening on the reins. His men exchanged glances, murmurs spreading among them. The words had been spoken in the Common Tongue, yet they were strange—the cadence slightly off, the pronunciation just shy of natural.

She spoke their language, yet she did not know what lands she stood upon.

He stared at her, eyes narrowing. “What madness is this?” he muttered under his breath before raising his voice.

“This is the North,” he said, his tone measured but firm. “You stand in the Wolfswood, near Winterfell. In the realm of Westeros.”

Silence followed.

Cregan watched her carefully. Would she feign ignorance? Would she lie? Or was she truly as lost as she seemed?

Then, to his surprise, she did not react as a deceiver would.

She didn’t scoff. She didn’t argue.

She stilled.

Her posture, once alert and defensive, became rigid in a way that spoke not of defiance, but of something else—shock.

Lacy blinked behind her visor. Westeros? The North? Winterfell?

The names meant nothing to her.

She had studied countless star charts, read about thousands of exoplanets, their compositions, atmospheres, and potential habitability. But this name—this world—did not exist.

It wasn’t a forgotten colony. It wasn’t a remote outpost.

It was nowhere.

Her breathing quickened, condensation fogging against the inside of her helmet. Then where the hell was she?

“PLEX,” she said aloud, keeping her voice steady, “do you have any record of a planet called Westeros?”

Cregan and his men stilled as a new sound pierced the night—a cold, mechanical voice, disembodied and unnatural.

"Negative," the voice replied, smooth and flat. "No records exist of any planetary body by that designation in any known star charts or historical data banks."

The effect on the men was instant.

A few gasped, one even swore under his breath. A soldier’s horse reared slightly, nearly throwing its rider. Others reached for their weapons but hesitated, uncertain if steel could even fight something like this.

Cregan’s gaze snapped to the source—the metal crate beside the strange woman, pulsing with faint blue light.

It had spoken.

The thing had spoken.

One of his men muttered, “Gods preserve us…”

Lacy immediately noted the shift in their stances. Fear. Unease.

She needed to control the situation before it spiraled.

She exhaled slowly, stepping closer to the shield. The blue glow cast light over the frost-laced ground as she tilted her helmet up slightly, just enough for them to see a glimpse of her human face beneath it.

“My name is Dr. Lacy Morin,” she said carefully. “And I am not from this world.”

-

Cregan Stark sat atop his stallion, studying the strange woman beyond the glowing dome. The light pulsed faintly, forming an invisible barrier between them, though he did not know what it was—only that it stood between her and his men.

The wreckage burned in smoldering patches, and his men worked quickly, stamping out the remaining flames, but their focus never left the unnatural structure.

The woman had not moved since she asked her strange question—What planet is this?

Her armor was like nothing he had seen before, her visor smooth and black, concealing her features save for when she had tilted it slightly to speak. Her words were clear, yet her tone carried an odd inflection, something just slightly off.

Cregan had known liars before. This was not one.

She was genuinely confused.

That unsettled him more than anything.

“You claim no knowledge of Westeros,” he said finally, his voice measured, “yet you fall from the sky in a burning star.” He held her gaze. “Do your kind make a habit of such things?”

Lacy exhaled slowly. “I didn’t come here on purpose,” she admitted. “I was on a mission—a scientific expedition. Something went wrong, and I… ended up here.”

Cregan watched her carefully. The words meant little to him, but her tone—the way she seemed to be working through the explanation herself—suggested she spoke the truth.

Still, she remained behind that unnatural light, separated from them.

“If you mean no harm,” he said, “step forward. Show yourself.”

Lacy’s grip on her pistol tightened slightly. Show yourself.

He didn’t know what the barrier was, didn’t understand that it could protect her. He only saw that she was hiding behind something—and if she wanted these men to trust her, she couldn’t stay in the dark.

She hesitated only a moment before speaking. “PLEX,” she murmured. “Lower the barrier, slowly.”

“Acknowledged.”

The soft hum of energy faded, the glow flickering out like a dying ember.

The men tensed, hands inching toward weapons, but Cregan raised a hand—a silent command to hold.

Lacy stepped forward.

Then, slowly, she reached up and unlatched her helmet.

With a faint hiss, she lifted it from her head, revealing her face for the first time.

Fair skin, paler in the cold air, caught the flickering light of the fire. Striking eyes—one pale blue, the other pale gray—studied the men before her with keen intelligence. Long chestnut hair tumbled free from the confines of the helmet, strands catching the wind as she stood exposed beneath the open sky.

A hush fell over the Northmen.

This was no warrior in steel. No rider of dragons. No mage of distant lands.

She was something else entirely.

Cregan regarded her carefully. She was smaller than he had expected, standing no taller than some of his sworn swords, yet there was no fear in her stance.

“You asked me what land you stand upon,” he said. “Now you have your answer.” He gestured toward himself. “I am Cregan Stark, Warden of the North.”

Lacy straightened slightly. “What’s a Warden of the North?”

A flicker of something passed across Cregan’s face—curiosity.

She truly did not know.

“The Warden of the North rules these lands,” he said, his voice steady. “I am Lord of Winterfell, sworn to keep the North strong against its enemies, to command its armies, and to uphold my family’s duty.” His gaze sharpened slightly. “And to protect my people from any threat.”

The weight behind those words was not lost on Lacy.

She was standing in his domain.

And right now, she was the greatest unknown he had ever encountered.

Chapter Text

The moment Lacy removed her helmet, the atmosphere between them shifted—but the wariness in the Northmen’s eyes did not fade. If anything, it deepened. Exposing her face had stripped away some of the mystery, revealing her as just another human, yet it had not erased their fear.

She could see it in the way their hands hovered near their weapons, in the way their horses stamped nervously at the unfamiliar hum of her ship’s systems. They did not understand what she was, only that she was not like them.

Cregan Stark remained still atop his great black stallion, his sharp eyes fixed on her, studying every breath, every movement. He was weighing her, measuring something in his mind. The silence stretched between them, thick with the kind of tension that came before a battle.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“The weapon at your side,” he said, his voice level, but firm. “Surrender it.”

Lacy’s fingers instinctively tensed at her thigh. The pistol was one of the few things she had left—her only real defense. Without it, she was truly at their mercy.

“I’d rather not,” she said evenly.

A few of the men bristled at her defiance. The nearest soldier, a hard-faced man with a wolf’s head sigil stitched onto his cloak, scoffed. “You’re in no place to refuse, woman.”

Cregan did not react to the outburst, his gaze still locked on hers. “You stand alone among armed men. That weapon makes you dangerous, whether you mean to be or not.” His voice was steady, reasonable, but edged with the kind of authority that did not invite argument. “Hand it over, or my men will take it from you.”

Lacy exhaled slowly, considering her options. The odds were against her, and a standoff would only end badly. She needed to keep them from seeing her as a threat.

With deliberate movements, she unholstered the pistol, holding it by the barrel to show she meant no harm. The soldiers stiffened at the unfamiliar design—sleek, black metal, with no visible blade or bowstring.

“Careful,” she warned as she extended it toward Cregan. “It’s not a dagger.”

Cregan took the weapon from her hand with practiced ease, but his expression barely changed as he turned it over in his grip, examining it. He ran his thumb over the smooth surface, frowning slightly as he found no weighty steel or edge to its design. It was unlike any weapon he had ever seen.

“How does it work?” he asked.

Lacy hesitated. Giving them information about her technology was dangerous, but lying outright would only make her less trustworthy.

“It’s… a ranged weapon,” she admitted. “It fires projectiles at high speed. A tool for defense.”

Cregan’s frown deepened, but he gave a single nod and handed the pistol to one of his men. “See that it is kept safe.” Then his eyes returned to Lacy. “And the rest of your… wreckage. What is inside?”

Her shoulders stiffened.

“Supplies,” she said carefully. “Shelter, tools—things I need to survive.”

Cregan studied her again, his silence unnerving. Then, after a moment, he dismounted his horse. The action alone made his men shift slightly, glancing between their lord and the strange woman before them.

He stepped closer, stopping just outside of arm’s reach. “Then we’ll see it for ourselves.”

Lacy squared her shoulders. “You think I’m hiding something?”

“I think you fell from the sky in a burning star, clad in armor no smith has ever forged,” Cregan said, his tone even. “I would be a fool to take you at your word alone.”

A test, then. She could resist, could refuse—but it would only make things worse. She had to show them she wasn’t a threat.

Slowly, she turned toward the wreckage of her ship. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll show you.”

But as she took her first step, PLEX’s voice crackled in her earpiece, a quiet warning only she could hear.

“Caution: Multiple hostiles remain in close proximity. Probability of conflict remains high.”

Lacy exhaled, her breath visible in the frozen air.

She knew that already.

And now, she had to convince them that letting her live was worth more than killing her.

Lacy stepped toward the entrance of the landing pod, the reinforced material gleaming faintly under the flickering light of the wreckage. As the seal slid open with a soft hiss, she turned back to face Cregan and his men.

“You can come inside,” she said, her voice measured, “but only you.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed slightly. “And why is that?”

Lacy gestured toward the soldiers, who still hovered tensely, their hands never straying far from their weapons. “You already took my pistol,” she pointed out. “I have no weapons. But I will not be surrounded in my own shelter.”

Some of the men bristled at her defiance, shifting in their saddles. The hard-faced soldier from earlier scoffed. “Our lord doesn’t—”

Cregan silenced him with a glance.

For a long moment, he simply studied Lacy, his expression unreadable. Then, after a brief consideration, he gave a single nod.

“Very well,” he said. He turned to his men. “Wait here.”

His second-in-command, Ser Jory Forrester, frowned. “My lord, is that wise?”

Cregan shot him a look. “Do you think I cannot handle one woman, unarmed and alone?”

Jory hesitated before nodding. “Aye, my lord.”

Satisfied, Cregan stepped forward. The men remained behind, their unease evident in the way they watched the glowing doorway as though it might consume their lord the moment he entered.

Lacy gave him a slight nod, then turned and stepped inside. He followed, his boots crossing the threshold with slow, deliberate steps.

The moment he entered, Cregan’s eyes swept the interior of the space.

It was unlike any structure he had ever known. The walls were smooth, neither stone nor wood nor steel, but something else entirely—something foreign. They curved seamlessly, without seams or mortar, the color an odd shade between metal and polished bone. The air inside felt different too—warmer than the biting cold outside, but not from a hearth or brazier. There was no smoke, no flickering candlelight, only the soft glow of strange panels embedded in the walls, pulsing faintly like the veins of some slumbering beast.

A single seat, bolted to the center, was surrounded by mechanisms and devices whose purposes he could only guess. Strange symbols flickered on a glass-like panel, shifting and changing in response to something unseen.

This is not of these lands.

Cregan felt the weight of that truth settle in his chest.

Then, before he could ask a question, a smooth, disembodied voice echoed through the chamber.

“Should I scan the new occupant and the surrounding area?”

Cregan tensed immediately, one hand instinctively drifting toward the hilt of his sword. The voice—it was neither male nor female, neither ghost nor god, but something entirely different. A cold, calculating thing that spoke without flesh.

“What sorcery is this?” he muttered.

“Yes,” Lacy answered before he could protest.

At once, a faint hum filled the pod. A pale blue light pulsed from the ceiling, sweeping over him in slow, deliberate waves. It passed through his furs, his armor, his very skin, yet he felt no heat, no sting.

Only the faintest tingle, like the air before a storm.

Cregan forced himself to remain still, resisting the primal urge to strike at the invisible force. His instincts screamed that this was unnatural, but if the woman trusted it, he would not reveal hesitation.

Still, his hand remained close to his sword as he asked, “What is this creature doing?”

Lacy glanced at him, her expression calm despite the hum surrounding them. “Scanning,” she said simply. “It’s analyzing you—your body, your health, your species. And it’s mapping the area around us.”

Cregan narrowed his eyes. “Scanning?”

Before he could demand further explanation, the hum ceased, and the disembodied voice returned.

“Scan complete. Subject: Homo sapien. No illness detected. Nutrient and hydration levels below optimal range.”

Cregan frowned at the words. “What does that mean?”

Before Lacy could answer, the voice continued.

“Environmental scan of fifty-mile radius complete. Population density is significantly low relative to land mass. No advanced technological structures detected.”

Cregan turned sharply to Lacy.

His first question had been about himself. This one was about his lands.

“What does that mean?” he demanded.

But for the first time since they met, she didn’t answer right away.

Because she was wondering the same thing.

Before Lacy could respond, PLEX’s voice echoed through the pod once more.

“Anomaly detected within primary subject.”

Lacy froze.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she turned toward the console, eyes wide with alarm. “What anomaly?” she demanded.

There was a pause, then PLEX responded, its voice as cold and clinical as ever.

“Analysis of biological signature indicates temporal instability. Subject has undergone a deviation in expected age progression.”

Lacy’s breath caught. “Explain.”

“Exposure to the wormhole’s gravitational dilation has resulted in an unforeseen effect on your biological structure. Standard calculations indicate temporal jumps of this nature should have added approximately seven years to your lifespan.”

She swallowed hard. “And?”

Another pause. Then—

“Instead, you have lost fourteen years of biological growth.”

Lacy felt the blood drain from her face.

She spun toward the nearest console, fingers shaking as she activated the reflection display. The screen flickered, then cast her image back at her.

She staggered backward, a sharp breath catching in her throat.

The face staring back at her was not her own.

Not the one she remembered. Not the one she should have.

Her features were softer, rounder—her skin unlined, untouched by the years of experience and hardship she had endured. Her hair, once streaked with faint silver from the stress of deep-space missions, was now untouched, a uniform chestnut hue. But what shook her most was her eyes.

They were the same, yet different—too wide, too bright.

She looked younger. Much younger.

She forced herself to breathe, to steady her hands as she turned back to the AI. “PLEX,” she said, her voice tight, “run an age analysis.”

A brief hum filled the air as the system processed her request.

“Analysis complete. Skeletal density, cartilage composition, and cellular degeneration match that of subject’s biological structure at seventeen years of age.”

Lacy’s mind reeled.

Seventeen.

That was impossible. The wormhole should have aged her, not regressed her. This wasn’t how relativity worked. This wasn’t how time worked.

She bolted toward the lab table, barely aware of Cregan still watching her as she activated the medical scanner.

“Full body scan,” she ordered. “Now.”

PLEX obeyed. A soft blue light passed over her body, running from head to toe, methodically analyzing every cell, every organ, every anomaly within her.

The process took exactly sixty seconds, but to Lacy, it stretched into eternity.

Finally, the hum ceased, and the AI spoke again.

“Full body scan complete. No abnormalities detected aside from confirmed time regression. No organ failure. No cellular instability. No genetic mutations. Biological structure stable.”

Lacy sat up slowly, her fingers curling against the edge of the table. Her chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, her pulse hammering in her ears.

None of this should be possible.

She wasn’t supposed to be younger. She wasn’t supposed to have lost years of her life. Time travel—even accidental, gravitational-based regression—shouldn’t have worked like this.

Her mind spun with calculations, theories, impossible possibilities.

Then a voice cut through her thoughts.

“What,” Cregan asked, his deep voice calm yet firm, “are you doing?”

Lacy turned her head sharply.

Cregan stood there, still as a shadow, his dark eyes locked onto her. He had not moved, had not interrupted, had not so much as drawn his weapon while she rushed around her strange metal chamber. But now, he spoke, his gaze unreadable as he studied her.

“What do these things you speak of mean?” he asked.

She stared at him.

For the first time since the crash, she truly looked at the man standing before her—not just as a medieval warlord, not just as an outsider—but as a human being, trying to make sense of something that defied his entire world.

How the hell was she supposed to explain any of this?

Lacy exhaled slowly, running a hand through her now-younger hair before forcing herself to focus. Cregan was still waiting for an answer, his expression unreadable but his gaze sharp with expectation.

She took a breath. “What I was doing,” she began carefully, “was running a medical analysis on myself. The technology in this pod allows me to—"

“What is technology?” Cregan interrupted.

Lacy blinked. “What?”

“The word you just used. Tek-noh-loh-gee. What is it?”

She opened her mouth, then hesitated. How the hell was she supposed to explain technology to someone who had never even seen a basic machine?

“It’s… tools,” she said finally, searching for something he might understand. “Things that help people do tasks more efficiently.”

Cregan raised an eyebrow. “Like a smith’s hammer?”

Lacy hesitated. That was... not wrong.

“Well—yes, but no. More advanced than that.”

Cregan didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t interrupt her again, so she continued.

“I come from a world where people build machines to help them. Machines to travel, to communicate over long distances, to study the stars and—"

“You traveled from the stars?” he interrupted again, this time with a slight furrow of his brow. “Like a dragonrider?”

Lacy inhaled sharply, forcing herself to remain patient. “No. Not like a dragonrider.” She hesitated, searching for a frame of reference. “I don’t know what that is.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed deeper, as though she were the one speaking nonsense. “You claim to have come from beyond this world, yet you do not know of dragons?”

Lacy nearly responded, but then she truly looked at him.

The heavy furs draped over his broad shoulders, the thick leather armor strapped to his torso. The greatsword strapped across his back, as long as her arm. The steel buckles, the roughly hewn stitching in his tunic, the way his boots were worn from years of riding.

And then, beyond him—the men waiting outside, cloaked against the cold, their weapons made of raw iron and simple steel.

This wasn’t just a different world. This was a different time.

Her heart began to pound.

“What year is it?” she asked suddenly, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

Cregan tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharpening. “The year is 126 AC.”

Lacy’s breath hitched.

AC? That wasn’t a measurement she recognized.

She turned quickly toward the nearest console. “PLEX, scan the nearest major structure and analyze its construction era.”

The AI processed for a few seconds before answering.

“The nearest major structure is a castle, composed primarily of quarried stone, reinforced with natural rock formations. The architectural design suggests generational expansion over time.”

Lacy clenched her fists. “How old?”

Another pause.

“Structural elements suggest an estimated age exceeding ten thousand years.”

Lacy felt the blood drain from her face.

She had thought—hoped—that maybe she had landed on an unknown exoplanet, or a lost human colony, something that could be explained.

But a civilization over ten thousand years old? No colony could be that ancient.

Cregan was watching her closely now.

“What is it?” he asked.

Lacy hesitated before saying, “I need you to answer some questions.”

Cregan crossed his arms, skeptical. “For what purpose?”

“My AI—my machine—it can analyze information and determine a better estimate of where—or when—I am.”

Cregan gave her a long, unreadable look, then exhaled through his nose. “Very well. Ask.”

Lacy turned to PLEX.

“PLEX, begin temporal analysis using regional historical markers.”

“Acknowledged. Beginning data correlation. Awaiting input from local source.”

Lacy met Cregan’s gaze.

“Answer PLEX’s questions,” she said, “and maybe we’ll both get some answers.”

Chapter Text

Cregan Stark finished speaking, his deep voice steady as he summarized the North and its long, bloody history—its kings and wars, its alliances and betrayals, the unyielding strength of Winterfell and the duty that bound House Stark to these lands. He had spoken of the Wall, of the Night’s Watch, of the ancient kingdom that predated the Targaryens by thousands of years.

PLEX had processed it all, compiling data with an efficiency that made even Cregan hesitate. He wasn’t a man easily impressed, but he found himself eyeing the strange glowing machine with a trace of respect. It had absorbed his words, sorted them, and produced something cohesive in moments—a feat no maester, no scholar in the Citadel, could ever accomplish.

He turned back to the woman who commanded the creature.

Lacy sat still, staring at the console with an expression he couldn’t quite place. Then, without warning, she exhaled sharply and let her head drop onto the surface of the desk with a dull thud.

Cregan blinked.

His first instinct was suspicion. Was this some strange ritual? Some silent way to commune with her glowing beast? But then he noticed the subtle tension in her shoulders, the slow rise and fall of her breath—not of injury, but of frustration.

Still, the sight unsettled him. He was no healer, but—

“Are you ill?” he asked, his voice edged with concern.

From where her forehead pressed against the desk, Lacy let out a muffled, tired sigh. “No.”

Cregan studied her, skeptical. “You look unwell.”

She lifted her head slowly, rubbing her temples before composing herself. “I’m not sick,” she assured him, though her voice carried the weight of exhaustion. “Just… trying to make sense of all this.”

Cregan frowned slightly but said nothing. He had seen battle-worn men—soldiers who had fought for days without rest, men who carried the weight of grief and duty until it crushed them. She looked different, but the weariness in her expression was the same.

She was lost.

Not just in his lands, not just among his people—but lost in a way he could not fully understand.

For the first time, he wondered if she truly had no way home.

He crossed his arms, watching as she took a steadying breath and straightened. “Then,” he said, “tell me what sense you have made.”

Lacy hesitated, glancing toward PLEX’s display. The screen was still active, glowing softly with compiled data—her AI’s best attempt at making order from the chaos.

She didn’t answer right away.

Because the truth was, she still didn’t know.

Lacy exhaled slowly, her fingers tapping absently against the edge of the desk as she stared at the data scrolling across PLEX’s screen. The words were there—the compiled history, the structure of this land, the kingdoms, the rulers—but none of it made sense in the context of her own world.

Finally, she spoke.

“I think I’m in a feudal world,” she said.

Cregan narrowed his eyes. “Feudal?”

Lacy sat up a little straighter, her scientist’s mind falling into familiar patterns—categorizing, explaining, dissecting the problem at hand. “It’s a system of government,” she explained. “A way society is structured. Lords and vassals, knights and peasants—rulers who control land, and the people who serve under them in exchange for protection.”

Cregan’s expression remained unreadable. “And this is strange to you?”

Lacy let out a short, humorless laugh. “It’s nothing like the world I come from.”

Cregan tilted his head slightly, watching her closely. “Then tell me,” he said. “What is your world like?”

She hesitated. How could she explain an entire civilization, thousands of years of progress, in a way he could grasp?

She thought for a moment, then decided to start with the simplest truth.

“We don’t have kings or lords,” she said. “Not in the way you do. My world is built on something else—governments chosen by the people, leaders elected, not born into power. Land isn’t something ruled by noble houses; it belongs to nations, to entire groups of people who govern themselves through laws and policies.”

Cregan’s frown deepened. “No kings?”

Lacy shook her head. “No kings, no lords, no noble bloodlines ruling over generations. Power isn’t passed from father to son. It’s given—or taken—by the people.”

He studied her carefully, his mind clearly turning over the implications of such a world. “Then who commands your armies? Who defends your lands?”

Lacy exhaled, knowing this would be the hardest part for him to grasp. “We don’t have armies that belong to individual rulers,” she said. “Our militaries serve the nation itself, not a single king or family. Soldiers train under organized institutions, and wars are fought not for a ruler’s claim, but for the interests of an entire country.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened. “Wars are never fought for the people,” he said. “They are fought for power.”

Lacy looked at him for a long moment, then admitted, “Sometimes, yes. But not always. Our wars are different—fought with weapons you couldn’t imagine, spanning entire continents, even reaching beyond our world.”

His brow furrowed, but he did not interrupt.

Lacy pressed on, feeling the weight of her own words. “The biggest difference isn’t just who rules,” she said. “It’s how we live. Our people aren’t bound to the land. We don’t farm for survival or serve lords for protection. We have machines that do much of the work, cities that stretch high into the sky, ships that cross oceans in hours, and…” She hesitated, then finally said it. “And we travel among the stars.”

Cregan’s expression remained unreadable, but his silence was heavy.

Lacy swallowed, feeling the sheer enormity of what she was saying.

“I come from a world where people don’t live under the shadow of castles,” she said. “We don’t fear winter taking our harvests or depend on knights to keep us safe. We’ve built machines that make life easier. We have medicine that can heal wounds that would be fatal here. We have libraries that hold more knowledge than every maester in your world combined.”

She paused, letting the weight of it settle between them.

Finally, Cregan spoke.

“This world you speak of,” he said slowly. “It sounds like a world of gods.”

Lacy blinked, caught off guard by the comparison. “No,” she said quickly. “Not gods. Just people—people who built their own future, step by step, year by year.”

Cregan studied her, his gaze sharp as a wolf’s. “And yet, you are here.”

The words were simple, but they cut deep.

Lacy had no response.

Because he was right.

She had come from a world of technology, of progress, of logic and reason. And now she was trapped in a world ruled by swords and kings, by wars fought for land and honor.

A feudal world.

A world that should not have been hers.

And yet—here she was.

Lacy ran a hand through her hair, exhaling slowly. The conversation had taken a weighty turn, the vast gulf between their worlds laid bare between them. Cregan had listened without interruption, absorbing everything she said with the quiet intensity of a man who did not take new knowledge lightly.

But now, he wanted more.

He wanted to know why she had left a world so different from his own.

Lacy hesitated.

Not because she didn’t want to answer—but because she wasn’t sure how.

She looked down at the console, where PLEX’s data shimmered faintly across the screen, waiting for her next command. But no machine could explain this. No cold calculation could reduce her choices into a simple equation.

“I left because I had to,” she finally said.

Cregan didn’t react, waiting for her to continue.

She swallowed. “My world is built on knowledge, on discovery. We don’t just live on one planet—we explore beyond it. We study the universe itself, trying to understand it, to map it, to survive it.” She let out a short, bitter laugh. “And that’s what I was meant to do.”

She shifted slightly, glancing at the wreckage of her ship through the still-open doorway. Smoke still curled from the torn metal, the last remnants of its burning descent fading into the frozen air.

“I was part of something called the Lazarus Mission,” she said, her voice quieter now. “A deep-space expedition designed to find new worlds. Our own was… dying.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed, but he did not speak.

Lacy continued, “It wasn’t sudden. It happened over generations. Our air became harder to breathe, our crops failed more and more each year. Dust storms consumed entire cities. We pushed our planet too far, took too much without giving back. And by the time we tried to fix it, it was already too late.”

She exhaled, the memory heavy in her chest. “So we did what humans always do. We looked for a way to survive.”

Cregan’s expression was unreadable, but she could see the way his fingers curled slightly at his sides, the way his stance shifted—not in anger, but in contemplation.

“We sent explorers through the stars,” Lacy went on. “I was one of them. Twelve of us were sent out—one astronaut per ship, each tasked with finding a habitable world. Each tasked with securing humanity’s future.”

She let out a slow, bitter breath. “I was supposed to find a new home for my people. Instead, I ended up here.”

Silence stretched between them.

Cregan’s gaze didn’t waver. He was weighing her words, testing them the way a blacksmith might test steel—searching for cracks, for weakness, for proof that she was speaking the truth.

Finally, he spoke.

“You left your world to save your people,” he said slowly. “And now you are stranded in mine.”

Lacy pressed her lips together. “Yes.”

Another pause. Then—

“What would you have done, if you had found another world?”

She blinked, caught off guard by the question.

“I—” She hesitated, gathering her thoughts. “If I had found a habitable planet, I would have sent a signal back. My ship had a beacon—a way to communicate across the vast distance of space.” She gestured toward the wreckage outside. “But that’s gone now. I have no way to reach them.”

Cregan studied her, something thoughtful passing behind his dark eyes. “You would have left,” he said. “If your ship had not failed.”

Lacy hesitated. “Yes.”

He nodded once, as if confirming something to himself.

“Then you are truly lost,” he said.

Lacy felt the words settle deep in her chest.

Yes.

She was lost.

Not just in distance. Not just in time.

She had spent years training, preparing for the mission of a lifetime. She had crossed the void between stars, traveled beyond the reach of her own people, ventured into the unknown with the knowledge that she might never return.

And yet, despite all of that, she had never imagined this.

A world that shouldn’t exist. A history that had no place in her understanding of the universe. A feudal kingdom ruled by swords and blood, where dragons were spoken of as real creatures and castles stood against the test of centuries.

“I don’t belong here,” she murmured, half to herself.

Cregan’s gaze remained steady. “No,” he agreed. “You do not.”

Lacy swallowed hard. She had known that. But hearing it spoken aloud made it feel… final.

She looked away, inhaling sharply as she tried to ground herself. She had survived impossible things before. She had made it through atmospheric entries that should have torn her apart, navigated frozen wastelands on Europa, repaired life-support systems with nothing but sheer determination and instinct.

This was no different.

She would survive this, too.

She had to.

Lacy turned back to Cregan, squaring her shoulders. “It doesn’t matter if I don’t belong,” she said, her voice steady. “I’m here. And I need to figure out what that means.”

Cregan studied her for a long moment, then gave a slow, measured nod.

“Then we will see what the gods have planned for you,” he said.

His words sent a chill down her spine—not from fear, but from the quiet certainty in his tone.

Because if she had learned one thing in her short time in this world, it was this:

The North did not suffer weakness.

And neither did its Warden.

Cregan stood in silence for a long moment, his gaze unreadable as he studied her. The weight of their conversation hung between them, the sheer impossibility of her existence in this world still pressing against the edges of his mind.

He had learned many things tonight. He had learned that this woman was not of his world. That she came from a place beyond even the maesters' wildest dreams. That she had not been sent by any king, nor by any known force of gods or men.

But one thing remained clear.

She was alone. And she was vulnerable.

His instincts warred against each other. She was a mystery—a potential threat, an unknown force that could bring chaos to his lands. But she was also something else. Something that intrigued him.

And he could not leave her here.

He stepped closer, the firelight from the wreckage casting sharp shadows across his face. His voice, when he spoke, was calm, measured—but edged with finality.

“You have a choice, Dr. Morin.”

Lacy tensed slightly at the formal weight of her name.

Cregan continued. “You can stay here. Alone. Among the ruins of the thing that brought you to this world.” His gaze flicked toward the wreckage outside. “You can remain in the woods, fending for yourself, hoping that the cold or the beasts of the wild do not claim you before you find another way to survive.”

His tone hardened slightly. “Or you come to Winterfell.”

Lacy met his gaze.

Cregan folded his arms across his chest. “Under my protection. Under my watch.” A pause. “Under my command.”

Lacy inhaled slowly.

She had known, from the moment these men had found her, that she wouldn’t be left to her own devices forever. That sooner or later, she would have to integrate—or risk being seen as an enemy.

But surrendering herself to Winterfell meant giving up control. It meant placing herself at the mercy of a world that did not understand her.

Still, the reality of the situation was clear.

She had no food beyond what remained in the pod’s storage. No way to hunt effectively. No guarantee that the technology she relied on would last forever.

Cregan tilted his head slightly, watching her carefully. “Decide now,” he said. “My men will not wait all night.”

Lacy swallowed.

Her mind raced with possibilities, calculations, risks and rewards.

And then—she made her choice.

Lacy didn’t rush her decision. She met Cregan’s gaze steadily, weighing her options. The choice had already been made—she would go with him. But not as a prisoner.

“If I come with you,” she said, her voice firm, “it will be on my terms.”

Cregan’s expression didn’t shift, but she caught the slight tilt of his head, the way his arms tensed slightly at the suggestion. He had expected her to comply, not negotiate.

“I will be treated as a guest,” she continued, “not a captive. I will keep all my belongings, and I will be allowed to ask you whatever I need to figure out how to survive in this world.” She paused. “I will follow your rules, as long as they do not harm me.”

A beat of silence stretched between them. The flames from the wreckage crackled in the cold air, casting flickering shadows across the snow.

Cregan considered her words carefully. He was a man used to giving orders, not being questioned. And yet… he had never known anyone like her.

Finally, he gave a short nod. “Agreed.”

Lacy exhaled, tension she hadn’t realized she was holding finally releasing from her shoulders. She tapped a few commands into her wrist display.

“PLEX,” she called out, “initiate breakdown of the landing pod. Prepare it for redeployment at a secondary location.”

“Acknowledged,” the AI responded.

The air hummed with mechanical life. The landing pod, once a hardened structure, began to shift. Plates folded inward, reinforced panels retracting into themselves as the entire shelter compacted into a transportable form. Cregan’s men murmured in astonishment, some gripping their weapons instinctively.

Cregan himself watched with quiet intensity, his expression unreadable as the pod shrank down into a reinforced container no larger than a storage chest.

“Where will you put it?” he asked.

“Somewhere safer,” Lacy said vaguely, locking the container in place. She straightened, dusting her gloves off before turning to him. “Alright. I’m ready.”

Cregan gave a curt nod and turned toward his men. “Bring her a horse.”

Lacy blinked, then let out a short laugh. “Oh, no. I’m not riding a horse.”

Cregan frowned slightly. “Then how—”

She smirked and turned toward the wreckage. With a few more taps on her wrist display, a low mechanical whir filled the air.

From the ruins of her ship, a sleek, four-wheeled machine rolled forward. Its surface was smooth and matte black, its reinforced tires designed for uneven terrain. The vehicle came to a stop beside her, lights flickering to life along its dashboard.

Cregan stared. “What… is that?”

“My rover,” Lacy said simply, patting its side. “It’s faster than a horse.”

Cregan shot her a skeptical look. “No beast is faster than a good stallion.”

Lacy grinned. “Want to see for yourself?”

Cregan hesitated. He wasn’t a man who took foolish risks, and stepping inside a moving metal creature seemed like a very foolish risk.

Before he could answer, Jory rode up, his expression tight with unease. “My lord, this is unwise.”

Lacy leaned against the rover. “There’s room for one more if you want to ride along,” she offered.

Jory stiffened, throwing a glare between her and the creature. “Absolutely not.”

Cregan ignored him and took a slow step forward. He ran a hand along the rover’s surface, noting the strange, cold smoothness of it. It was nothing like the wooden carts or iron wagons of his world.

Lacy opened the side panel and gestured to the seat. “Get in.”

Cregan studied her for a moment before exhaling sharply. Without another word, he climbed inside, adjusting his broad frame into the seat with a cautious glance around the interior.

Jory cursed under his breath.

“Last chance,” Lacy said, looking at him.

Jory looked from his lord to the creature. Finally, with a long-suffering sigh, he dismounted his horse. “Damn the gods,” he muttered before climbing into the back.

Lacy grinned and powered up the rover. The dashboard came to life, buttons and readouts glowing softly in the dim light.

Cregan shifted slightly. “And what of the metal beast?”

Lacy glanced at PLEX and smirked. “He’ll walk.”

As if on cue, the AI’s transport unit unfolded itself into a humanoid shape. PLEX’s bipedal frame stood tall, its mechanical limbs adjusting smoothly as it took its first step.

The Northmen gasped. A few even drew their weapons.

“Remain calm,” PLEX’s voice said, completely unbothered. “I am merely mobilizing.”

Cregan stared at the moving metal creature, his fingers twitching toward his sword. Lacy just rolled her eyes and pressed the accelerator.

The rover lurched forward.

Cregan’s hands instantly braced against the sides as the vehicle shot ahead, moving over the uneven terrain with smooth efficiency.

Jory, however, did not handle it as well.

The moment the rover surged forward, his eyes went wide, and he let out a strangled yell.

“GODS PRESERVE US!”

Lacy smirked, glancing at Cregan. He wasn’t screaming, but his jaw was clenched, his eyes fixed firmly ahead as if expecting the thing to throw him at any moment.

She pressed the accelerator a little harder. The rover picked up speed.

Jory’s scream only got louder.

Cregan’s grip tightened.

Lacy just laughed.

They were on their way to Winterfell.

And this was going to be fun.

Chapter Text

The journey to Winterfell took seven minutes.

Cregan Stark had expected a swift ride back, but not like this. Not in a metal beast that moved faster than any horse, smoother than any cart, untouched by the uneven ground of the North. Even now, as the machine came to a gentle stop in the courtyard, his body still braced for movement, for the expected jolt of a hard stop that never came.

Beside him, Ser Jory Forrester was far less composed. The moment the machine stopped, he threw open the door, staggered out onto the frost-covered ground, and collapsed to his knees before promptly vomiting into the snow.

The men gathered at the gate turned in surprise at the sound. Stark soldiers, stable hands, bannermen—they had all seen their lord ride out into the Wolfswood to investigate the fallen star. They had expected him to return with answers, maybe a dead beast, maybe even a Targaryen scout.

They had not expected this.

Cregan exhaled sharply, inhaling the familiar cold air of Winterfell, grounding himself as his heart gradually slowed. He had ridden fast before, raced across frozen rivers, through dense forests, across battlefields on a warhorse bred for endurance.

But never this fast.

His jaw tightened as he glanced to his right, where Lacy Morin sat with a relaxed ease, stretching her arms as if the entire trip had been nothing unusual. Then his gaze shifted toward the metal creature standing beside the machine.

PLEX had kept up. The entire way.

The thing had ran, never once lagging behind, never once showing strain. Its mechanical limbs moved fluidly, unnatural and precise, covering miles of terrain in mere moments.

A deep, unsettled feeling coiled in Cregan’s chest.

What had he brought into his home?

Lacy had barely noticed his lingering stare.

Her focus was elsewhere—her eyes fixed on Winterfell, its towering stone walls standing like ancient sentinels beneath the grey sky.

The fortress was massive. Nothing like the sleek, engineered structures of her world. These walls were rough, weathered by time, not built with precision, but with resilience. The stone was thick, reinforced over centuries, its irregular edges bearing the weight of a thousand battles, a thousand winters.

A tall, square tower stood at the center, flanked by the Great Keep and the First Keep, both monuments of an age beyond memory. Smoke curled from chimneys and unseen vents, blending with the crisp winter air. Steam rose from the very ground, drifting through cracks in the stone pathways—a subtle heat she quickly identified as geothermal.

That explained how it stood against the cold.

A fortress of fire and ice.

Lacy exhaled, watching figures move across the courtyard. Guards in thick furs and chainmail, blacksmiths hammering away in open-air forges, stable boys tending to their lord’s horses. Every detail was so far removed from what she knew, so rooted in medieval survival, yet undeniably functional.

Then Cregan’s voice cut through the cold air.

“Enough gawking. Inside. Now.”

She turned, raising an eyebrow at the command.

Cregan was standing outside the rover now, arms crossed, his expression carefully neutral—yet something in his gaze had shifted. A newfound wariness, sharpened by what he had just witnessed.

He wasn’t just ushering her inside to escape the cold.

He was controlling the situation.

Lacy sighed but didn’t argue. The bite of the northern wind had already begun to creep through her jacket. As she stepped out of the rover, she felt the weight of dozens of eyes settle on her.

Murmurs spread through the gathered crowd.

“Is she a sorceress?”

“Did she bring the beast?”

“What kind of armor is that?”

“Did you see how fast they came in? Not even a raven could fly that quick!”

Some of the men gripped their swords tighter, others simply stared, wide-eyed. Fear. Curiosity. Distrust.

Then a voice cut through the murmurs, sharp and unimpressed.

“Seven hells, Cregan, what did you bring home?”

Lacy turned toward the voice and found herself facing a young woman, draped in thick wolf pelts, dark hair catching in the wind.

Her gaze wasn’t filled with fear like the others—but with keen scrutiny. A sharp, intelligent look, as if she were already trying to unravel Lacy’s existence with nothing but observation.

Cregan didn’t flinch. “Sara.”

So this was Sara Snow.

Lacy recognized the name from PLEX’s analysis. A bastard of House Stark, but clearly someone with enough standing to speak to Cregan so casually. The Stark men didn’t challenge her words, nor did they dare interrupt.

Sara’s eyes flicked to the rover, then to PLEX, then back to Lacy.

“So?” she asked, folding her arms. “You going to explain, or just keep glaring at her like she’s a wild direwolf?”

Lacy smirked. Finally. Someone who asks direct questions.

Before she could respond, Cregan took a step forward, placing himself between them.

“Inside,” he said again, this time with more weight.

Lacy didn’t miss the way his shoulders had squared slightly, the way his voice carried through the courtyard not as a suggestion, but a command.

Sara exhaled through her nose but said nothing.

Lacy cast one last glance at Winterfell, then nodded. She adjusted her gloves, shot Sara a lingering look, and followed Cregan toward the Great Hall.

As she walked, she could still feel the weight of the Stark household’s stares.

She was no longer just an outsider in the Wolfswood.

Now, she was a mystery standing at Winterfell’s gates.

And no one in this place trusted what they could not understand.

The Great Hall of Winterfell
The doors of the Great Hall groaned open, spilling warm firelight into the cold corridors beyond. Lacy followed Cregan inside, her boots pressing against the ancient stone floor as she took in her surroundings.

The hall was massive, built to withstand generations of rulers, war councils, and feasts. Rough-hewn stone walls stretched high, adorned with aged banners of House Stark, their direwolf sigil illuminated by flickering torchlight. A massive wooden beam ceiling loomed overhead, darkened from centuries of smoke and time.

The long feasting tables were mostly empty save for a few household members and sworn swords who had remained late. Their eyes locked onto her and PLEX the moment they stepped inside.

Lacy felt their stares—not the casual glances of passing curiosity, but deep, uneasy scrutiny.

Cregan paid them no mind.

“Bring me bread and salt,” he ordered a nearby steward, his voice carrying the weight of command.

Lacy lifted an eyebrow at the request.

That’s it? No meat, no wine, no hot broth?

She kept the thought to herself, but as she glanced around the hall, she noticed more people slipping in—some from adjacent corridors, others stepping hesitantly from the far end of the hall, drawn in by the rumors already spreading of the strange guest in their lord’s company.

They weren’t just looking at her.

They were looking at PLEX.

The mechanical figure stood motionless beside her, its glowing interface dim but still active. Lacy could feel the tension in the room tighten with every passing second.

The whispers had begun.

She didn’t need to hear them to know what they were saying.

Sorcery. Witchcraft. Some demon from the Deepwood. A cursed thing.

Standing next to Cregan who was sitting on a big stone chair on a raised dais was Sara Snow leaned close to her brother, speaking in hushed tones. Cregan listened, his expression unreadable.

Lacy crossed her arms. Enough of that.

“Is my rover okay outside?” she interrupted, causing both Stark siblings to stop their conversation and glance at her.

Cregan frowned slightly at the term but said nothing.

“Should I start setting up my pod?” she continued.

Cregan lifted a hand. Silence.

Lacy’s fingers twitched, her patience thinning.

Her eyes swept the room—more people had gathered now, staring, whispering, waiting.

She wasn’t used to this. She had been studied before—by committees, by mission supervisors, by teams who evaluated every aspect of her psyche before sending her into deep space.

But this wasn’t analysis.

This was fear.

And fear could turn dangerous very quickly.

Before she could say another word, a wooden plate was placed in front of Cregan, holding a hard loaf of bread and a small dish of coarse salt.

Cregan looked at her then, his gaze steady, his posture firm.

“You will partake in the sacred tradition of Guest Right,” he said. “Now.”

Lacy narrowed her eyes. Guest Right?

Cregan didn’t blink. “Bread and salt, freely offered, freely taken. It is a solemn vow—a promise that while you are under my roof, no harm shall come to you. You are a guest of House Stark. By accepting this, you accept my protection.”

Lacy stared at him, then at the bread and salt.

A symbol of trust.

A gesture of honor.

A promise.

The air felt heavier now, the gazes of the room intensifying, waiting.

She took a breath, then reached forward.

She broke off a piece of the bread—hard, rough, coarse, not at all like the nutrient-rich rations she was used to. She dipped it into the grainy salt, then placed it into her mouth.

The taste was simple. Unfamiliar. Strange.

But as soon as she swallowed, she saw the tension in Cregan’s shoulders ease slightly.

He had been waiting for this.

As if that single bite had solidified something unspoken between them.

Lacy thought it was a strange tradition.

Then, PLEX’s voice broke the silence.

“The practice of offering bread and salt as a sign of hospitality has existed for thousands of years across many cultures of Earth,” the AI stated. “Historically recorded examples include—”

Lacy barely had time to react before Cregan spoke over him, his voice cutting through the room.

“Lady Morin is under my protection,” he declared, his tone firm, carrying across the hall. “She will be escorted by Ser Jory.”

Jory, who had finally recovered enough to stand without swaying, stiffened slightly at the command.

Cregan turned back to Lacy, locking eyes with her.

“Ser Jory will escort you to your chambers. We will speak further on the morrow.”

Lacy inhaled, then exhaled slowly.

So that was that.

She wasn’t going to argue—not when she could still feel every set of eyes lingering on her like she was something unnatural.

Cregan turned away, sweeping his gaze over the gathered household.

“You are dismissed.”

At his words, the tension in the air shifted. The hall slowly began to empty, murmurs still rippling among the retainers and guards.

Sara lingered only a moment longer, shooting Lacy one last curious glance before stepping away.

Lacy exhaled.

She had survived the first step into this world’s laws and traditions.

But tomorrow, the real battle would begin.

A Night Without Rest
Lacy sat stiffly in the chair by the cold stone wall, arms crossed over her chest, staring at the bed like it had personally offended her.

She had tried to sleep.

She really had.

But from the moment she lay down, she knew there was no way in hell she was getting comfortable on something stuffed with—according to PLEX’s analysis—chicken feathers and straw.

She had spent years sleeping in zero-gravity pods, on firm, temperature-controlled surfaces designed to support the body during extended space travel. Even back on Earth, beds were made from engineered memory foam and adaptable microfibers, not whatever the hell this was.

The sheets were rough, the fur blankets too warm, and every shift of movement sent an itch through her spine.

So now, here she was.

Sitting in the stiff wooden chair, wearing nothing but her thermal long johns, her arms resting on the table beside her. Her LCVG suit—the liquid cooling and ventilation one-piece she had worn under her flight suit—had been peeled off earlier, leaving only the base layer beneath.

When she had entered the room last night, she’d had PLEX scan the place, checking for anything out of the ordinary.

It was simple, but well-built.

A large stone fireplace flickered in the far corner, its warmth pressing against the cool winter air seeping in through the narrow window slits. A thick wooden door sealed her inside. The walls were lined with heavy tapestries, some bearing the Stark sigil, others likely there just to cut the chill of the North.

A wooden chest sat against the wall, likely for clothing. A washbasin had been left near the bed, filled with lukewarm water.

It wasn’t bad, by medieval standards.

But it wasn’t hers.

Lacy sighed and rubbed her face. She needed to set up her pod. She needed to get out of this hot-ass room before she suffocated under all these furs and rough fabrics.

She was about to send PLEX out to grab her pack when the door swung open without warning.

Lacy’s gaze snapped toward the entrance.

Two women entered.

She recognized one immediately—Sara Snow, still dressed in her wolf pelts, her long, dark hair half braided back. Her sharp gaze flickered toward Lacy, assessing her quickly before stepping further inside.

The other girl was younger, much younger, likely no more than fourteen or fifteen. She wore a simple grey dress, her head slightly bowed as she moved closely behind Sara, her hands clasped in front of her.

Lacy had barely opened her mouth when Sara curtsied—a short, practiced motion that looked more like a formality than actual submission.

“I come on behalf of my lord,” she said smoothly.

Lacy blinked.

Her brother?

Not Cregan, not even my brother—but my lord?

And yet, the moment she finished speaking, Sara straightened. “My lord wishes for you to be made comfortable before breaking fast with him in his solar.”

Lacy tilted her head slightly.

So, even his own sister had to call him that?

Weird.

But at this point, she wasn’t going to pick apart medieval customs.

She had bigger problems—like the fact that this room was stupidly warm, she hadn’t slept, and she really just wanted to set up her pod so she could work without interruption.

Sara’s expression remained cool, unreadable as she continued.

“A tub will be brought in so you may bathe,” she said. “And I will see to it that you are given something more… appropriate to wear.”

Lacy blinked. Excuse me?

Before she could respond, Sara gestured toward the girl beside her.

“She will assist you in undressing, bathing, and preparing for your meeting with my lord.”

Lacy stared at her.

Assist me?

As in… watch me while I wash?

Absolutely not.

Lacy’s expression remained neutral, but her voice was firm.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said, standing up from her chair. “I can wash myself.”

The girl hesitated, looking toward Sara, awaiting further instruction.

Sara raised an eyebrow. “It is customary—”

“I don’t care,” Lacy cut her off. “I’m not letting anyone watch me take a bath. That’s too weird.”

Sara opened her mouth, clearly about to object.

Lacy stared her down.

The silence stretched.

Then, after a moment, Sara exhaled sharply and waved a hand.

“As you wish, my lady,” she said.

Victory.

Lacy stepped past them, ready to wash quickly and get this over with.

Except, the moment she sat down in the steaming tub, she realized something was missing.

Her brow furrowed. She looked around. Then it hit her.

They don’t have soap.

Lacy sighed. Of course, they don’t.

She glanced toward the door.

“PLEX, grab my bag,” she called out.

A moment later, she heard it—the heavy, mechanical footfalls of her AI as it strode out into the corridor, moving toward the pack she had left with the rest of her gear.

That was her first mistake.

The screaming started almost instantly.

A distant cry of alarm, followed by panicked shouting.

Then—actual sobbing.

Lacy froze.

The hell?

She quickly stood, reaching for the cloth left beside the tub just as PLEX reentered the room, holding her bag in its mechanical grip.

Behind him, down the hall, she could hear more voices rising in terror.

Someone was literally praying.

She groaned. Jesus Christ.

But PLEX, programmed to be unbothered, simply offered her the pack as if nothing had happened.

Lacy snatched it, muttering under her breath. She should have grabbed it herself.

By the time she finished bathing, she was already exhausted, and it wasn’t even the afternoon yet.

She dressed quickly—a fitted jumpsuit and a pair of lightweight sneakers, tying her damp hair into a simple ponytail.

Then, she opened the door.

Sara Snow and Jory Forrester were waiting for her outside.

The moment they saw her, they stared—up and down, taking in every inch of her unfamiliar clothing.

Lacy let them look for a second, then folded her arms.

“All right, take me to Cregan,” she said, waiting for someone to speak.

Jory was the first to recover.

“You should address him as my lord, or Lord Stark,” he said, his tone careful but firm. “To use his name is bad form.”

Lacy didn’t respond immediately.

Instead, she turned slightly—waiting.

Sara was still staring at her, expression unreadable.

Finally, she spoke.

“Was the dress not to your liking?”

Lacy raised an eyebrow.

“I prefer to wear my own clothes,” she said simply.

Sara’s lips pressed together, as if trying to decide how much she cared to argue this.

She opened her mouth—

Lacy cut her off before she could start.

“Jory, take me to your lord.”

Jory hesitated, then gave a short nod, gesturing for her to follow.

PLEX stepped forward.

Jory immediately stiffened.

“Your metal beast should stay,” he said.

Lacy met his gaze, unwavering.

“No.”

The air stretched between them.

A silent standoff.

Jory held his ground.

Lacy didn’t flinch.

After a moment, he relented.

“Fine,” he muttered. “But keep it close.”

Lacy smirked.

With that, they moved.

She was already sick of being here, and it hadn’t even been six hours.

Jory led the way down the stone steps, his boots echoing against the cold walls as they descended one level. When they reached the correct door, he rapped his knuckles against the heavy wood, standing at attention as he waited.

A deep voice answered from within. “Enter.”

Jory pulled the door open and stepped aside, allowing Lacy to walk in first.

Cregan Stark was seated at a large wooden desk, a handful of parchments scattered before him. At her entrance, he stood, his sharp grey eyes flickering over her before he moved toward a side table where a simple breakfast had been laid out. Without a word, he gestured for her to join him.

Lacy walked over, sliding into one of the heavy chairs as Cregan took his own seat across from her. He picked up a knife and began slicing into a round loaf of bread, his gaze flicking to hers.

“How did you sleep?” he asked.

Lacy snorted. “I didn’t.”

Cregan paused, glancing at her with a slight frown. “Why?”

She leaned back, crossing her arms. “Because that mattress was awful. Straw and feathers? That’s not a bed, that’s a bird’s nest.”

Cregan blinked at her, his expression unreadable. That was a fine mattress, better than most would ever have. But he said nothing, merely tearing off a piece of bread and setting it aside.

Lacy exhaled. “I need to set up my pod and get some real sleep. But while we eat, can PLEX ask you a few questions? I came up with a list last night.”

Cregan barely acknowledged the request. “I have questions for you as well,” he said, already moving ahead. “We’ll ask them while we eat.”

Lacy raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. He clearly wasn’t waiting for her approval.

Cregan leaned forward. “Explain your weapon to me again.”

Lacy sighed, setting her utensils down. “I told you the basics last night—it’s a firearm. A gun. It uses gunpowder to propel a bullet at high velocity, making it deadly from a distance. The technology has evolved over centuries, and what I have is extremely advanced compared to the first firearms.” She glanced at him. “Why do you keep calling me ‘lady’ instead of ‘doctor’?”

Cregan considered her for a moment. “The term is not used here,” he admitted. “I do not know its meaning.”

Lacy gave a small nod. “I figured as much. A doctor is someone with extensive learning, usually in medicine or science. I have degrees in multiple fields.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “Engineering, biological science, physical science, computer science, and mathematics.”

Cregan’s eyes widened slightly. He stared at her as if she had just declared she could command dragons.

“You studied all of those?” he asked.

She nodded. “And then some.”

His brows drew together. “In my world, to master a single discipline takes a lifetime.”

Lacy smirked. “Not in mine.”

He stared at her for a moment longer before finally shaking his head, still looking a little dazed.

They continued their meal, exchanging questions. Lacy asked about Westerosi politics, the size of the North, and the structure of governance. Cregan asked more about her world—how people traveled, what kind of wars were fought, what her people valued most.

Eventually, Lacy set her cup down. “I’m full,” she said. “Where can I set up my pod?”

Cregan hesitated.

He didn’t want her bringing that strange contraption into view of his people. He needed time to think.

He cleared his throat. “Before that, would you allow my maester to examine you?”

Lacy frowned. “Can we do that later? I really—”

“It is important,” Cregan cut in smoothly, though he had yet to think of a reason why. “You were found injured, and we do not know the full extent of your condition. The maester must be sure you are well.”

Lacy exhaled sharply, eyeing him for a long moment.

She could tell he was stalling.

But why?

Reluctantly, she nodded. “Fine. But after that, I set up my pod.”

Cregan inclined his head. “Agreed.”

Even though he had no intention of making that easy for her.

Cregan led the way out of the building they had slept in, stepping into the crisp morning air. The courtyard was already stirring with life—men moving about, voices carrying over the stone walls—but he paid them no mind. Lacy followed, PLEX’s heavy footsteps trailing just behind her.

They approached a stone tower adjacent to the building. As they neared the entrance, Cregan turned to her.

“The machine stays here,” he said, nodding to the lower level.

Lacy met his gaze, holding it for a moment before nodding. “Okay.”

But before she stepped away, she turned slightly, her expression neutral as she whispered under her breath, just loud enough for PLEX to register.

“PLEX, sleep mode. Don’t wake until I return.”

The machine’s glowing optics dimmed instantly as it powered down.

Cregan watched with a carefully blank expression before gesturing for her to follow him inside.

They ascended a short flight of stairs before entering a dimly lit chamber, the scent of dried herbs and parchment filling the air. An older man stood by a worn wooden table, his robes a muted grey, his expression unreadable.

“This is Maester Aldric,” Cregan said. “He will assess your condition. I’ll step out while he works.”

Lacy barely had a chance to react before he turned on his heel and left, shutting the door behind him.

The moment Cregan was gone, the air in the room shifted.

The maester’s expression cooled, his posture stiffening as he eyed her with open scrutiny.

“You claim to have come from a fallen star?” he asked, his words clipped and precise.

Lacy tilted her head. “I don’t claim anything. I did.”

Aldric exhaled sharply, shaking his head as he muttered something under his breath—something about the Seven, though the words didn’t quite make sense to her.

Lacy frowned. “What was that?”

He ignored her question. “The marks,” he said abruptly, his gaze flicking to her arms. “The ones the people claim you had when you arrived. Were they healed by magic?”

Lacy blinked. She hadn’t been expecting that.

“Wait,” she said slowly, her brows drawing together. “Magic? You’re saying magic is real?”

Aldric hesitated. His jaw tightened slightly before he gave a reluctant answer. “Some believe the dragons are magic.”

Lacy stared at him, caught off guard. She hadn’t expected to hear about dragons again, not in this context.

The maester shifted, preparing to ask another question, but she cut him off.

“Okay, hold up—when are you actually going to start this examination?” she asked. “Cregan told me I need to do this so I can set up my pod and get some real sleep.”

Aldric’s gaze darkened. “We have started.”

Lacy looked around.

There were no medical instruments, no tools, nothing that even remotely resembled a proper examination setup.

She raised an eyebrow. “So… this is a mental evaluation?”

The way the maester narrowed his eyes at her told her that no, it absolutely wasn’t.

Lacy sighed. If this was supposed to be some kind of test, she was going to flip it around.

She leaned forward slightly, expression thoughtful. “Alright, let me ask you a few questions.”

Aldric looked taken aback but didn’t refuse.

Lacy fired off a handful of basic medical queries—things that should have been obvious to any competent physician. His responses were outdated, misguided, and, in some cases, flat-out wrong.

By the time she was done, she was certain of one thing.

This guy didn’t know shit.

Without another word, she pushed herself up from the chair.

Aldric frowned. “Where are you—?”

Lacy was already walking toward the door.

She pulled it open and stepped out, leaving him mid-sentence.

She was done with this nonsense.

Lacy stepped out of the tower, her frustration evident as she shut the heavy door behind her. She barely took two steps before spotting Cregan standing a short distance down the hall, his arms crossed, waiting.

She didn’t hesitate.

Striding toward him, she came to a stop in front of him and arched an eyebrow. “Are you done stalling?”

Cregan studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, without answering directly, he turned on his heel. “Follow me.”

Lacy exhaled sharply but did as he asked.

As they walked, Cregan started speaking. “The North is vast. Larger than all the southern kingdoms combined. It is harsh, cold, and unyielding. Those who do not respect its ways do not survive.”

They moved through stone corridors and across a courtyard dusted with frost. He continued as they neared a heavy iron gate.

“We do not have the luxuries of the South. There are no fertile lands like the Reach, nor the wealth of the Westerlands. We survive through loyalty, through strength, and through the bonds we forge.”

Lacy’s gaze flicked to him. “Is this your way of telling me to play nice?”

Cregan didn’t answer. Instead, he pushed open the iron gate.

Beyond it stretched a grove, enclosed by a weathered stone wall. The air was colder here, but the most striking thing wasn’t the chill—it was the massive tree standing at the center.

Lacy stopped in her tracks.

Its bark was stark white, its branches twisting toward the sky like outstretched fingers. The leaves were deep crimson, shifting slightly in the light wind. At the center of its trunk was a carved face—weathered and ancient, its red sap trickling like slow-moving tears.

She had seen many strange things in her life, but this was something else entirely.

She wasn’t sure why, but the sight of it made her uneasy.

Cregan turned to her. “This is the godswood,” he said simply.

She tore her gaze from the tree and looked at him. “You pray to a tree?”

“We pray before the heart tree,” he corrected. “The old gods are nameless, faceless. They do not demand temples or tithes, nor do they grant favor based on wealth or power. They watch. They listen.”

Lacy shifted slightly, glancing back at the tree. “And what exactly am I doing here?”

Cregan’s expression darkened slightly. “You are a stranger here. You wield knowledge and power no one in this land understands. That alone makes you a danger—not only to me but to my people.” His voice was firm, but not unkind. “If you are to stay within these walls, you will swear here, before the old gods, that you will not endanger my people. That you will speak with me before making any decisions. And that you will remain in your—” he hesitated slightly before continuing, “—your pod unless escorted.”

Lacy’s lips pressed into a thin line. She could tell there was no negotiating this.

She looked at the tree again, then back at him.

“Fine,” she said. “I swear.”

Cregan held her gaze for a moment longer before giving a small nod. “Good.”

He turned slightly, motioning to the opposite side of the tree, where the ground was clear of roots and foliage. “You may set up your pod here—within the gates.”

Lacy exhaled, then glanced toward the entrance. “PLEX, set up my pod. Bring the Rover closer.”

A few moments later, she heard the whirring of mechanical joints as PLEX powered up. The heavy footsteps of the machine echoed in the enclosed space as it moved to retrieve her pod and the Rover.

As the structure unfolded, smooth metal contrasting sharply with the ancient stone around it, Cregan stood back, watching. His eyes followed Lacy as she moved, checking the pod’s systems and ensuring everything was in place.

She worked quickly, efficiently—her hands moving over unfamiliar technology with practiced ease.

When the last panel locked into place, she turned, rolling her shoulders with a tired sigh.

Cregan watched her for a moment longer before finally turning away.

Before stepping out of the godswood, he addressed the guards standing near the entrance.

“No one enters unless I approve it,” he commanded.

The guards nodded, their faces unreadable.

With that, Cregan stepped through the gates, leaving Lacy alone in her strange new sanctuary.

Chapter Text

The sun was setting, casting long shadows across the godswood as Cregan approached the metal structure Lacy called her pod. Sara walked beside him, her expression unreadable as she studied the strange, smooth walls of the futuristic shelter.

They stopped a few feet away from the entrance, where the metal creature—PLEX, as Lacy called it—stood motionless, its glowing optics flickering in the dim light.

Cregan exhaled sharply before addressing it. “I request entrance.”

There was a brief pause. Then, with a mechanical whir, PLEX’s voice echoed in the crisp evening air.

“Request acknowledged. Lord Cregan Stark granted access.”

A quiet hiss followed as the door of the pod slid open.

Cregan stepped inside first.

The air was different in here—cleaner, almost sterile. The walls were smooth and unnatural, lined with blinking lights and strange devices he didn’t recognize. The space was small but efficient, and in the center of it all, Lacy lay asleep in what he assumed was her bed—though it looked more like a compact sleeping chamber built into the wall.

Before he could take another step, PLEX’s voice rang out again.

“Visitor detected. Initiating wake sequence.”

Lacy stirred, her body shifting beneath the thin blanket as she groggily opened her eyes. She blinked up at the ceiling, then rolled onto her side before finally sitting up.

She yawned, stretching her arms overhead, her muscles pulling taut as she shook off sleep. “What…?” she muttered, rubbing her face before focusing on the figure in her pod. “Cregan? What do you want?”

Cregan had been about to speak when she moved to climb out of her sleeping chamber.

His words died in his throat.

His breath caught for a second as he took in the sight of her—half-asleep, hair slightly mussed, dressed in something that barely covered her at all.

The sight struck him in a way he hadn’t anticipated.

His jaw tightened as he turned away abruptly, his voice suddenly gruffer than before. “I was not aware you were in… such a state of undress.”

Without another word, he strode toward the exit, his movements quick, as if escaping something dangerous. “Sara will speak on my behalf.”

The door slid open, and then he was gone.

Lacy blinked after him in confusion. Then she glanced down at herself.

Black athletic shorts, a simple tank top, and crew socks.

She frowned, looking at Sara, who was standing there, lips twitching as if she were holding back a laugh.

Lacy raised an eyebrow. “Okay… why did he say I’m undressed?”

Sara exhaled through her nose, amusement dancing in her gaze. “Because you are, my lady,” she said with a hint of laughter in her voice.

Lacy snorted. “I’m literally wearing more than what I’d wear to bed back home.”

Sara tilted her head. “And yet, here, a lady is always fully clothed in the presence of men—unless he is her husband.”

Lacy stared at her for a long moment.

Then she laughed. “Figures,” she muttered, shaking her head. “This world is so damn backwards.”

She had said it mostly to herself, but the way Sara’s expression subtly shifted made her pause.

The amusement in her eyes had faded, replaced by something else—something quiet and unreadable.

Lacy exhaled, rubbing her forehead. “Look,” she said, motioning toward the chair at her desk, “why don’t you sit? I have some questions.”

Sara hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward, lowering herself gracefully onto the seat.

“Of course, my lady,” she said smoothly.

Lacy huffed. “Yeah, about that,” she said, turning to sit across from her. “Why do you keep calling me lady?”

Sara blinked, as if the question had never even occurred to her. “Because you are one.”

Lacy narrowed her eyes. “But I’m not.”

Sara tilted her head slightly. “You are a highborn woman in the company of a lord. You hold knowledge and power beyond any of us. That is enough to make you a lady in the eyes of most.”

Lacy leaned back, exhaling slowly. “Huh.” She shook her head. “Alright. Then tell me—what exactly does it mean to be a lady in this world?”

At that, Sara hesitated.

A flicker of something unreadable crossed her face before she responded, voice quieter now. “I am not a lady, so I cannot say for others. But I can tell you what they represent.”

Lacy nodded. “Go on.”

Sara’s hands folded in her lap as she considered her words. “A lady is meant to be the keeper of a household, a representation of her family’s honor. She is expected to be graceful, obedient, and learned in the ways of diplomacy and courtesy. She must know how to manage a home, tend to the needs of her lord and children, and serve as a proper wife.”

Lacy’s expression slowly flattened.

Sara continued, unaware of the growing tension in Lacy’s jaw. “A lady does not wield a sword, nor does she involve herself in war or politics—unless her husband allows it. She is protected, sheltered. Her greatest duty is to marry well, to bring strength to her house through alliances.”

Lacy stared at her.

For a long moment, she said nothing.

Then she exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “So… they’re second-class citizens,” she muttered. “Women here have no real say in their own lives.”

Sara’s brow furrowed. “It is the way of things,” she said simply.

Lacy leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. “And you’re okay with that?”

Sara’s lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to answer—but she hesitated.

And that hesitation told Lacy everything.

Lacy exhaled, shaking her head. “Yeah,” she muttered. “That’s what I thought.”

Silence settled between them.

Sara’s hands tightened slightly in her lap, but she didn’t speak.

Lacy studied her for a moment before sighing and leaning back again. “Alright,” she said, voice softer now. “I’ve got more questions.”

Sara looked at her, and for the first time, there was something else in her gaze.

Something thoughtful.

Something curious.

She nodded. “Then ask, my lady.”

Lacy didn’t correct her this time.

Lacy sat back in her chair, utterly flabbergasted.

"So let me get this straight," she said, running a hand through her hair. "Not only are women expected to marry whoever their families tell them to, they can't own land, they have no say in politics unless their husbands allow it, and they're basically just… what? Ornamental housekeepers?"

Sara blinked at her, clearly unbothered by the summary. "A lady's duty is to her family. She brings honor through her virtue and obedience."

Lacy let out a sharp laugh, shaking her head. "Unbelievable," she muttered. "This world is insane."

Sara tilted her head. "You truly think so?"

"Yes, I truly think so!" Lacy threw her hands up. "So, what? You're telling me a lady is supposed to sit around all day, do some embroidery, wear ridiculous dresses, and nod along while men make all the decisions?"

Sara gave a small shrug. "That is their way."

Lacy exhaled through her nose. "Speaking of ridiculous dresses, what are they even supposed to wear? I take it my shorts and tank top aren't up to code?"

Sara smirked slightly. "A lady wears long skirts or gowns, often layered, with high collars and proper sleeves. Wool and linen for daily wear, finer silks and embroidery for occasions. Modesty is expected at all times."

Lacy made a face. "Of course it is."

Then, to her surprise, Sara hesitated before speaking again. "If I may, my lady… I would like to ask you something, if it is not too forward."

Lacy waved a hand. "Ask away."

Sara leaned slightly forward. "How are ladies treated where you come from?"

Lacy exhaled and crossed her arms. "Well, for starters, women have rights. They can own land, run businesses, and make their own choices about marriage—or not marrying at all, if they don’t want to. They can study, work in any profession they choose. Hell, in my world, women have led entire nations, fought in wars, commanded armies."

Sara’s brows rose slightly. "Truly?"

Lacy nodded. "Yeah. And the way people dress is their own damn business. If I want to wear shorts and a tank top, I wear shorts and a tank top. No one loses their minds over it." She gestured toward the pod’s interior. "Technology lets us focus on advancement, not wasting time policing what women should wear."

Sara considered this. "And men… do they not rule over women?"

Lacy snorted. "Some try to, but they get called out for it. In a lot of places, it’s not tolerated."

Sara frowned slightly, as if trying to process such a concept. "That is… different."

"Yeah, no kidding," Lacy muttered. "Your world is stuck in the dark ages."

They talked for a while longer, with Sara asking more about how Lacy’s world functioned, how people lived, how society operated without the rigid traditions of Westeros.

Then, suddenly, Sara gasped.

"I was supposed to bring you to choose a dress!" She shot to her feet. "You are expected at supper with my lord!"

Lacy blinked. "Wait, what?"

Sara placed her hands on her hips. "Lord Cregan has requested you sit at the high table as his honored guest. It is a great sign of trust, especially with a few of the lords of the North still in Winterfell. They wish to meet the woman who fell from the stars."

Lacy's brows furrowed. "Do people actually say that?"

Sara gave her a knowing look. "Did you not?"

Lacy exhaled, shaking her head. "I didn’t fall from a damn star. My ship went through a wormhole—an opening in space—and I ended up here. It wasn’t magic, it was physics. Science. Technology far beyond what you can even imagine."

Sara tilted her head. "Only the men of the Citadel are learned in such things."

Lacy sat up straighter. "Wait. The men of the Citadel?"

Sara gave a slight nod. "Only men may study to become maesters."

Lacy’s jaw tightened. "So women aren’t allowed to learn about science?"

Sara hesitated. "It is… not our place."
Lacy exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "That explains so much. No wonder that quack of a healer was acting the way he did—he probably couldn’t stand the thought of a woman knowing more than him."

Sara gave her a cautious look. "You truly believe women should learn as men do?"

Lacy scoffed. "Of course I do. Knowledge isn’t about gender. It’s about progress."

Sara studied her for a long moment, something unreadable in her gaze. Then, she shook her head slightly. "We truly live in different worlds, my lady."

Lacy sighed. "Yeah. No kidding."

Sara straightened. "But for now, we must get you dressed. Lord Stark will not appreciate a late arrival."

Lacy groaned but didn’t protest this time. She pushed herself up from her chair, grabbed her jumpsuit, put it on and followed Sara out of the pod.

She had fought and survived in deep space.

But somehow, she had a feeling that dressing for dinner was about to be the hardest challenge yet.

Lacy kept thinking the same thing over and over.

I hate wearing dresses.

She had worn a flight suit through deep space, spent years in compression gear, and lived in zero-gravity environments where function mattered far more than form. But here she was, in some long, flowing medieval gown, forced into layers of fabric that made her feel restricted and impractical.

But it was what it was.

Ser Jory Forrester escorted her to the Great Hall, his presence quiet but firm as they moved through the dimly lit corridors of Winterfell. Lacy could hear the low murmur of voices beyond the massive wooden doors, the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine drifting through the air.

When they entered, she immediately spotted Cregan Stark at the high table—and he was not alone.

Seated with him were three men, all of them lords of the North.

The moment Lacy reached the table, all four men stood—a formal gesture of respect, one she hadn't expected.

Cregan’s gaze flicked over her attire, assessing.

Sara had chosen well, apparently. The dress was deep grey, fitted at the bodice with subtle embroidery along the sleeves, a fur-lined cloak draped over her shoulders to ward off the cold. Simple, functional, and—according to Sara—appropriate for a woman of high status.

Cregan motioned toward the men beside him. “Lady Morin, allow me to introduce you.”

The first man, a broad-shouldered lord with a thick white beard, stepped forward with a warm smile. “Lord Desmond Manderly, at your service, my lady.”

Before Lacy could react, he took her hand and kissed it—a formal gesture that made her stiffen slightly, unused to the old-fashioned custom.

The second man, taller and leaner with sharp features, stepped forward next. “Lord Robart Bolton, my lady.”

Like Manderly, he kissed her hand, though his touch was colder, his eyes assessing.

The last man, weathered with a scar running down the side of his jaw, gave her only a curt nod. “Lord Willam Ryswell.”

No hand-kissing.

Lacy liked him best already.

Cregan gestured to the seat beside him. “Sit.”

She did, smoothing out the ridiculous fabric of her dress as she settled in.

As the meal began, it was Lord Manderly who spoke first, turning to Cregan.

“She looks of the North,” he mused, stroking his beard as he studied Lacy. “If you had not told me otherwise, I would believe her to be of a Stark or Mormont lineage.” His eyes flicked to Cregan. “Do you truly believe she came from where she claims?”

Beside him, Lord Willam Ryswell mumbled something under his breath, too low for her to hear.

Meanwhile, Lord Bolton’s cold, dead stare had remained on her, unblinking, like he was studying something far more dangerous than a dinner guest.

Lacy shifted slightly, glancing toward Cregan.

He was already speaking with the others, engaged in quiet discussion about her, as if she weren’t sitting right there.

Enough of this.

With a slight smirk, she pinged PLEX.

A moment later, the screaming started.

Distant at first—shouts of alarm, men calling for their swords, the sound of startled horses. The echoes grew louder as PLEX made his way from the godswood to the Great Hall.

Every conversation at the table halted instantly.

By the time PLEX arrived, the room had gone silent.

The metal creature stopped at her side, standing rigid, its mechanical optics flickering in the firelight.

Lacy casually turned her head. “PLEX, how far have you been able to scan?”

PLEX responded immediately.

“I have completed my scan of the entire area. Landmass analyzed: 1.5 million square miles.”

Cregan’s gaze snapped to her. “What does he mean?”

Lacy met his stare, speaking plainly. “He mapped the entire North.”

The lords visibly stiffened.

Before anyone could ask another question, PLEX continued.

“Additionally, I have detected four anomalies. However, I am unable to complete my assessment as they are not in the database.”

Lacy’s expression shifted instantly.

“Anomalies?” she asked, turning fully toward PLEX. “What kind of anomalies?”

Before PLEX could respond, Cregan cut in sharply.

“We will discuss this after our meal.”

Lacy turned back to him, mouth slightly open to protest, but his expression left no room for argument.

“Dismiss your creature,” Cregan said firmly.

Then, as if the discussion was already over, he turned back to the other lords. “Continue your meals.”

Lacy clenched her jaw but sighed, waving a hand. “PLEX, return to the pod.”

Without hesitation, PLEX turned and strode out.

Lacy sat back, arms crossed, clearly not pleased.

But she had the distinct feeling that whatever those anomalies were, they had just become the most important thing she needed to figure out.

As soon as PLEX left the hall, the atmosphere shifted.

The lords no longer looked at her with mere curiosity—they now regarded her with something different. Not just unease, but calculated awareness.

She could see it in their expressions. Lord Manderly’s measured gaze. Lord Ryswell’s furrowed brow. Lord Bolton’s dead stare.

She didn’t care.

Lacy was pissed.

Cregan’s disrespectful dismissal still burned in her mind. The way he cut her off, spoke as if she wasn’t worth listening to, as if her own creation didn’t concern her.

She kept her eyes straight, jaw tight, refusing to give any of them the satisfaction of seeing her reaction.

This isn’t going to work.

He claimed she wasn’t a prisoner, but that’s exactly what this felt like.

Sitting here, surrounded by lords who debated her existence as if she wasn’t right in front of them, being told when to speak, when to listen, when to dismiss her own technology—it wasn’t freedom. It was containment.

Maybe she should just leave.

She had a rover, a pod, and an entire world to explore. Who said she had to sit here like an exhibit in a damn freak show?

She could travel, gather real data, discover what this land had to offer firsthand—without being treated like a wayward child under some Northern lord’s thumb.

She had no intention of staying in one place forever.

Before she could fully plan the logistics of leaving, a voice interrupted her thoughts.

"If not of this world," Lord Bolton spoke, his tone slow and deliberate, "where are you from?"

Lacy looked at him, her face unreadable.

She held his gaze for a second, then simply said—

"Not here."

Then she stood.

The movement was sudden, sharp, and filled with purpose.

Cregan immediately stood as well, eyes narrowing as he took in her posture, her intent.

He let out a low huff, barely restraining his frustration.

“Join me in my solar my lady,” he said, voice heavy with authority.

Lacy met his gaze, her expression flat.

A long moment passed before she gave a curt nod.

Cregan exhaled, then turned back to the lords. “My lords, I will meet with you shortly after.”

Without another word, he led the way out of the hall, his steps firm, his posture tense.

Lacy followed.

The moment they stepped into the solar, Cregan rounded on her.

“That is not how we handle things here,” he said, his voice edged with restraint, but not quite anger. “You do not simply walk away from a gathering of lords like an offended child.”

Lacy wasn’t in the mood to be lectured.

She cut him off immediately. “I think it’s best if I leave.”

Cregan stared at her.

For a second, his face was completely blank—then his brows pulled together as if she had just said something truly idiotic.

“You think what?”

Lacy folded her arms. “This isn’t working.”

Cregan exhaled sharply. “Explain.”

Lacy lifted her chin. “You claim I’m not a prisoner, but you tell me where I can and cannot go. You say I’m a guest, but you keep me locked behind your walls. I came here by accident, not by choice, and yet I’m treated like some curiosity you can control.”

Cregan’s expression darkened. “You are under my protection.”

Lacy narrowed her eyes. “Is it protection, or control?”

Silence.

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his shoulders squaring as he took a slow breath through his nose.

He wasn’t angry.

But he wasn’t pleased, either.

And for the first time, Lacy truly wondered what his answer would be.

Cregan paused.

For a long moment, he simply studied her, his sharp gaze flickering with something unreadable. He didn’t speak immediately—he was measuring his words, choosing them carefully, the way a commander might before addressing his men.

Then, finally, he answered.

“There is no difference.”

Lacy’s brows furrowed.

Cregan held her gaze, unwavering.

“Control ensures protection. Protection demands control.”

Lacy exhaled sharply, shaking her head. “That’s a convenient excuse.”

Cregan stepped closer. Not threatening—just deliberate.

“You do not understand this world, Lady Morin.”

His voice was steady, firm—not dismissive, but absolute.

“You do not understand its dangers. You believe yourself capable because of your knowledge, your machines—but knowledge will not save you from a blade in the dark. Your metal beast will not stop a war started by men who fear what they do not understand.”

Lacy’s jaw clenched, but she said nothing.

He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “You are not a prisoner. But I would be a fool to let you wander freely, thinking you are beyond risk.”

A pause.

Then, for the first time, his voice lowered slightly, something graver, quieter beneath it.

“I have seen men die for less than what you are.”

His words hung in the air, heavy and unshaken.

He exhaled, shifting slightly, his gaze flickering toward the fireplace, the window, somewhere farther than this room—before he looked back at her.

“If you wish to leave, I will not chain you here. But do not mistake my caution for tyranny.”

And then he waited.

Because at the end of the day, Cregan Stark does not speak simply to be heard—he speaks to be understood.

Lacy exhaled sharply, pressing her lips together as she processed his words.

She knew there was truth in what he was saying.

She didn’t understand this world completely. She didn’t know its political landscape, its power struggles, or just how far fear could push men to act against what they didn’t understand.

But that didn’t mean she liked it.

Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her chin tilting up slightly.

"I get it. You think you're keeping me safe. But let’s be clear—I'm not some helpless girl who needs her hand held through a dangerous world.”

Her voice was firm, edged with controlled frustration.

“You say men have died for less than what I am? I’ve survived worse than this, Cregan.”

Her jaw clenched as she met his gaze, unflinching.

"I survived the most unforgiving conditions in existence. I’ve been places where one wrong step meant instant death. And I did it without anyone watching over my shoulder, telling me where I can and can’t go.”

She took a measured step forward, mirroring the way he had done earlier, her voice lowering slightly—not in submission, but in challenge.

“You say I don’t understand this world? Fine. But don’t mistake that for weakness.”

The air between them stretched, heavy with unspoken tension.

Lacy let out a slow breath, the fire in her voice cooling just slightly.

"Look, I get why you’re worried. But I don’t do well with being caged, no matter how gilded the bars are.”

Her gaze flickered over his face, searching for any shift in his expression.

"I don’t want to be a problem for you, Cregan. But if you keep treating me like some delicate artifact that needs to be locked away, I promise you—I will be.”

Then she waited, her heartbeat steady, her stance unmoving.

Because if Cregan Stark thought she was going to just sit back and let him dictate the terms of her existence in this world—he had another thing coming.

Lacy held his gaze, arms still crossed, the tension thick between them. She had said her piece—made it clear that she wasn’t some fragile thing to be hidden away under his watch.

But as the silence stretched between them, she let out a slow breath and finally asked:

“What do you expect from me, Cregan?”

Her voice wasn’t sharp this time, but measured, as if she was genuinely trying to understand.

She tilted her head slightly. “You’ve told me what I can’t do. You’ve made it clear what’s off-limits. But what about what I can do?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You say you want to protect me, but from what? And for what? You think I should just sit here, nod my head, play the part of the obedient guest? That’s not going to happen.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “So tell me, Lord Stark. What exactly do you want from me?”

And then she waited, arms still crossed, ready to hear whatever answer he had for her.

Cregan exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable as he studied her.

Lacy didn’t break the silence. She let him think, let him choose his words carefully, because she knew whatever he said next would set the tone for how this would go between them.

Finally, he spoke.

“I expect you to act with caution.”

His voice was even, but there was an edge beneath it.

“You are not a fool, Lady Morin. But neither are the men outside these walls. They see you as a threat. A curiosity. Some will fear you, others will want to control you, and some—” he paused, his jaw tightening slightly, “—some will want to use you.”

Lacy frowned, but he wasn’t done.

“I do not expect obedience from you,” he continued, stepping closer, “but I expect reason.”

His grey eyes locked onto hers, unwavering.

“You are not from here. You do not know the dangers you walk among. I do. I have seen good men die because of secrets they never understood. And you—” he gestured at her, at her very existence in this place, “—are the greatest unknown I have ever faced.”

The fire crackled behind him, casting long shadows against the stone walls, but his voice remained steady.

“I expect you to listen when I tell you something is dangerous. I expect you to use that sharp mind of yours not just for defiance, but for survival.”

His gaze hardened slightly, his next words firm.

“You are here now. That cannot be undone. But what happens next—whether you remain safe, whether you are seen as ally or enemy—that will be determined by what you do.”

A pause.

Then, softer, his voice losing some of its steel—“That is what I expect.”

And he waited, watching her, waiting to see what she would do with his answer.

Cregan watched her, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—those sharp grey eyes—they were searching.

She was unexpected.

She wasn’t just bold, or defiant, or intelligent—he had met women with sharp minds before. But there was something else about her, something he couldn’t quite name.

She didn’t bend easily, but she wasn’t reckless. She wasn’t asking for freedom without reason, nor was she demanding obedience.

She was asking for respect.

And that—that was something he understood.

Cregan let out a slow breath, his posture relaxing just slightly—not in surrender, but in acceptance.

Finally, he nodded once.

“Halfway, then.”

His voice was quieter now, not as rigid, not as commanding—just certain.

He studied her for another beat, then exhaled, shaking his head just slightly. “I do not know what to make of you, Lady Morin.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Lacy’s lips. “You and me both, Stark.”

Cregan huffed a quiet breath of amusement, though the flicker of something deeper—curiosity, intrigue, something he wasn’t ready to name yet—remained in his expression.

He turned slightly toward the fire, as if sorting through his own thoughts, then looked back at her, more certain than before.

“You will have my protection. And my trust—if you prove it is deserved.”

A pause.

Then, softer, as if recognizing something in her that he still couldn’t quite define—

“Do not make me regret this.”

It wasn’t a threat.

It was a warning—but also a promise.

Because whatever she was—whoever she was—he knew one thing for certain.

She wasn’t just anyone.

And he had the feeling that, one way or another, she was going to change everything.

Lacy sat back slightly, arms still folded as she mulled over what had just happened.

She had expected resistance—another argument, another reminder of why she couldn’t do as she pleased.

But instead, she got acceptance—cautious, yes, but real.

Cregan had agreed to meet her halfway. He had said he would trust her if she proved it was deserved.

And that meant one thing:

She needed to prove it.

Her fingers tapped lightly against her arm as she thought. What would that even look like?

It wasn’t enough to sit in her pod, hidden behind thick walls, tinkering with technology they didn’t understand. It wasn’t enough to simply exist in this world and expect them to accept her presence.

No—if she wanted to be an ally, if she wanted Cregan to see her as more than just a strange outsider, then she needed to be useful.

She needed to show him that she could be more than just some mystery to solve.

Her gaze flicked back to him, and for the first time since this conversation started, she made a choice.

"Alright," she said, leaning forward slightly. "You want me to prove I can be trusted? Fine. Tell me what you think I should do.”

Cregan’s eyes flickered with something unreadable, but she didn’t stop.

“How do I prove that I’m not a threat? That I can be an ally? What would make you believe that?”

She raised an eyebrow slightly, her voice steady. “You know this world better than I do, Stark. So tell me—how do I earn my place in it?”

Then she waited, watching him, waiting for him to decide just what proving herself would mean.

Cregan studied her, his expression unreadable.

Lacy had caught him off guard again.

Most outsiders—if there had ever been an outsider like her—would have argued for their freedom, would have pushed back against his conditions.

But she wasn’t doing that.

She wasn’t demanding trust—she was offering to earn it.

It was a rare thing. And Cregan Stark did not waste rare things.

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table between them, his sharp gaze locking onto hers.

“You are not a fighter,” he said, voice steady. “Not in the way my men are.”

Lacy smirked slightly. “I don’t need a sword to win a fight.”

Cregan’s lip twitched—just slightly. “No. But you are skilled in ways they are not.”

His expression grew more serious. “You have knowledge unlike anything this world has seen. And while that makes you dangerous, it also makes you valuable.”

Lacy stayed quiet, letting him continue.

“Prove to me that you can be trusted with that knowledge,” he said. “Use it not to advance yourself, but to aid the North. If you can do that, if you can show me that your presence here is not a threat but an advantage, then you will have my trust.”

Lacy raised an eyebrow. “So you want me to help you?”

Cregan nodded once. “Yes. If you are to stay here, then you will contribute to its survival.”

He tilted his head slightly, assessing her. “Start by showing me what you can do. Use your machines, your knowledge—but do so with purpose. Not just to prove your abilities, but to prove that you are willing to stand with us rather than apart from us.”

A pause.

Then, his voice lowered slightly, edged with something measured, thoughtful.

“Prove to me that I was right to let you stay.”

Then he waited, watching her, waiting to see if she would accept the terms he had laid before her.

Lacy tapped her fingers against her arm, thinking carefully.

Cregan wasn’t asking for blind loyalty. He wasn’t demanding that she follow his orders without question. He wanted her to prove she was an asset.

That, she could work with.

She exhaled and met his gaze. “Alright. Then tell me—what does the North need?”

Cregan’s expression didn’t shift, but she could tell he hadn’t expected her to ask that.

He leaned back slightly, considering her question.

“The North has many strengths,” he said. “But it also has weaknesses.”

He glanced toward the fire, as if thinking over his words, before looking back at her.

“Winters are brutal here. They last for years, sometimes decades. Food must be stored, and even then, it is never enough. Crops struggle in the cold. Trade is limited, and when the rivers freeze, the roads become impassable.”

Lacy nodded slowly, already thinking through solutions.

Cregan continued. “Defense is another concern. Our people are strong, but we do not have the wealth of the South. We rely on steel and loyalty, not gold. And while Winterfell is secure, the North is vast—too vast for any one man to control easily.”

His gaze sharpened slightly. “Beyond the Wall, there are things even we do not fully understand. Raiders, wildlings, things we call myths but may not be.”

Lacy frowned. “You think something is coming?”

Cregan’s jaw tightened slightly. “Something is always coming.”

Lacy exhaled. “Alright.” She glanced down, fingers flexing slightly against the wooden table. “So you need better food preservation, better defenses, and better ways to deal with whatever the hell might be lurking in the far North.”**

Cregan nodded. “And trade.”

Lacy raised an eyebrow. “I thought the North didn’t care much for trade.”

Cregan smirked faintly. “We prefer to stand on our own, but we are not fools. White Harbor gives us access to the Narrow Sea, but the South controls the bulk of the trade routes. The more self-sufficient we are, the stronger we remain.”

Lacy tilted her head, considering everything.

This was something she could work with.

Her knowledge wasn’t just theoretical—it was practical.

She had survived in extreme environments, had worked on terraforming projects, food preservation, energy solutions. If the North was struggling with agriculture, storage, trade, and defense, then she had answers.

She straightened slightly, her mind already working.

“Okay,” she said, nodding once. “Then let’s start there.”

She met his gaze again. “I’ll show you what I can do, Stark.”

A pause.

Then, a small smirk. “Try to keep up.”

Cregan exhaled, shaking his head slightly, but there was something new in his gaze—something almost like approval.

And just like that, the game had changed.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Lacy didn’t wait for an invitation—she walked straight into Cregan’s solar, her mind already buzzing with ideas.

Cregan was at his desk, pouring over parchments and ledgers, but the moment she entered, he looked up, his sharp grey eyes settling on her with quiet curiosity.

She didn’t waste time.

“I’ve been thinking about ways to help,” she said, folding her arms. “But I have some questions first.”

Cregan set down his quill and leaned back slightly. “Ask them.”

Lacy took a breath, then asked, “Do you have stoves, glassmakers, and a steel mill?”

Cregan’s brow furrowed slightly. “We have smiths who work steel, but there is no great mill for it in the North.”

Then his expression darkened slightly. “As for glassmakers, there are none. The art belongs to Myr, and the glass itself is costly to import.”

Lacy’s brow furrowed. “You mean to tell me you don’t make glass here? At all?”

Cregan shook his head. “No. Some houses pay dearly for it, but most make do with other means. Only the wealthiest lords can afford Myrish glass, and even then, it is rare.”

Lacy sighed, rubbing her temples. “That’s going to be a problem, but I’ll deal with it later.”

She refocused. “Alright—what about stoves?”

Cregan’s brow furrowed slightly. “What is a stove?”

Lacy blinked. “You don’t have stoves?”

Cregan exhaled through his nose. “If you expect me to answer that, you’ll need to tell me what it is first.”

Lacy shook her head. “Right. Of course. Okay—think of a fireplace, but enclosed. A controlled heat source where you can cook food without open flames.”

Cregan’s frown deepened slightly. “Why would one need to enclose a fire? A hearth serves well enough.”

Lacy shook her head. “Because it’s more efficient. A stove keeps the heat concentrated, it burns fuel more slowly, and it’s safer—no stray embers, no risk of things catching fire by accident. It also gives you better temperature control.”

She could see the gears turning in his head, but his expression remained skeptical.

Cregan crossed his arms. “And you believe this would help the North?”

Lacy nodded firmly. “Absolutely. You’re constantly fighting the cold, right? A stove could make heating homes more efficient. And if I can make a better version, you could use less fuel over time, which means you won’t burn through as much wood in the winter.”

Cregan tapped his fingers against the desk, considering. “And you can build this?”

Lacy smirked. “With the right materials? Yeah. Which is why I asked about a steel mill.”

Cregan watched her carefully, and for the first time since she had arrived, Lacy saw something in his eyes that looked less like suspicion and more like interest.

This was a challenge.

And if there was one thing she was learning about Cregan Stark—he respected those who could rise to meet one.

Lacy leaned forward slightly, watching Cregan carefully.

“Come to my pod with me,” she said. “I can show you things I know will help.”

Cregan exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck before standing. “Very well.”

He didn’t say more, but as he followed her out of his solar and through the stone corridors of Winterfell, she could tell he was thinking. His strides were measured, his brow slightly furrowed, as if weighing the implications of what she had already told him.

When they arrived at her pod, PLEX scanned them both and granted access, the door hissing open to reveal the sleek, metal interior.

Cregan stepped inside, eyes briefly sweeping the space before Lacy gestured toward a seat.

“Sit.”

He hesitated for half a second, then moved toward the chair, lowering himself onto it. His posture was still, his eyes alert, watching her carefully as she moved to her console.

Lacy pulled up a screen, her fingers tapping a quick command before four different metal, wood-burning stoves appeared in vivid, detailed images.

Cregan’s eyes narrowed slightly as he studied them.

“They are… small.”

Lacy smirked. “Compared to a hearth? Yeah. But they’re efficient. These designs work for the smallest homes to the biggest castles.”

She swiped through the various models, showing him how the compact stoves would work in small cottages, while larger versions could be used to heat entire halls without consuming excessive wood.

Cregan’s lips pressed together as he studied the designs, his fingers tapping lightly against the armrest.

He was interested.

She could tell.

But it wasn’t until she moved to the next item that he visibly reacted.

Lacy pulled up a series of images of steel silos, showcasing different sizes and designs.

Cregan tilted his head slightly, his brow furrowing. “What is this?”

Lacy turned toward him. “A silo. A controlled storage unit for grain, corn, wheat—you name it. It keeps food fresh for longer periods, protects against pests, mold, and moisture. If you build these, you can stockpile food for years without spoilage.”

Cregan’s fingers tightened slightly against the chair’s arms. “Years?”

Lacy nodded. “Yes.”

She could see it then—the moment it clicked.

His expression wasn’t just thoughtful now—it was excited.

The North struggled with long winters, food shortages, and unreliable trade routes. The ability to store food safely for years would be a game-changer.

Lacy smirked. "You like that one, huh?"

Cregan exhaled sharply, his gaze still fixed on the designs. “If this works… it would change everything.”

Lacy nodded, then swiped to the next item—the one she was sure he’d love.

“Now, let’s talk weapons.”

Cregan’s eyes snapped up to hers as she pulled up the next image—a high-resolution breakdown of Damascus steel.

"Since your people still use swords, Damascus steel was the most sought-after metal for weapons in my world."

Cregan barely let her finish.

He shot up from his chair, his gaze locked onto the screen. “Is that—” he stepped closer, staring at the distinctive wave-like patterns in the metal.

His voice was sharp, almost disbelieving.

“Is that… Valyrian steel?”

Lacy raised an eyebrow. “In my world, we call it Damascus.”

Cregan didn’t move for a moment.

He just stared at her, completely gobsmacked.

Lacy grinned. “And the best part? PLEX can walk your blacksmith through how to make it.”

Cregan turned to face her fully, and for the first time since she had arrived in Winterfell, she saw something she had never seen before.

Shock.

Pure, unfiltered shock.

He didn’t speak right away.

Because for the first time, he realized just how much of a difference she could actually make.

Lacy could see it—Cregan was still reeling from the Damascus steel revelation, his mind clearly working overdrive.

But she wasn’t done yet.

Without missing a beat, she swiped to the next set of images, pulling up detailed blueprints of pedal-powered steel sled carts and small train carts.

Cregan’s brows furrowed as he looked at the designs. He studied the sled first, his eyes scanning over the pedal mechanism attached to a reinforced steel frame, designed for moving heavy cargo over snow and rough terrain.

Then his gaze shifted to the train carts, small rail-bound carts powered by pedals and gears, meant to move goods and people across long distances without horses.

His fingers tightened against the edge of the table before he finally spoke.

“These… they can truly be made?”

Lacy nodded immediately. “Yes. And here’s why they’d be useful.”

She pointed to the sleds first. “These carts would make it easier to move goods and materials through heavy snow without needing a full team of animals. Instead of relying on just sled dogs or horses, you could have men power them when necessary, or use a combination of both.”

Cregan nodded slowly, processing.

Lacy moved to the train carts next. “Now, these would require a little more setup—you’d need laid tracks—but they’d be game-changers for moving supplies between key locations. No reliance on feeding horses, no concern for bad weather slowing you down. Just manpower, mechanics, and efficiency.”

She could see the gears turning in his head, but before he could comment, PLEX’s voice interrupted.

“Lord Stark, my geological scan of the North has revealed the following mineral deposits within the region.”

There was a brief pause, and then PLEX listed them one by one.

“Twenty deposits of iron ore. Twelve of copper. Ten of zinc. Eight of lead. Six of gold. Five of tin. Five of nickel. Four containing gemstones. Three of platinum group metals. Two diamond sources. Two phosphate deposits. Two monazite and zircon sites—classified as rare earth minerals. One deposit of bauxite. And one of rutile—titanium ore.”

Silence.

Lacy turned to Cregan, who was staring at the display.

His expression was unreadable—not because he didn’t care, but because she could see he was still processing everything.

So, instead of overwhelming him further, she lifted a hand slightly.

“PLEX, hold off on listing the exact locations for now.”

“Acknowledged.”

The room was quiet again.

Lacy turned back to Cregan, watching as he exhaled slowly, his shoulders rising and falling as he tried to piece together what all of this meant.

She tilted her head slightly. “You good to keep going?”

Cregan dragged a hand down his face before finally exhaling sharply.

Then, after a beat, he nodded once. “Yes.”

His voice was steady, but she could tell—

This was more than he had ever expected.

Lacy glanced at Cregan, assessing whether he was still capable of absorbing more information or if she had already overloaded his brain.

But he had agreed to keep going, and she still had one last thing to show him—something she knew could change the North forever.

With a swipe of her fingers, she pulled up detailed images and designs of various greenhouses—each one adapted for cold climates, able to grow crops year-round despite the harshest winters.

Cregan leaned in, his gaze scanning the structures. But after a moment, his expression shifted—his brows furrowing as he stared at the glass panels in the designs.

After a long pause, he exhaled sharply. “Myr does not make glass this clear.”

Lacy turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “No?”

Cregan shook his head. “No. And even if they did, the North could never afford it. Myrish glass is expensive—more than gold in some cases. Only the wealthiest houses could dream of obtaining enough for something like this.”

Lacy smirked slightly. “What if you didn’t have to buy it?”

Cregan’s gaze snapped to hers, his expression cautious. “And how would that be possible?”

Lacy crossed her arms. “What if you could make it yourself?”

Cregan’s lips pressed into a thin line, skeptical but intrigued.

Lacy turned back to her screen. “PLEX, how is clear glass made?”

PLEX’s voice responded immediately, its mechanical tone steady.

“Clear glass is made primarily from silica sand, which is heated at high temperatures until molten. Additional compounds such as soda ash and limestone are used to lower the melting point and improve durability. The float glass process, involving molten tin, creates perfectly smooth and transparent panes. The North possesses all the required materials in abundance.”

Silence.

Lacy looked back at Cregan, expecting him to be thinking through the logistics.

Instead, he was staring at PLEX, then back at her, with an expression that could only be described as absolute disbelief.

He looked like his eyes were about to pop out of his head.

Lacy grinned. “So… still think you need Myr?”

Cregan didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he straightened, taking a slow, steady breath before exhaling deeply.

Then, in one final nod, he confirmed what she already knew.

“We will work on these projects together.”

And with that, he turned and walked out of her pod.

Cregan’s Thoughts – Walking Back to His Solar
As Cregan strode through the stone corridors, leaving Lacy to whatever mysteries she planned next, his mind was unusually restless.

This was not what he had expected when he first laid eyes on her.

The strange woman who had fallen from the sky was no witch, no mythical being spun from old stories.

She was worse.

She was real.

And everything she had shown him—stoves, steel, weapons, storage, transportation, food production—it was all real, too.

The gods had blessed him beyond reason.

But they had also cursed him with knowledge that would change the North forever.

And that was dangerous.

There were men in Westeros who would not see these things as a gift.

They would see them as a threat.

And that meant one thing.

Lacy Morin had to be protected. Not just for her own sake—but for the sake of the North itself.

Chapter Text

Lacy rubbed her eyes, glancing at the date displayed on her screen.

A month?

She blinked again, stunned. Somehow, an entire month had flown by, lost in the flurry of projects, testing, and endless discussions with Cregan and his men.

It was almost laughable—how had she been here that long already?

Shaking her head, she glanced toward the other side of the pod, where Sara Snow sat, cross-legged and focused, going over the kitchen appliances Lacy had designed.

PLEX stood nearby, explaining each function in his usual mechanical precision.

“This mechanism regulates temperature automatically, ensuring an even cook. The enclosed flame prevents unnecessary heat loss and reduces fire hazards.”

Sara nodded along, taking careful notes as she worked.

Lacy smirked, crossing her arms. “I’m heading to the forge to check on the glass.”

Sara barely glanced up. “Alright.” She returned her focus to the schematics on the table, clearly absorbed.

Lacy couldn’t help but feel a small sense of victory—Sara had finally stopped calling her lady. It had taken weeks, but the girl had learned that Lacy hated formalities.

With that thought, she stepped out of the pod and made her way toward the forge.

As Lacy entered the forge, she was immediately greeted with warmth—not just from the roaring furnaces, but from the men inside.

She had worked with them for weeks now, explaining techniques, testing materials, and watching them master the process of glassmaking faster than she had expected.

“Morning, Lady L!” one of the smiths called.

Lacy grinned. “Morning, Harek.”

Others called out to her as well, some offering nods, others greeting her with the nickname they had given her—Lady L.

It wasn’t Lady Morin, and that was just fine by her.

She weaved her way toward Tomas, who was standing near a support stand, a perfectly clear sheet of glass resting upon it.

Lacy’s eyes lit up as she approached. “Damn, Tomas, this one looks incredible.”

The smith grinned, clearly proud.

She traced a finger lightly along the edge of the glass, examining the clarity and finish. “Has Lord Stark seen it yet?”

Tomas nodded, rubbing a hand over his soot-stained tunic. “Aye, Lady L. He was right proud of us. Told us to keep up the good work.”

Lacy smiled, genuinely happy for them. “You really did a good job on this, Tomas. I just wanted to see how it was coming along—I’ll let you get back to it.”

The forge erupted with farewells, a chorus of “Goodbye, Lady L!” following her as she exited.

Tomas, watching her leave, shook his head slightly.

“She’s truly a blessing to the North.”

The Keep – A Meeting Interrupted
Lacy headed up to the keep, making her way toward Cregan’s solar.

As she approached the door, she saw Jory Forrester standing at his usual post.

It had been two weeks since he had last been assigned to guard her, but he didn’t question her presence.

Instead, he simply opened the door, offering her a nod as she passed.

Inside, she expected to find Cregan alone—but that wasn’t the case.

Seated across from him was Lord Umber, a massive man with a thick beard and an even thicker voice.

The moment she stepped inside, both men stood—as Sara had trained her, Lacy knew to greet them properly and wait.

Cregan wasted no time. “Join us.”

She walked forward, taking the seat opposite them, but before she could say anything—

Lord Umber grinned.

“Marry me.”

Lacy laughed, shaking her head. “Still no, Umber.”

The big man sighed dramatically, as if deeply wounded, but she could see the amusement in his eyes.

She smirked. “Did you enjoy the tubers at breakfast?”

Umber lit up instantly. “Ate so much of them I had to take a walk after!” His booming laughter filled the room, his voice shaking the very walls.

Lacy chuckled, shaking her head. “Glad you liked them.”

Cregan had been watching her, his expression unreadable, but before he could speak, Lord Umber jumped in again.

“And those glass panels your men made, Stark—” he let out another laugh, shaking his head. “Never thought I’d see the day the Starks became better glassmakers than Myr!”

His laughter echoed again, but Cregan finally cut in, his voice steady.

“They are doing fine work.”** He turned to Lacy. “I was just about to summon you to discuss the different animal shelters you mentioned for the Umbers.”

Lacy nodded immediately. “Of course.”

She and Lord Umber launched into a discussion about which shelters would work best for his cattle and pigs, Lacy explaining how certain designs could protect livestock from the worst of the Northern winters.

But while she spoke, Cregan was barely listening.

His mind was elsewhere—watching her, thinking.

Would she turn me down so easily?

He knew she wouldn’t be happy with the offer he was considering, but after his talks with Willam Ryswell and Desmond Manderly, he had come to a hard conclusion.

There was no other way to tie her to the North.

His lords had been adamant—Lacy could not be allowed to leave when she had already given the North more than they could have ever imagined.

And as much as he hated to admit it, he knew they were right.

Sara had told him to be honest with her—to tell her not just about the politics, but about his growing feelings for her.

But Lacy…

She showed nothing.

No interest in him.

No sign that she even considered him in such a way.

Still, that didn’t change what had to be done.

He was still deep in thought when he suddenly realized—

Lacy had been trying to get his attention.

She was looking at him expectantly, waiting for an answer.

Cregan blinked, exhaled sharply, and turned to Lord Umber. “Step out for a moment. I need to speak with Lady Morin alone.”

Lord Umber arched a bushy eyebrow, then grinned as he stood. “Finally caught up, did you?”

Cregan gave him a warning glance, but Umber laughed anyway, clapping Lacy on the shoulder as he left.

The door shut behind him, leaving Cregan and Lacy alone.

Lacy studied his face, her sharp eyes picking up on the tension in his posture.

“Something wrong?”

Cregan didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he reached for a sealed raven message, turning it over in his hands before looking up at her.

“We have a spy.”

Cregan’s jaw was tight as he handed the sealed scroll to Lacy, his grip firm before letting it go.

Lacy took it, unfolding the parchment and reading the words carefully.

The message was simple—too simple—but the implications were massive.

Lord Stark,

Reports have reached the Crown of creatures walking among Winterfell—beings that are not of this world. I would have these claims investigated at once. Is there truth to these whispers?

Ser Otto Hightower, Hand of the King.

Lacy’s fingers tightened slightly around the parchment as she read the last line.

Her mind worked quickly, filtering through the few people who knew enough to send such a message to King’s Landing.

Then it clicked.

She exhaled sharply and muttered, “It’s the maester.”

Cregan’s gaze snapped to her, his expression darkening. He didn’t speak for a moment—just studied her, as if waiting for her to second-guess herself.

She didn’t.

He inhaled slowly through his nose, then called out—his voice sharp, controlled, but carrying unmistakable fury.

“Jory.”

A moment later, Jory Forrester entered the solar, his keen eyes flicking between Lacy and Cregan, immediately sensing something was wrong.

Cregan didn’t waste time.

“Escort Maester Aldric to my solar. Answer none of his questions.” His voice was iron now. “And send for Lord Umber. Have him return at once.”

Jory didn’t hesitate. “Aye, my lord.” He gave Lacy one last glance before exiting the room.

Lacy crossed her arms, exhaling slowly, her mind already racing ahead.

This wasn’t just some random inquiry.

If Otto Hightower was asking, it meant there were already whispers reaching the Red Keep. Which meant the maester had been talking more than he should have.

The door opened again, and Lord Umber strode in, his heavy boots echoing in the room.

His booming voice cut through the tension immediately. “What’s this now? Something wrong?”

Cregan didn’t turn to him right away. His gaze remained on the parchment in Lacy’s hands, his fingers flexing slightly at his sides.

Then, finally, he turned to Umber.

“I believe we have a traitor in Winterfell.”

Umber’s face hardened instantly, his usual jovial nature vanishing as he took in the severity of the words.

Cregan gestured toward the chair across from him. “Sit. I will need your advice.”

Lord Umber nodded once, lowering himself back into the chair, his eyes sharp and focused now.

The room fell into silence for a few moments, the weight of the accusation settling between them.

Then—the door opened again.

Jory returned, his expression guarded, and behind him, Maester Aldric stepped into the solar.

The maester looked around briefly, offering a polite nod as he greeted them.

“Lord Umber.” He then turned to Lacy. “Lady Morin.”

Finally, his gaze settled on Cregan. “Lord Stark, how may I serve you?”

Cregan didn’t answer immediately. He merely watched him, his expression unreadable.

Then, his voice came—low, steady, and dangerous.

“Have you allowed anyone besides me to send ravens?”

Maester Aldric stiffened slightly, but the hesitation lasted only a second.

“Of course not, my lord.” He paused, then added, “Though I have sent a few messages myself—strictly to the Citadel, as is my duty.”

Cregan’s expression darkened further, but he let the maester continue.

“When the lady first arrived,” Aldric explained, “I sent inquiries to the Citadel regarding the falling star at Starfall—to see if the scholars knew anything of its nature.”

He hesitated, then added, “And to inquire about the sword Dawn, and what metal it is forged from.”

Lacy’s brow furrowed slightly, but it was Cregan’s expression that shifted completely.

His shoulders tensed, and his fingers curled against the edge of the table.

A slow, measured breath—too controlled.

Then, his voice came again, like ice over steel.

“I recall telling you that no pieces recovered from the fallen star would be examined.”

Maester Aldric’s face flushed slightly, but he lifted his chin. “My lord, such matters must be discussed with the Citadel. It is for the safety of the realm.”

The room fell into silence.

Lacy inhaled sharply, already seeing where this was going.

Cregan’s entire posture shifted as he suddenly stood, his chair scraping against the floor.

His voice—no longer controlled—rose with unmistakable fury.

“Your duty is to me and this house!” His eyes burned with fury, his tone cutting like a blade. “No outsider should have ever been told!”

The maester sputtered, taking an instinctive step back. “My lord—”

“Enough.”

Cregan’s voice was final, absolute.

He turned to Jory, his jaw clenched.

“Escort him to the cells. Now.”

Jory nodded immediately, stepping forward and grabbing the maester’s arm firmly.

The older man stiffened, his expression shifting from shock to panic. “Lord Stark, you cannot—”

“I can.” Cregan’s voice was low and dangerous. “And I will.”

The maester struggled slightly, but Jory’s grip was ironclad, and he wasted no time dragging the man out of the solar.

The door slammed shut behind them, leaving a heavy silence in the room.

Lacy exhaled, crossing her arms. “Well. That was… something.”

Cregan didn’t sit back down. He remained standing, his body tense, his mind clearly still burning with anger.

Lord Umber let out a slow, heavy breath, shaking his head.

“Treason in Winterfell. Seven hells.”

Cregan’s fists curled slightly, his mind already racing.

Otto Hightower knew.

And that meant King’s Landing knew.

Which meant—Lacy’s presence in the North was no longer a secret.

And that made everything more dangerous.

Lacy crossed her arms, still watching the door where Jory had dragged the maester away. The tension in the room was thick, lingering like the last embers of a fire that had nearly burned too hot.

She turned back to Cregan, who was still standing, his jaw tight, his hands resting on the table as he stared down at the parchment from Otto Hightower.

“What happens now?” she asked, voice steady.

Cregan didn’t answer immediately.

His fingers tapped once against the wooden surface before he let out a slow, measured breath.

“I need to think on it.”

Lacy narrowed her eyes slightly, but didn’t press.

She knew that meant he wasn’t ready to lay out his next move—and considering how calculated he could be, he wouldn’t until he was sure of it.

The room settled into silence, but Lord Umber—who had been watching the exchange carefully—let out a deep huff, shifting in his chair.

His usual loud nature was absent—something Lacy noted immediately.

He had been one of the many voices urging Cregan to tie her to the North, but now, he didn’t speak on it.

Instead, his brows furrowed as he leaned forward, resting a massive arm on the table.

“Regardless of what happens next, the maester’s duties must be covered.”

Lacy blinked. “What exactly does that entail?”

Cregan’s gaze lifted, meeting hers again, but this time less rigid, more considering.

It was Lord Umber who answered first.

“The maester oversees the running of the castle—records the ledgers, keeps the accounts, manages the letters and messages, and handles the ravens.”

Cregan nodded, picking up from there.

“He also tends to injuries and illnesses among the household, advises on historical matters, and—” he exhaled, his jaw tightening slightly, “—he educates the young of the house, particularly heirs.”

Lacy tilted her head slightly, absorbing all of this. “So, basically, he’s your administrator, healer, historian, and tutor?”

Lord Umber huffed a short laugh. “Aye, that about sums it up.”

Lacy frowned slightly, arms still crossed. “Who’s going to take over all of that now?”

That was the real question.

And the way Cregan looked at her in that moment made her suddenly realize—

She might not like the answer.

Cregan held her gaze, his expression unreadable at first. But there was something calculating in his eyes—something that made Lacy immediately suspicious.

Then, finally, he spoke.

“You will.”

Lacy blinked.

Then she laughed, shaking her head. “Yeah, no. Try again.”

Cregan didn’t so much as flinch. “You asked who would take over the duties. You have the knowledge to handle most of them better than any maester.”

Lacy narrowed her eyes. “I am not a maester, Stark.”

Cregan exhaled slowly, as if he had expected the pushback.

“You understand medicine far better than any healer in the North,” he continued evenly. “You have already taken over aspects of administration—organizing production, overseeing projects. You have knowledge no other scholar possesses, and you can teach what you know. If I send for another maester, the Citadel will send one loyal to them, not to the North.”

Lord Umber nodded, his massive arms crossing over his chest. “He’s right, Lady L. Another maester will only bring more problems. One of their own just betrayed his post.”

Lacy let out a slow, measured breath, processing this new development.

This was not what she signed up for.

“I don’t know your records or accounts,” she argued. “And I don’t send ravens.”

Cregan tilted his head slightly. “I have stewards for the ledgers, and Jory or I can handle the ravens. The rest?” His sharp grey eyes locked onto hers, steady and unyielding. “You are more suited to than anyone else.”

Lacy exhaled sharply, running a hand through her hair. “You are impossible.”

Cregan shrugged slightly, the faintest trace of a smirk on his lips. “You asked for ways to prove yourself.”

Lacy groaned, rubbing her temples.

She should have known this was coming.

Lacy let out a slow breath, staring at Cregan as his words settled in.

She had asked for a way to prove herself, to be seen as an ally rather than just an outsider.

And she had wanted to start a school, to teach—not just children, but anyone willing to learn things that could help the North thrive.

This would put her in a position to do exactly that.

But still…

Her eyes narrowed slightly, and she sighed, dragging a hand through her hair. “Damn it, Stark.”

Cregan raised an eyebrow, waiting.

After a moment of silence, she exhaled sharply and said, “Fine. I’ll do it.”

A slow, approving nod from Cregan.

But before he could say anything else, Lacy’s lips curled into a smirk, and she lifted a finger at him.

“But—I don’t want any pushback on how I handle it.”** Her smirk widened slightly. “If I’m doing this, I do it my way.”

Cregan’s lips pressed together, as if weighing the consequences of that statement.

Finally, he nodded once. “Agreed.”

Before Lacy could say anything else—

Lord Umber let out a booming laugh, shaking his head.

“Hells, Stark, I think she just bested you in your own game!”

Cregan shot him a side glance, but Lacy just grinned, feeling at least a small victory in all this.

Chapter Text

Lacy stepped back into her pod, her mind still turning over the conversation with Cregan and Umber.

Inside, PLEX was mid-explanation, gesturing toward the schematics of an icebox displayed on the screen. Sara sat nearby, nodding along, focused.

“…and by utilizing an insulated container, ice can be stored for extended periods, preserving perishable goods even during the warmest months,” PLEX was saying.

Lacy barely let him finish before she cut in.

“Sara, how bad is the inquiry from the Hand of the King?”

Sara glanced up quickly, her brows furrowing slightly at the interruption.

She studied Lacy for a moment before leaning back, crossing her arms.

“Bad,” she admitted, her tone blunt. “The moment Otto Hightower starts sniffing around, it means others already have, too. He wouldn’t waste his time unless he thought there was something worth pursuing.”

Lacy’s jaw tightened slightly, but she said nothing, letting Sara continue.

“Word travels fast in the South, especially among those who seek to control the throne. If he’s asking now, it means King’s Landing is watching. And that means…” Sara paused, then exhaled. “You won’t be able to stay hidden forever.”

Lacy sighed, running a hand through her hair. That was what she was afraid of.

Lacy leaned against her desk, arms crossed, watching Sara carefully.

“Do you know how Cregan will handle this?” she asked, voice steady.

Sara didn’t answer right away.

She went quiet, her dark eyes studying Lacy, her expression unreadable.

Then, after a long moment, she exhaled and said, “To keep the Crown from pulling you South, I can see him doing one thing.”

She hesitated, as if measuring her words.

Then, finally—“Tying you to House Stark in marriage.”

Lacy’s stomach flipped slightly, but she didn’t react immediately.

Sara was watching her closely, assessing—waiting to see what her reaction would be.

Lacy’s mind worked quickly, turning over what that would mean—what it would change.

She glanced at Sara, her expression still neutral.

Then, after a moment, she asked, “Would he try to force me to marry one of his bannermen?”

Sara’s head tilted slightly, considering. “Would you be willing?”

Lacy didn’t hesitate. “No.”

She gave a half-smirk, shaking her head. “And even though Lord Umber asks me at least twice a day, I don’t look at him that way.”

Sara let out a quiet chuckle, shaking her head.

Then, with no hesitation, she said, “It wouldn’t be a bannerman.”

Lacy blinked, caught slightly off guard. “…What?”

Sara met her gaze evenly. “It would be Cregan himself who makes the offer.”

Lacy snapped her head back toward her screen, not wanting Sara to see whatever expression crossed her face.

Her fingers tapped against the metal desk, her mind reeling slightly.

She needed time—time to process what that would even mean.

Instead, she asked, keeping her voice casual, “He’s the Lord Paramount. Doesn’t he have to marry for political reasons?”

Sara exhaled, leaning back slightly.

“Yes… and no.”

Lacy glanced at her, raising an eyebrow. “Explain.”

Sara nodded. “Most Lords Paramount do marry for alliances. But the Starks are different. The North doesn’t play the same political games as the South. Our strength doesn’t come from marrying into powerful houses—it comes from unity, from loyalty. Cregan’s father married for duty, yes. But Cregan…” she trailed off, shaking her head.

“He has the freedom to choose. No one will force him into a marriage he doesn’t want. If he takes a wife, it will be his decision alone.”

Lacy processed that, absorbing what it meant.

It wasn’t like the South, where marriages were carefully planned moves on a chessboard.

If Cregan was considering this, it wouldn’t just be for politics.

And that… complicated things even more.

-

A few days passed, and Lacy had spent every waking moment pouring over the keep’s accounts and ledgers. With PLEX’s processing abilities, it had taken less time than expected, but the results were infuriating.

Now, she was headed to Cregan’s solar, ready to deliver the news.

When she arrived, Jory was at his post. He barely glanced at her before opening the door, stepping aside to let her pass.

Cregan was seated at his desk, as usual, going over a different set of parchments, but the moment he saw her expression, he set his quill down.

“Lady Morin.”

Lacy walked straight to the table, dropping a bound stack of ledgers onto it. “I’ve gone through the keep’s accounts with PLEX. And we found a lot of discrepancies.”

Cregan’s brow furrowed, his posture straightening slightly. “Explain.”

Lacy flipped open the ledgers, pointing to the first major issue.

“The taxes paid to the Crown are off by ten percent—going back four years.”

Cregan’s jaw tensed immediately.

“Ten percent?” His voice was low, controlled, but she could see the tension in his hands, resting flat on the desk.

Lacy nodded. “You’re behind on payments. The Crown will notice eventually. You’re going to need to sell something—probably a sword—to those Iron Bankers if you want to clear the debt before anyone from King’s Landing comes asking.”

Cregan’s expression darkened further, but he nodded once. “Continue.”

Lacy turned to the next issue, running a finger along the numbers.

“The Reach’s grain prices were marked down at a lower rate—meaning, according to these books, you’ve been paying less than expected.”

Cregan’s brows furrowed deeper, but Lacy held up a hand before he could comment.

“But when I checked the actual accounts, the payments sent were double what was recorded.”

Cregan stilled.

His grey eyes locked onto hers, as if trying to determine whether or not she was serious.

Lacy continued, her voice steady. “That means one of two things—either the maester was hiding additional purchases, or he was pocketing the rest.”

Cregan’s face hardened, his hands clenching into fists on the desk.

“You are certain?” His voice was low, almost dangerous now.

Lacy nodded once. “One hundred percent.”

He leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose as if trying to rein in his frustration.

But she wasn’t done yet.

“There’s one last thing.”

Cregan’s gaze snapped back to her.

Lacy tapped on a specific entry in the accounts.

“The maester was charging House Stark for his time here—by sending a regular fee to the Citadel.”

Cregan’s expression shifted, as if he didn’t quite understand at first. “For supplies?”

Lacy shook her head. “No.”

Cregan stared at her, then at the ledgers, as if expecting the numbers to change before his eyes.

Then—his chair scraped against the floor as he stood abruptly, his entire body rigid with fury.

“Seven hells.”

His voice was tight, his control slipping for the first time since she’d entered the room.

Lacy folded her arms, watching him.

“The maester was stealing from you, Stark.”

Cregan turned sharply, his jaw clenching so hard she could see the muscle twitch.

He was beyond pissed now.

And someone was going to pay for it.

Cregan
Cregan walked purposefully through the cold stone halls of Winterfell, his boots echoing with each step.

Behind him, Jory Forrester followed in silence, his face unreadable, but his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. He knew—just as Cregan did—that this conversation would determine a man’s fate.

As they approached the dungeon cells, the guards straightened at Cregan’s presence, moving aside as he stepped forward.

He stopped in front of the iron-barred door, his eyes narrowing at the pathetic figure inside.

Maester Aldric.

The old man was hunched over on the floor, his once-proud robes now creased and dirtied, his hair unkempt, his hands trembling as he looked up.

The moment Aldric saw Cregan step into the cell, he collapsed to his knees.

“My lord,” he whimpered, his voice weak, “I beg you—my deepest apologies for overstepping! I see the error of my ways and swear it will never happen again! Please, I—”

Cregan watched him, unmoved.

When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, but cold as the winter winds.

“Did you overstep when you were charging the North for grain never received?”

The maester’s mouth opened, but instead of an answer, he stuttered.

“That—that is not true, my lord! I—I simply—”

Cregan tilted his head slightly, his patience running thin.

“Are your services free?”

Aldric froze, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish.

For a long, stretched moment, the maester looked utterly dumbfounded before muttering, “…Yes.”

Cregan nodded slowly, then took a step closer, his presence looming.

“Then tell me—why have you been sending funds to the Citadel when none of your supplies come from them?”

The color drained from Aldric’s face.

He licked his lips, his gaze darting wildly, searching for an escape that did not exist.

“It was… a mistake, my lord—an error in my calculations, I assure you—”

Cregan laughed suddenly, loudly, the sound booming off the cell walls.

Aldric flinched at the sound.

“No, Aldric,” Cregan said, his amusement vanishing as quickly as it had come. His grey eyes turned sharp, unforgiving. “The mistake was trusting a grey rat in my home.”

Aldric fell into a desperate panic, hands shaking, tears forming in his wrinkled eyes.

“My lord, please! Have mercy! I have served faithfully—”

Cregan silenced him with a single look.

Then, the final question fell from his lips—a question he already knew the answer to.

“How long have you been a spy for Otto Hightower?”

Aldric went pale as snow.

The begging stopped.

For a brief moment, there was only silence, followed by a pathetic, broken whimper.

The old man crumbled, muttering half-truths, then contradictions, then more pleading, all tumbling over one another in a mess of desperation.

Cregan listened for a while—until he grew tired of it.

With a slow exhale, he turned sharply on his heel, stepping toward the door.

“You will be judged by the Northern houses in a fortnight.”

Aldric choked on a breath, his body shaking violently. “Please, my lord—no! I beg you—”

Cregan ignored him.

He already knew what the judgment would be.

The North despised traitors.

And once the truth was laid bare before them, the people would call for his head.

And Cregan would give it to them.

Cregan walked back toward his solar, his boots echoing through the stone halls of Winterfell.

His mind, however, was elsewhere.

It had been a full moon since Lacy Morin arrived in the North, and in that short time, she had uncovered countless issues—problems that had festered under his very roof, under his watch.

He was the Lord of Winterfell, the Warden of the North, and yet he hadn’t known.

Did she see him as incompetent?

The thought sat uncomfortably in his chest.

He let out a slow exhale, the weight of it clear enough that Jory Forrester, walking beside him, took notice.

“My lord,” Jory said hesitantly. “Permission to speak?”

Cregan didn’t slow his steps. “Say it.”

Jory adjusted his stance, then spoke plainly. “For everything she’s uncovered—for all she’s done—you should show your appreciation to Lady L.”

Cregan glanced sideways at him, before stopping entirely.

He turned to face Jory fully. “Out with it.”

Jory met his gaze without hesitation.

“She has been requesting to see the people—to treat them. If you wish to show your appreciation, allow it. Let the people grow comfortable with her, with her ways. It will only strengthen her place here.”

Cregan’s expression remained unreadable, but he turned, resuming his pace.

After a few long strides, he smirked slightly. “Has the lady gotten to you, Jory?”

Jory spoke the truth.

“Since she has arrived, the North has been blessed.”

Cregan’s smirk faded as Jory continued.

“Her way of speaking to the guards, the household staff, the workers, and even the common folk—it is unlike anything we have known. She listens, she values them. And because of that, they call her Lady Blessing behind her back.”

Cregan stiffened slightly, not expecting that.

“Every time she visits them, she brings them something—protective gear, new methods of work, new ways to keep themselves safe.”

Jory paused, then added, “She even ensures her metal beast scans them at the end of their shifts, making certain no injury has gone unnoticed.”

Cregan said nothing, but he was listening.

Jory went on. “The cooks adore her. They always prepare treats for her—always. The kitchens, once seen as an exhausting duty, have become a position people want because of her new methods. She has given them ways to prepare foodstuffs more efficiently, ways to make meals last longer. Because of her, working the kitchens is now a privilege, not a burden.”

Cregan inhaled deeply, his fingers curling slightly at his sides.

Jory wasn’t finished.

“She does not just help us—she makes the North stronger.”

Cregan lifted a hand, stopping him mid-sentence.

“I know.”

Jory fell silent, watching him.

Cregan exhaled slowly. “And I am working on a way to tie her to the North and its people.”

He said nothing more.

Jory didn’t ask.

They reached Cregan’s solar, and as they approached the door, Cregan gave his next order.

“Escort the lady to my solar.”

Jory nodded sharply, immediately turning to leave.

Cregan stepped inside, letting the door close behind him.

And then, for a moment—he was alone with his thoughts.

Would she accept his offer?

Not just for the North, but for himself as well?

That was the question Cregan Stark could not yet answer.

Lacy stepped into Cregan’s solar, her gaze sharp as she walked toward his desk.

“What did you find out?” she asked, not bothering with pleasantries.

Cregan, who had been leaning against the heavy wooden table, exhaled slowly before answering. “The maester is a traitor.”

Lacy nodded, unsurprised. “Figured.”

She walked over to one of the chairs but didn’t sit, arms crossed as she continued. “He wasn’t counting on you becoming lord.”** She shook her head.** “Because if you hadn’t, it would have only been a matter of time before the accounts and ledgers were checked.”

Cregan’s eyes flicked to her, then down to the table before he let out a slow, deep breath.

Lacy caught the shift in his posture, the weight in his stance. “What’s wrong?”

Cregan finally looked back up at her, his grey eyes more serious than usual. “I will have to go to King’s Landing to swear fealty to the king… and to answer the Hand’s questions.”

The words hung between them.

Lacy watched him carefully, reading the tension in his shoulders, the hesitation behind his words.

Then, instead of reacting, she simply asked, “When do I need to be ready?”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his expression unreadable. “You are not going.”

Lacy tilted her head slightly, brows furrowing. “Why not?”

Cregan cut her off before she could push further.

“Because I cannot protect you in the capital—not with all the snakes slithering around.”

Lacy opened her mouth to protest again, but Cregan was quicker.

“I gave my word to protect you,” he said firmly, his voice leaving no room for argument. “And I will not fail at that.”

Lacy studied him for a long moment, her eyes searching his.

Then, suddenly, she lifted a hand and said, deadpan, “Thank you.”

Cregan stared at her, completely caught off guard.

Lacy smirked at his stunned silence, before Cregan finally blinked and let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Of course. I am of the North.”

That sent them both into laughter, the tension from the earlier discussion breaking like ice beneath the sun.

Matters of Trade and Industry
Once the laughter settled, Lacy shifted the conversation.

“When will the first shipment of lead and iron arrive?” she asked, knowing Cregan was overseeing the newly started mining operations.

Cregan leaned back slightly. “Two moons, if all goes well.”

Lacy nodded thoughtfully, then pressed on. “Can I send PLEX to the mining locations daily? He can scan the workers for injuries and make sure they’re wearing the protective gear.”

Cregan hesitated, already wary of letting the machine move around unsupervised.

Lacy noticed his pause and quickly added, “PLEX is self-repairable, which makes him damn near indestructible.” She gave him a pointed look. “Besides, as the healer of Winterfell, I am responsible for their well-being. They’re under your protection, which means their safety is my duty.”

Cregan exhaled, then finally nodded. “Fine.”

Lacy grinned.

Cregan looked away, shaking his head slightly. That smile is going to kill me one day.

They moved on, shifting into the next subject on their ever-growing list.

“Lord Manderly—has he set out for Braavos yet?” Lacy asked, referring to her earlier request for him to secure rice grains and grape seeds to be introduced to the Neck and the Fingers.

Cregan folded his arms. “The ship sails in a se’nnight.”

He had to admit, it was a clever move.

If successful, the introduction of rice to the North would provide a lasting food source, one that could be stored for decades without spoiling.

And grape cultivation in the Fingers?

That was something he had never even considered—but if it worked, Northern wine could become a new source of trade and wealth.

His thoughts drifted deeper into the implications when Lacy cut in.

“When are the flightless birds from Skagos arriving?”

Cregan pulled himself from his thoughts. “The trappers were informed. They’ll set out tomorrow.”

Lacy nodded, pleased, then shifted topics again. “And the seabugs?”

Cregan let out a low chuckle, his arms still crossed. “They arrived.” He glanced at her, amusement flickering in his gaze. “Should I expect bug for supper?”

Lacy’s eyes lit up, and before he could say anything else, she let out a sharp, excited shriek.

“YES! I’m heading to the kitchens!”

Without waiting for permission, she turned on her heel and walked straight out the door.

Cregan watched her go, his lips parting slightly in surprise at how eagerly she stormed off, already rattling off cooking plans under her breath.

Jory, still standing nearby, arched an eyebrow.

Cregan exhaled through his nose, watching the door swing shut behind her.

She already acts like the Lady of the Keep.

-

The Great Hall of Winterfell was filled with warmth and laughter, the smell of butter, roasted meats, and something entirely foreign drifting through the air.

Cregan sat at the high table, his usual seat in the center, but tonight, it wasn’t just his bannermen and closest advisors who sat beside him.

To his left was Lacy, next to her sat Sara, and across from them sat Lord Umber—who was currently making obscene noises over his meal—and Tomas, who had been granted the honor of dining at the high table tonight for his hard work in glassmaking.

Cregan’s jaw clenched slightly as he watched Umber tear another piece of meat from the red-shelled creature—what Lacy had called a crab leg.

The loud, satisfied moan that followed made Cregan’s hand tighten into a fist.

His sharp grey gaze flickered toward Lacy, who was grinning as she reminded Umber, “Dip it in the butter sauce next to your plate.”

Cregan exhaled slowly, finally taking another bite himself.

The meat was surprisingly sweet, softer than he had expected, and it truly was tasty.

But Gods help him, if Umber made another one of those damn noises around Lacy, he might throw his goblet at the man.

Trying to ignore the way his bannerman was behaving, Cregan shifted his gaze to Lacy, who had turned her attention toward Tomas.

“How many panes of glass were you able to make in the last se’nnight?” she asked, her tone genuinely curious.

Tomas set down his fork, swallowing his bite before answering. “One and twenty, my lady.”

Cregan felt a rare sense of pride at the number.

One and twenty.

More than he had expected.

More than anyone in the North had ever been capable of producing before.

But just as the satisfaction settled in his chest—

“Mmmmmm.”

Cregan snapped his gaze back to Umber, shooting him a sharp, warning look.

The massive lord didn’t even notice, too busy savoring his food.

Sara laughed lightly beside him, clearly noticing his irritation.

Cregan looked away, exhaling through his nose, trying to keep his composure.

Then Umber drew his attention back by asking Lacy, “How did you know the hard-boiled eggs, pork sausage, and corn went so well with these seabugs?”

Lacy shook her head, correcting him. “Crab legs, Umber. Not seabugs.”

The lord shrugged, scoping out another bite.

“Tastes better than fish to me.”

Lacy chuckled and rolled her eyes before answering, “Where I come from, it’s well known. We have entire meals built around them.”

Then, as if an afterthought, she glanced at Cregan, her expression shifting into something more calculating.

“With how depleted our waters became back home, it became very costly to even get crabs. But here? The people can eat them year-round, and you can open a trade up, selling them.”

Cregan’s brows furrowed slightly, the wheels in his mind already turning.

Lacy continued, “There’s also another fish—one that was the most expensive back home. It’s called tuna.”

Cregan was about to ask her to explain further, but—

“Can you draw what they look like?” Umber interrupted. “I’ll have my fishermen look for them.”

Lacy nodded immediately, already reaching for something to sketch on.

Umber leaned forward, grinning. “I don’t doubt your knowledge, Lady L. If it’s half as good as these crab legs, the people of the North will enjoy it.”

As the conversation continued around him, Cregan found himself lost in thought.

An abundance of foodstuffs.

The North had always struggled with long winters, relying on trade from the South to keep their food stores filled.

But if what Lacy said was true—if the North could produce enough grain, fish, and even wine for trade—

They would no longer need to rely on anyone.

And that—more than anything else—was something Cregan Stark would see done.

Chapter Text

Winterfell – The Future of the North
A Moon Later

The solar of Winterfell was filled with the weight of serious discussion, the glow of the hearth casting flickering shadows across the gathered lords.

Seated around the heavy wooden table were Lord Robart Bolton, Lord Willam Ryswell, Lord Medger Cerwyn, Lord Dustin, Lord Flint of the Fingers, and Lord Glover.

At the head of the table, Cregan Stark sat, his expression calm but firm, his mind already working through the details of what had to come next.

The lords of the North had come to discuss trade, something that had never been a major concern before, given that the North had little to offer the South beyond timber, furs, and ores.

But things were changing.

“New trade opportunities?” Lord Ryswell asked, brows furrowed. “What trades, exactly?”

Cregan leaned forward, his fingers resting against the table’s edge. “For House Stark, we have glassmaking.”

A brief pause, before Lord Cerwyn whistled lowly. “Glass? Like the kind in Myr?”

“Clearer,” Cregan corrected, his grey eyes steady. “And far more affordable.”

A few of the lords exchanged glances, realization dawning. If Winterfell could produce glass on its own, that meant fewer deals with Essos, fewer coin spent sending for expensive goods.

But Cregan wasn’t done yet.

“House Reed will begin rice cultivation.”

That made Lord Flint lift a brow. “Rice? In the Neck?”

Cregan nodded. “A YiTish grain. Lady Morin explained that it can last over five-and-twenty years when stored properly.”

That caused a small stir in the room, murmurs breaking out among the assembled lords.

Food preservation had always been a struggle in the North, but if that were true…

“That would change everything,” Lord Glover muttered, rubbing his beard thoughtfully.

Cregan continued without pause.

“House Flint of Widow’s Watch will begin processing their newly found rock salt deposits.”

That caught Lord Flint’s full attention. “You’re certain of this?”

“PLEX mapped it,” Cregan answered plainly.

Lord Flint exhaled sharply, sitting back in his chair. “Gods…”

Salt was one of the most valuable commodities in Westeros, and if the Flints could refine their own, it would turn Widow’s Watch into a valuable hub of trade.

And Cregan was still not finished.

“House Umber will pursue a new fish called tuna, as well as crab and lobster trapping.”

Lord Ryswell scoffed lightly. “Seabugs? You mean to tell me Umber will be trading in seabugs?”

Cregan’s jaw tightened slightly at the comment, but before he could respond, Lord Bolton spoke up.

“I have eaten them,” he said flatly. “They are good.”

That silenced Ryswell immediately.

“Lady Morin provided Lord Umber with the designs for a new style of fishing vessel,” Cregan went on, “one she will be sharing with every house in the North. If these ships perform as expected, we will have a means of securing more food—not only for ourselves, but for trade.”

More muttering.

This was not what they had expected to discuss.

“And?” Lord Dustin asked, studying Cregan carefully. “What else?”

Cregan exhaled slowly, then pressed on.

“Wool mills, cotton mills, steel mills, and a new type of parchment called paper will need to be established as well.”

That was met with surprised reactions.

“Paper?” Lord Cerwyn repeated. “What’s wrong with parchment?”

“Cost,” Cregan said simply. “Paper can be produced faster and in larger amounts. More books, more records, more education.”

That caused a long moment of silence.

Books were not common in the North—not like they were in the South. Maesters and lords held most knowledge, but if paper was made cheaply enough, more people could be taught to read and write.

More knowledge meant more power.

But that wasn’t the end of it.

“And then there are the new inventions,” Cregan continued.

The lords leaned in slightly, waiting.

“Silos for grain storage. Stoves to better heat homes. The Ice Box, which will allow perishable foods to last longer. Pedal-powered carts for work and transport.”

The room fell into stunned silence.

Lord Cerwyn was the first to break it. “Ice? In a box?”

“Yes.”

“…Stored grain without rot?” Lord Ryswell asked.

“Yes.”

Lord Bolton’s cold gaze met Cregan’s. “And these things work?”

“Lady Morin has proven it.”

A long, weighted pause.

Then, Lord Dustin exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “This is madness.”

“This is the future.”

Cregan let the words hang between them before delivering the last of his revelations.

“We also have new methods for farming livestock, a promising way to breed fish in controlled waters, and…” he hesitated, knowing this would likely be the strangest of them all. “…a new animal called a turkey.”

That got another long silence before—

“A what my lord?” Lord Glover asked.

Cregan sighed, already preparing for this conversation to last well into the night.

Cregan exhaled through his nose, already preparing for the disbelief about to follow.

“The turkey,” he began, “is a flightless bird—larger than a chicken, heavier than a goose. Its meat is plentiful, and its eggs are nearly twice the size of a hen’s.”

The lords of the North—men who had seen war, famine, and the unforgiving bite of winter—exchanged careful glances, but none dared interrupt their Lord Paramount.

Cregan continued, his tone firm.

“Lady Morin explained that these birds are not only easy to raise, but they grow fast. They require less feed than other livestock, and they can survive in the cold with the proper shelters.”

Lord Glover, ever the pragmatist, inclined his head slightly. “And their meat, my lord?”

“Richer than a goose, fattier than a hen,” Cregan replied evenly. “One bird can feed an entire household.”

Lord Cerwyn cleared his throat, but there was no humor in his voice when he spoke. “You have given us seabugs, my lord. Now land-birds? The North is not accustomed to such changes.”

Cregan’s sharp grey gaze flicked to him, steady and unwavering. “The North is not accustomed to thriving, either. But that will change.”

A pause.

Then nods of understanding.

Without missing a beat, Cregan pressed forward.

“Glasshouses.”

The reaction was immediate.

The lords sat straighter, their expressions more alert, more focused.

“My lord,” Lord Ryswell said carefully, “forgive me, but this… is no small matter.”

Lord Bolton, who had remained silent but watchful, spoke then. “Glass is costly, Lord Stark.” His tone held no challenge, only the weight of measured understanding.

“Not when you make it yourself,” Cregan answered, his voice calm, but resolute.

A beat of silence.

Lord Dustin was the next to speak, his tone measured, respectful. “And you intend for every noble house, and even some villages, to receive one of these… freely?”

Cregan inclined his head, allowing the weight of his words to settle before speaking again.

“Yes.”

Another pause.

Then, Lord Flint, who had remained thoughtful throughout the conversation, shifted slightly in his seat. “Forgive my questioning, my lord, but if these glasshouses work as you claim, the North will be able to grow food long into the cold seasons.”

“Exactly.”

The weight of understanding settled among them.

Cregan pressed forward.

“There will also be improved shelters for livestock. Stronger pens for sheep, reinforced stables for horses, insulated coops for fowl. Lady Morin has provided the designs, and once implemented, they will ensure fewer animals perish during the frost.”

Lord Glover, his loyalty to House Stark unquestioned, gave a single firm nod. “More livestock means more food, my lord.”

“More food means the North will no longer scrape by when the long winters come.”

Cregan’s sharp gaze swept across the room.

This was not just about one house, one lord, one city.

This was about the future of the North.

And every man at this table knew it.

For the first time in generations, the North would not just endure.

They would thrive.

With the future of trade and agriculture laid before them, Cregan shifted the conversation to another matter of great importance—one that would fortify the North’s strength for generations to come.

His sharp grey gaze swept across the gathered lords before he spoke.

“The North has always been known for its timber, furs, and iron, but it has far more than that beneath its soil. Mining has begun in key locations, and soon more will follow.”

The lords listened in silence, their expressions turning calculating.

“The ore deposits mapped by PLEX are vast,” Cregan continued. “Iron and lead are already being mined, and soon, copper, zinc, and nickel will follow. The wealth of the North will no longer be measured solely by the strength of our men, but by the strength of what lies beneath our feet.”

Lord Bolton, ever the quiet strategist, spoke first. “And who oversees these operations, my lord?”

Cregan’s lips twitched slightly, as if expecting the question.

“Lady Morin has taken personal responsibility for the safety of the workers,” he said evenly.

That got a reaction.

A few of the lords exchanged glances, some with surprise, others with intrigue.

Lord Glover leaned forward. “How does she intend to keep the miners safe, my lord?”

Cregan’s expression remained unreadable, but his tone held a certain weight.

“She has implemented the use of protective gear for the men—helmets, padded gloves, reinforced boots, and masks to filter dust from their lungs.”

That stirred more murmurs among the lords.

Protective gear? That was unheard of in the mines.

“Furthermore,” Cregan went on, “PLEX will be sent daily to scan the men for injuries, ensuring that wounds are tended to before they worsen. And every miner is required to rotate shifts to prevent exhaustion.”

Lord Flint rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “Mining has never been safe, my lord. Accidents happen. Collapses, poisoning, burns—”

“Which is why these measures are in place,” Cregan cut in. “Lady Morin has studied mining practices from her homeland and found ways to lessen these dangers. The men work in shifts of no longer than six hours, to prevent fatigue. Ventilation shafts will be reinforced, and collapses will be prevented before they happen.”

Lord Cerwyn, who had been quiet up until now, finally spoke. “Forgive my bluntness, my lord, but these… innovations—do the men accept them?”

Cregan let out a low exhale.

“At first, they resisted,” he admitted. “Northern men are proud. They have worked the same way for generations. But when Lady Morin personally walked into the mines and demonstrated the protective gear herself, their opinions changed.”

The lords sat straighter at that.

A woman—a lady—entering the mines?

Lord Dustin let out a rare chuckle. “She has the spine of a warrior, I’ll give her that.”

Cregan only smirked slightly, but his expression held something more—something deeper.

“The men now wear the gear willingly. And they work knowing their well-being is valued.” His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at each lord in turn. “And a workforce that is cared for is a workforce that will not falter when winter comes.”

The room fell silent for a moment.

The implications of these changes were not lost on anyone.

The North was not only growing stronger—it was growing smarter.

And Cregan Stark would see it done.

With the last of the mining discussions settled, Cregan leaned back slightly, exhaling through his nose.

It had been a long meeting, but a necessary one.

Just as he was about to dismiss the gathering, Lord Robart Bolton, who had remained silent for much of the discussion, spoke up.

“My lord,” Bolton’s voice was measured, careful, but it carried an unmistakable weight. “If I may ask—do you truly intend to offer your hand to Lady Morin?”

The room fell utterly silent.

The air shifted, thick with the unspoken reason these lords had come to Winterfell.

All eyes turned to Cregan.

He met their gazes without hesitation.

“Yes.”

That single word carried the finality of a sword stroke.

Cregan let it hang between them, let them digest it, before his sharp grey gaze shifted to Bolton.

“Tell me, Lord Bolton—do you see another way to tie the Lady Morin to the North?”

Bolton did not answer immediately.

He simply studied Cregan, as if searching for some hidden meaning behind his words.

Then, from the other side of the table, Lord Glover cleared his throat.

“Would it not be better,” Glover proposed carefully, “to grant her a small keep instead? Let her hold land and swear fealty to you—that would tie her to the North without the need for marriage.”

A reasonable suggestion.

But before Cregan could respond, Lord Dustin scoffed.

“And what happens when she marries some lesser lord, and he takes her knowledge for himself? He could claim her keep, control her inventions, and grow rich off her ideas—all while the North loses its advantage.”

Silence again.

Dustin leaned forward, his expression firm. “With Lord Stark marrying her, it ensures her knowledge remains in the North. And it gives him control.”

Cregan remained quiet, his fingers steepled before him, watching the lords as they began debating amongst themselves.

He had already made his decision.

Whether they approved or not mattered little.

Still, there was no harm in letting them speak, letting them come to terms with it themselves.

Because when the time came, the offer would be made.

And Lacy Morin would decide.

Chapter Text

Wintertown – A Healer's Work
Lacy sat across from a woman wrapped in thick wool, her hands folded tightly in her lap as she listened intently to the explanation being given to her.

“It works like this,” Lacy said, holding up a cloth pad with straps on the sides. “This is a reusable pad. You wear it inside your underclothes, and when it’s full, you rinse it in cold water, let it soak, then wash it properly before using it again.”

The woman’s eyes widened, her fingers twitching in her lap. “You mean we don’t have to throw them away?”

“No,” Lacy confirmed. “That’s the point. You only need a few, and they last for years. No more stuffing rags or worrying about bleeding through.”

The woman let out a breath, her shoulders sagging slightly in relief.

“And for the pain?” she asked hesitantly.

Lacy reached to the side, picking up a small glass vial filled with a light-colored liquid.

“This is an herbal remedy for cramping and pain,” Lacy explained. “It works fast, and it’s safe to take when needed. Just a few drops in warm water or tea.”

The woman’s mouth parted slightly, eyes shining with gratitude. “You’re a blessing, my lady. Truly.”

Before Lacy could respond, the door opened, and a familiar figure stepped inside.

Cregan.

Lacy smirked immediately, looking at him with amusement. “Did you just cut in line? Because I have at least ten more people waiting out there.”

Cregan chuckled, his deep laughter filling the small room.

“I’ve come to tell you that you need to stop for your mid-day meal,” he said.

Before she could protest, he held up a new object—one she immediately recognized.

A lunchbox.

“The head cook was going to bring this herself,” he admitted, “but I was already heading this way.”

Lacy grinned, taking it from him. “Well, thank you, Lord Stark.”

Cregan huffed, crossing his arms. “Eat, Lacy.”

She rolled her eyes but gestured to the chair across from her. “Eat with me before I get started again.”

Cregan didn’t hesitate, settling into one of the chairs beside the wooden table as she opened the lunchbox, pulling out a thick sandwich, a small portion of dried pork skins, and a slice of honeyed bread.

Lacy cut her sandwich in half and handed part of it to him, setting the pork skins between them.

Cregan took the sandwich, but Lacy quickly noticed something.

Before he even touched it, he reached for the pork skins first.

And then, proceeded to eat nearly all of them.

Lacy raised an eyebrow, watching as he ate them with genuine enjoyment. “You really like those, huh?”

Cregan finally picked up his sandwich, giving her a side glance. “You’re just now realizing?”

Lacy laughed, shaking her head. “Noted.”

As they ate, she leaned back slightly. “How did the meeting with the lords go?”

Cregan swallowed a bite before answering. “Better than I thought it would.”

Lacy nodded approvingly, waiting for him to elaborate.

“Bolton will be handling the turkey farming,” he said, “and House Flint of the Fingers agreed to the vineyard idea.”

Lacy grinned. “Good. That means we’ll have more wine and trade coming in soon.”

Then, after a beat, she added, “I’ll have the cook prepare lobster tails tonight for supper.”

Cregan gave her a knowing look.

Lacy smirked. “And how many times did they say ‘seabugs’?”

Cregan chuckled, shaking his head. “Too many.”

She could tell, just from his more relaxed demeanor, that now that his meetings were over, a weight had been lifted.

They continued eating in companionable silence, the atmosphere light and easy, until the door creaked open again.

Sara stood at the threshold, giving Lacy a pointed look.

“Your next patient is ready.”

Lacy sighed, looking toward Cregan—who was finishing the last bite of his sandwich.

He stood, brushing crumbs from his hands. “I’ll be back to escort you to the keep when you’re done.”

And with that, he turned and left, the door shutting behind him.

Lacy watched him go, a small smile playing at her lips before she turned back to work.

Lacy sat at the high table, leaning slightly on one elbow, watching in amusement as Lord Glover raised his hand to signal for another lobster tail.

“Another, if you please.”

She barely concealed her smirk, turning her gaze toward Cregan, who was already looking at her with that knowing smile—the kind that said he was enjoying this just as much as she was.

But instead of addressing her, he turned to Lord Glover, speaking in a voice laden with subtle suggestion.

“Uncle, perhaps you should look into fishing for lobsters and crabs on the western coast.”

Lord Glover stilled for a moment, then slowly set his knife down, eyes narrowing slightly in thought.

“A fine idea, Lord Stark,” he said after a beat, “especially with how savory they are.”

Lacy bit her lip, fighting back a laugh.

Cregan knew exactly what he was doing.

With just a few well-placed words, he had planted the idea in Glover’s mind—and judging by the way the older man was already contemplating it, it was clear he was taking the suggestion seriously.

Lacy shook her head, grinning at Cregan before returning her attention to her plate.

Before she could take another bite, Lord Bolton’s voice cut through the chatter.

“Lady Morin, tell me more of these turkeys.”

Lacy looked up, noting the lord’s calm but intrigued expression.

“Turkeys are large birds,” she explained, “and unlike chickens or geese, they can grow to be nearly the size of a small pig before slaughter.”

That got a few interested murmurs from the other lords.

She continued, “They are easy to feed and can survive colder climates, making them a perfect livestock choice for the North. Their meat is rich and plentiful, and one bird can feed a household.”

Lord Bolton nodded, his cold blue eyes assessing. “Interesting.”

Before he could press further, Sara leaned in slightly, curiosity lighting her expression.

“You said these birds are common where you come from, my lady. Were they eaten for special occasions?”

Lacy nodded, a small, nostalgic smile tugging at her lips.

“Back home, we had what we called Thanksgiving and Christmas,” she said. “On those days, you were guaranteed to see turkey on the table, along with other fixings—stuffing, mashed potatoes, fresh-baked bread, pies…”

Sara’s eyes widened slightly. “And what was the purpose of these feasts?”

Lacy tilted her head. “Thanksgiving was meant to be a day of gratitude—families gathering together to share a meal and reflect on what they were thankful for.”

Sara seemed to like that, nodding as if committing it to memory.

“And Christmas?”

Lacy hesitated for a moment, before simply saying, “It was a time of giving, celebration, and goodwill.”

As Sara asked another question, Lacy noticed something.

Cregan was listening to her every word.

Though he said nothing, his keen grey eyes remained fixed on her, his posture relaxed but attentive.

He was taking in everything she said, filing it away for later consideration.

And Lacy had a feeling he was already thinking of ways to use this information for the North.

After supper had ended, Lacy found herself walking through the halls of Winterfell, escorted by Jory Forrester at Cregan’s request.

The air was cool and crisp, and she exhaled slowly, wondering what Cregan wanted this late in the evening.

When they reached his solar, Jory opened the door for her, stepping aside as she entered.

Cregan was already inside, standing by his chair, his expression unreadable.

Lacy arched an eyebrow, striding toward the chair as she spoke.

“Need something, Stark?” she asked, her tone casual but laced with curiosity.

Cregan didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he turned toward the wall, reaching for a painting and moving it aside.

Lacy’s brows furrowed as she watched him, but the moment she saw what he pulled out, she straightened slightly, eyes narrowing.

Her gun.

And a small box.

Cregan moved the painting back into place, then turned back toward her, his expression calm, steady.

He walked over to where she sat, then slid the gun across the table toward her.

Lacy looked at him for a long moment, then smiled.

“Took you long enough to trust me,” she said, picking up the weapon briefly before setting it back down. Then, with a smirk, she added, “But honestly? It’s probably safer back in your wall.”

Cregan studied her for a beat, then—without a word—pulled the gun back toward him.

But instead of just setting it aside, he slid the small box toward her.

Lacy frowned slightly, looking at it.

She hesitated, then carefully lifted the lid.

Inside, a ring.

Her breath caught slightly, her gaze flicking from the delicate but well-crafted piece of jewelry to Cregan, who had suddenly risen from his chair.

Before she could even process what was happening, he stepped around the table and knelt before her.

Lacy’s heart skipped a beat.

Her lips parted slightly, but no words came out.

Cregan reached for the ring, taking it carefully from the box as he met her gaze.

“This belonged to my mother,” he said, his deep voice gentle but unwavering. “And I would be honored if you took my hand in marriage.”

Lacy felt her chest tighten, her fingers instinctively curling against the table as she stared at him.

But Cregan wasn’t done.

“I am not a learned man like those in your homeland,” he admitted, his grey eyes steady, open, raw with sincerity. “But I will protect you. And I will love you—just as fiercely as any man living or dead.”

The room was silent, save for the sound of the crackling hearth.

Lacy’s mind raced.

This was no political arrangement.

No calculated move for power.

This was Cregan Stark—offering her everything.

Lacy sat frozen in Cregan’s solar, the weight of the moment pressing down on her like the thick winter air outside.

Her gun sat on the table, forgotten.

The small wooden box, once holding the ring now in Cregan’s hand, lay open in front of her.

And Cregan Stark—the Wolf of the North, the Lord of Winterfell, the man who had stood so firm in his duty and purpose—was kneeling before her.

Not as a commander giving orders.

Not as a ruler demanding obedience.

But as a man, laying himself bare.

Lacy’s heart pounded against her ribs, her fingers tightening slightly against the table’s edge.

He had stunned her into silence—and that wasn’t something that happened often.

Cregan’s grey eyes held hers, steady and sure, his fingers curled around the ring with a quiet reverence.

“I am not a learned man like those in your homeland,” he had said, his deep voice soft but unwavering. “But I will protect you. And I will love you—just as fiercely as any man living or dead.”

Lacy exhaled, slowly, shakily.

She had never been proposed to before.

She had dated, briefly—a handful of men back home, but nothing had ever gone anywhere.

She had been too busy learning, too busy chasing knowledge, too busy proving herself.

Then she had been chosen for the Lazarus mission, and after that…

She had never expected to have this.

A proposal.

A man kneeling before her, offering her not just his name, not just his protection, but his heart.

Cregan Stark had never once tried to control her.

Not when she had challenged his decisions in the council meetings.

Not when she had introduced ideas that upended the traditions of his people.

Not even when she had stood toe-to-toe with him in arguments that would have had lesser men walking away in frustration.

He had let her be Lacy.

He had trusted her.

And he had fallen for her just as she was.

Lacy swallowed hard, her throat tight, her chest full.

Her eyes flicked down to the ring in his fingers.

It was simple, yet elegant—a smooth band of Northern-forged silver, adorned with a wolf’s head engraving along its sides, and a single, dark stone set in the center.

A piece of his family.

A piece of him.

For her.

Lacy let out a shaky laugh, half-exasperated, half-overwhelmed.

She reached up, rubbing her hand over her face before looking back at him, her eyes bright with something indescribable.

“You really know how to throw a woman off her game, huh?” she muttered, voice teasing but tinged with something deeper.

Cregan smirked slightly, but he didn’t move, waiting.

He’s waiting for me to decide.

And wasn’t that just so damn typical of him?

Letting her be the one in control of her own fate.

Lacy inhaled, then exhaled.

Then, without looking away from him, she held out her left hand.

Cregan stilled for a moment, his eyes flickering with something almost unreadable.

Then, with exquisite care, he took her hand in his, his fingers warm, solid, steady—and slid the ring onto her finger.

It was a perfect fit.

Lacy stared at it for a moment, her heart in her throat, before looking back at him.

Then, she did something she never did.

She hesitated.

Her voice came out softer than she expected. “I don’t… know how to be a wife.”

Cregan’s expression didn’t waver, didn’t change.

He simply squeezed her hand, his voice low and honest.

“Then we’ll figure it out together.”

Lacy let out a breathless laugh, something close to relief flooding her veins.

And in that moment, she knew.

She had made the right choice.

With a mischievous glint in her eye, she tilted her head. “You should know—I still plan on pissing you off regularly.”

Cregan chuckled, deep and warm, before rising to his feet. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

Lacy grinned.

Then, before she could second-guess herself, she stood and closed the space between them, wrapping her arms around his neck.

For a moment, Cregan didn’t move.

And then, slowly, carefully, he wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her close.

The fire crackled in the hearth.

The winds howled softly beyond the stone walls of Winterfell.

And in the quiet of his solar, beneath the weight of history and duty, Cregan Stark held the woman who would soon be his wife.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Lacy sat inside her pod, absently twisting the silver ring on her finger, watching how the dark stone caught the soft morning light.

Lady Morin.

The thought still felt surreal, like something out of a dream she hadn’t quite woken from.

She had never thought she would marry, much less find herself betrothed to the Lord of Winterfell.

The soft sound of PLEX granting access broke her thoughts.

A moment later, Sara walked in, her face already stretched into a knowing smile.

Lacy arched an eyebrow, returning the grin. “You knew, didn’t you?”

Sara didn’t even try to deny it, settling into the chair beside her. “Of course.”

Lacy let out a breathless laugh, shaking her head. “And you didn’t think to warn me?”

Sara tilted her head playfully. “I was sworn to secrecy.”

Lacy rolled her eyes, but the amusement didn’t leave her face.

Then, Sara’s expression softened, and she reached out, gently touching Lacy’s hand where it rested on the table.

“Are you happy?” she asked softly.

Lacy didn’t answer immediately.

She looked at the ring again, at the wolf engraving, at the weight of what it meant.

Then, after a long moment, she exhaled.

“I am.”

Sara nodded once, satisfied. “Good. Because Cregan will need to draw from that happiness when he sees the clothes you had made.”

Lacy snapped her gaze up, eyebrows raised. “Are they really that bad?”

Sara laughed, leaning back in her chair. “Depends on who you ask. You? No. The dressmakers? No. Your future husband?” She smirked. “I suspect he’s going to have… opinions.”

Lacy groaned, but then started laughing, shaking her head as she thought back to working with the seamstresses.

After she had designed the carding machine, looms, and knitting machines, she had sat down with the dressmakers to create new styles of clothing.

Apparently, Northern fashion was about to take a turn.

“Do me a favor?” Lacy asked, giving Sara a look.

Sara sighed immediately, closing her eyes for a brief moment before shaking her head. “I already regret agreeing, but go on.”

Lacy grinned mischievously.

“I’m going to hold a private fashion show. Just for Cregan. He’ll get to approve which outfits are fit for outside wear and which ones are… let’s say, for bedroom wear.”

Sara burst out laughing, covering her face. “Oh, gods, I want no part in this.”

“Too late,” Lacy teased.

Sara shook her head, still laughing. “This is going to be a disaster.”

Lacy smirked. “Oh, I’m counting on it.”

That Evening – A Lord's Reaction
After supper, where Cregan had stood before his bannermen and household and formally announced their betrothal, the Great Hall was filled with whispers of the upcoming union.

Their wedding would take place in six moons.

Some had expected the announcement.

Others had been caught completely off guard.

But one thing was certain—Lacy Morin was no longer just a guest in the North.

She was going to become a Stark.

After the announcements and formalities, Lacy made her way to Cregan’s side solar, where Sara was already waiting for her.

Lacy handed her the four different dresses she would be showcasing.

“After he sees all of them, he gets to decide what’s appropriate,” she said with a smirk.

Sara shook her head again, laughing. “This is cruel.”

“It’s necessary.”

With that, Sara left to prepare.

Lacy took her time, slipping into the first dress.

It was form-fitting, knitted from soft wool, hugging her curves in a way that Northern gowns never did.

It flowed down to her ankles, stopping just above the shoes she had specially made—with a long, elegant heel that added a few extra inches to her height.

When she was ready, she stepped into Cregan’s solar, her head held high.

She had just entered the room when—

Jory made a choking sound.

Lacy blinked, looking over at him.

His face had turned red, his mouth slightly open in a way that was frankly hilarious.

But when she turned to Cregan, she saw something that almost made her laugh outright.

His grey eyes had gone dark, scanning her from head to toe.

His jaw tensed.

His hands clenched slightly before he forced himself to relax.

And then, in a single stride, he closed the distance between them.

Without a word, he pulled his cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it firmly around her.

“Are all the dresses in this state?” he asked, his voice low and strained.

Behind them, Sara burst out laughing.

So did Lacy.

Cregan looked from her to Sara, clearly unimpressed.

“You’re enjoying this.”

Lacy grinned, pulling his cloak tighter around her. “Immensely.”

Cregan exhaled sharply, looking at Sara as if she were supposed to put an end to this madness.

Sara simply shrugged.

“She did say you’d get to choose what was appropriate.”

Cregan dragged a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath before shooting a look at Lacy.

“This was planned, wasn’t it?”

Lacy grinned, stepping back toward the door. “Oh, absolutely.”

And with that, she disappeared to change into the next dress.

Cregan
Cregan exhaled slowly, his fingers curling into fists at his sides as he watched Lacy disappear behind the door to change into the next dress.

Jory, still looking half-stunned, had been swiftly dismissed to the end of the hallway—where Cregan was certain he could no longer choke on his own breath at the sight of Lacy in another godsdamned “dress.”

But even without Jory’s reactions, Cregan wasn’t faring much better.

The second dress she emerged in was worse than the first.

This one was even more form-fitting, the material thinner, clinging to her like a second skin. The neckline plunged, exposing far too much of her collarbone, and the slit along the skirt left little to the imagination.

Sara barely hid her laughter as Cregan stood up immediately, pulling off his cloak without hesitation and wrapping it firmly around Lacy’s shoulders.

“No.”

Lacy smirked. “No?”

“No.”

She laughed, twirling slightly beneath the heavy cloak. “You’re so dramatic.”

Cregan gritted his teeth, running a hand through his hair as she disappeared once again to change.

The third dress tested his willpower even further.

A deep crimson, sleeveless, and tighter than any garment had the right to be, it hugged her curves in a way that was downright sinful.

Jory, despite being at the end of the hallway, coughed loudly.

Sara covered her mouth, trying not to laugh outright.

Cregan, on the other hand, simply took his cloak from the chair beside him and wordlessly wrapped it around her again.

Lacy let out a breathless laugh, eyes glinting with pure mischief.

“Are you going to do this every time?”

“If you continue with this madness, then yes.”

By the time she reappeared in the fourth dress, he was ready to throw her entire wardrobe into the nearest hearth.

This one was deceptively modest, the sleeves long, the neckline higher than the others, but then—

The moment she turned, he saw it.

The entire back was exposed, the fabric only held together by thin laces woven at the base of her spine.

Cregan pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience wearing dangerously thin.

Sara, at this point, was laughing so hard she had to sit down.

Jory, wisely, had stopped making any sound at all.

Lacy waved a hand dismissively. “Alright, alright. One more.”

Cregan exhaled, sitting down heavily in his chair, silently praying to the Old Gods for strength.

When Lacy finally reappeared again, he braced himself.

But this time, she was dressed in a standard Northern gown, simple and practical, the type of dress most women in Winterfell wore.

Cregan let out a long breath, rubbing his face.

“You’re not wearing any of the others.”

Lacy smiled, tilting her head. “That bad, huh?”

“Lacy.”

She laughed, then waved a hand. “Fine, fine. I’ll have the dressmakers start on some different designs.”

Cregan narrowed his eyes at her.

She smiled innocently.

“Ones I think you’ll like. For the public.”

Cregan studied her for a long moment, then finally leaned back in his chair, shaking his head.

Sara, still grinning, turned to Lacy, immediately launching into a conversation about fabrics, trims, and more reasonable designs.

Cregan found himself watching them, something warm settling in his chest.

He had been worried, at first, about how Lacy would adjust to this world, to his people, to his family.

But seeing her and Sara like this—so at ease, so natural—he realized he had nothing to fear.

She was already one of them.

His eyes lingered on her for a moment longer, thinking back to the way she had looked in those damn dresses.

And the last one—the one that had nearly driven him to madness—the one that had hugged every inch of her, leaving nothing to the imagination.

His jaw tightened slightly, and he made a mental note to ensure Jory never spoke a word about it to anyone.

The last thing he needed was for anyone else picturing what he now couldn’t unsee.

Gods help him.

Winterfell – A Marriage Contract
Two days later, Lacy made her way toward Cregan’s solar, her thoughts swirling in her mind like a storm.

She approached Jory Forrester, who stood at his usual post outside the doors, his sharp eyes immediately flicking to her, assessing.

“Lady Morin,” he greeted with a respectful nod.

Lacy offered a small smile, but Jory, ever the watchful guard, didn’t miss the slight furrow of her brow.

“Would you tell Lord Stark that I request a moment of his time when his meeting concludes?” she asked.

Jory nodded once, though his gaze lingered on her, sensing something weighed on her mind.

But he didn’t pry.

Lacy turned to leave, her boots light against the stone floors as she walked down the corridor, lost in thought.

She had nearly reached the end of the hall when Jory’s voice called her back.

“Lady Morin, Lord Stark is ready for you.”

Lacy turned back toward Cregan’s solar and saw three men stepping out of the room—Lord Robart Bolton, Lord Willam Ryswell, and Lord Medrick Cerwyn.

The lords paused when they saw her, each offering a respectful nod of greeting.

“Lady Morin,” Lord Bolton greeted first, his voice as cold as ever.

“My lady,” Ryswell followed, giving her a calculating glance.

“A pleasure,” Lord Cerwyn added politely.

Lacy nodded in return, her expression neutral but polite as she passed them and stepped into Cregan’s solar.

The moment she entered, Cregan was already on his feet.

His grey eyes swept over her, instantly reading the tension in her posture.

“Is all well?” he asked, voice low and steady.

“No.”

Cregan’s expression darkened slightly, and he stepped closer, his full attention on her.

“What troubles you?”

Lacy exhaled, her fingers brushing against the ring on her finger as she met his gaze.

“Why didn’t I get a marriage contract?”

Cregan stilled, his expression shifting slightly.

Then, after a brief pause, he tilted his head slightly.

“How did you hear about it?” he asked.

“Lord Glover asked me what I requested in my contract.” Lacy crossed her arms. “Which I didn’t, because I didn’t even know that was a thing.”

She watched him carefully, the question burning in her mind.

Why didn’t he offer me one?

Cregan’s lips twitched slightly before he let out a low chuckle.

Lacy narrowed her eyes. “You thought of it?”

He nodded. “I did.”

“And?”

Cregan met her gaze, his expression serious now. “I did not want to demand your knowledge or your machines.”

Lacy’s heart stuttered in her chest.

He didn’t say it, but she understood what he meant.

Many men—lords, kings, rulers—would have tried to bind her knowledge to them in ink and blood, ensuring they owned her advancements, her inventions, her mind.

But he had never once considered doing that to her.

Lacy forced herself not to react, to not let him see how deeply those words had struck her.

Instead, she simply said, “I want one.”

Cregan studied her for a long moment, then exhaled slowly, nodding. “Very well.”

Then, after a pause, he asked, “Who do you want on your side of the council?”

Lacy blinked, caught off guard.

“I get to choose that?”

“It is your contract, is it not?”

Lacy stared at him for a long moment, still dumbfounded by the way he handled things.

She hadn’t expected to be given such a choice.

Most marriages, from what she had learned, were negotiated between families—terms set, expectations placed, with no input from the bride.

But here Cregan was, giving her the reins.

Lacy thought for a moment, then finally said, “Sara.”

Cregan nodded. Expected.

“Lord Umber.”

Cregan’s lips twitched. Also expected.

But then—

“Lord Bolton.”

Cregan stared at her, stunned.

Of all the lords, Robart Bolton was not the one he had anticipated her choosing.

“Bolton?”

Lacy nodded, her expression unreadable. “Yes.”

Cregan watched her for a long moment, then exhaled and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully.

Finally, he said, “We will meet after the midday meal.”

And as Lacy turned to leave, she knew she had surprised him.

And maybe, just maybe—that was exactly what she intended.

-

Lacy entered Cregan’s solar after the midday meal, Sara at her side, looking mildly confused as to why she was here in the first place.

Lord Umber, on the other hand, was grinning ear to ear, clearly pleased that Lacy had chosen him for this council meeting.

Then there was Lord Robart Bolton, whose expression was just as cold and unreadable as ever, his dead stare fixed on nothing in particular.

Seated across the table, on Cregan’s side, were Lord Glover, Lord Ryswell, and Lord Cerwyn.

Once everyone was seated, Cregan’s grey eyes swept over the gathered lords before landing directly on Lacy.

His tone was straightforward, firm.

“Tell me, Lacy—what is it you want?”

She was caught off guard by the directness of the question, but she recovered quickly, leaning forward on the table.

“I only have three requests.”

Cregan tilted his head slightly, silent but waiting.

“The first,” Lacy said, “I want three Damascus steel swords.”

There was a beat of silence before every lord at the table except Cregan reacted at once.

“Damascus?” Lord Glover frowned.

“What in the seven hells is that?” Ryswell added.

Lord Umber, ever enthusiastic, leaned forward. “Steel from her world?”

Lord Bolton, however, remained eerily quiet, his dark gaze flicking between Lacy and Cregan.

But Cregan didn’t even acknowledge the lords’ questions.

Instead, his attention remained on Lacy.

“Done.”

The other lords stopped speaking immediately, turning toward him in mild surprise.

Lacy nodded, satisfied. “Second request.”

She turned her head slightly, then said, without hesitation—

“I want Sara Snow legitimized.”

The room went completely silent.

Sara’s head snapped toward her, her eyes wide in pure shock. “Lacy—”

Cregan smirked.

He had expected something bold.

And she never disappointed.

“I will request it when I go to King’s Landing,” he said simply.

Sara stared at him now, still too stunned to speak.

But Lacy wasn’t finished.

“Third request,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “When Sara is a Stark, she is given Moat Cailin.”

The air in the room shifted.

Lacy continued, “I will sell two of my swords to have it repaired and upgraded, and the last sword will be House Stark’s gift to her—her family sword. One she will pass to her future husband when she takes a lord’s hand in marriage.”

Every lord at the table turned to Cregan, waiting for his reaction.

Cregan, however, simply stared at Sara.

“What man are you dreaming about marrying, sister?”

Sara blushed furiously, staring at Lacy instead of answering, her head tilting slightly in a silent request for her to speak.

Lacy sighed and shook her head before answering for her.

“Ser Edric Bolton.”

A long, heavy silence filled the room.

Every lord turned to Robart Bolton at once.

Robart, for the first time in a long time, looked visibly shocked.

His eyes slowly shifted to Sara, then to Cregan, then back to Lacy.

The room waited.

And Robart Bolton had no words.

Cregan rubbed a hand down his face, exhaling slowly, his fingers dragging over the stubble on his jaw before he finally looked back at Lacy and nodded.

A long breath left him, as if bracing himself for what was to come.

But before he could speak, Lacy lifted a hand, cutting him off.

“No need,” she said, her voice firm but light. “I already know what you want.”

She turned slightly, her expression resolute.

“I’ll make a declaration.”

Without hesitation, she called out.

“PLEX, enter the room.”

A moment later, the soft whirring of mechanical joints filled the space.

The lords turned sharply, some tensing, as the metal beast stepped into the solar—its dark metal frame reflecting the firelight, its glowing interface pulsing faintly.

PLEX stopped beside Lacy’s chair, standing at attention.

Its voice was smooth, precise, and unnervingly calm.

“How may I assist you, Lady Morin?”

Lacy didn’t hesitate.

“Cregan Stark receives full status control.”

A brief pause.

Then, PLEX’s interface flashed a soft blue.

“Lord Cregan Stark, confirm status authorization.”

Cregan’s eyes flicked to Lacy, but she simply nodded.

He turned back to PLEX, his jaw tightening slightly before he spoke.

“Confirmed.”

For a brief second, the room was silent.

Then—

PLEX’s lights pulsed brighter, its voice shifting slightly in tone, as if acknowledging a new hierarchy.

“Welcome, Lord Stark.”

The lords stared, unmoving.

Then PLEX continued.

“You now hold full access to my military capabilities, tactical intelligence, and all strategic defense protocols. As an advanced artificial intelligence, my functions include high-level surveillance, structural analysis, real-time combat assistance, and predictive threat assessment. Additionally, I am programmed for medical diagnostics, mechanical engineering, and environmental adaptation. All classified restrictions have been lifted under your command.”

The room remained frozen.

Cregan stared at PLEX, his expression unreadable, before his gaze slowly slid to Lacy.

And she smirked.

“You wanted security, didn’t you?”

Cregan exhaled sharply, then—

He laughed.

Low, deep, and genuine.

The lords, however, were still too stunned to react.

And now—Winterfell belonged to more than just the Starks.

It belonged to a future they never could have imagined.

Cregan leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, his gaze steady on Lacy.

Before the lords signed the documents, before everything was finalized, he had one last question.

One that mattered more than politics, more than trade, more than war.

“Lacy,” he said, his voice low but firm. “What about children?”

The room fell into silence.

Lacy didn’t answer immediately.

She simply looked at him, her expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, she let her gaze trail over him, deliberately, from head to toe.

When her eyes met his again, she spoke in a completely deadpan voice—

“How many can you give me?”

The reaction was instant.

Lord Umber choked on his own breath, his face turning red as he burst into loud, booming laughter, slamming a hand against the table.

Lord Ryswell, usually composed, made an odd strangled noise, covering his mouth to stifle whatever reaction had nearly escaped.

Lord Glover cleared his throat sharply, avoiding eye contact entirely.

Lord Cerwyn blinked, his expression caught between shock and mild amusement.

Lord Bolton remained dead silent, but there was the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth, as if he was internally processing whether or not to find this amusing.

Sara, sitting beside Lacy, pressed her lips together, failing miserably at holding back a grin.

Jory, standing near the door, rubbed a hand over his face, looking like he wanted to be anywhere else.

And then there was Cregan.

Who just stared at her.

His jaw tightened, his fingers drumming once against the table, his grey eyes locked onto hers.

For a long moment, he didn’t say a word.

Then—

“Enough,” he muttered, rubbing a hand down his face as the laughter around them continued.

Lacy smirked, leaning back in her chair, completely unbothered.

“Well?” she pressed, one eyebrow raised.

Cregan lowered his hand slowly, leveling her with a long, assessing stare.

Then he exhaled deeply, sat back, and finally said—

“As many as you can handle.”

And just like that—the room erupted again.

Chapter Text

Winterfell – Watching the Wolf
The last few days had been different.

Lacy had noticed it immediately—the way Cregan had been watching her more.

And she knew it because she had been watching him just as much.

She sat on the stone steps leading to the training yard, her arms crossed as she watched Cregan spar with one of his men.

And gods—she had never been more turned on watching a man fight before.

But here she was.

Watching.

Thinking.

Six feet of pure muscle, battle-forged and disciplined.

Every time he moved, his arm muscles flexed under his tunic, the fabric straining over broad shoulders and a powerful chest.

Does he have washboard abs?

She was pretty damn sure he did.

The man walked around like he had Big Dick Energy.

And honestly? She believed it.

She let out a slow breath, watching as Cregan blocked a strike, spun, and delivered a sharp counter that sent his opponent stumbling back.

Damn.

Not that she was keeping track, but that was the third man he’d put on the ground today.

To her right, PLEX stood silently, scanning the sparring matches, running some kind of analysis.

Lacy’s eyes flickered to him briefly, a small frown forming.

What the hell has PLEX been doing in Cregan’s solar every morning for a few hours?

And again in the evenings before Cregan heads to bed?

Since she had given him full access, PLEX had been moving on his own more than usual, but she hadn’t questioned it.

Maybe it was time to take a closer look at his system logs.

She was just about to check when a familiar presence settled beside her.

Sara.

Lacy looked up, saw the ridiculous smile on her face, and smirked.

“Alright,” Lacy said, tilting her head. “What’s got you looking like that?”

Sara’s face turned red instantly.

Lacy followed her gaze, looking back toward the sparring yard—

And there he was.

Edric Bolton.

He had just entered the yard, his steps purposeful, his expression focused as he walked toward the sparring area.

Lacy’s smirk grew.

“Have you been able to spend any time alone with him since he arrived yesterday?”

Sara sighed, shaking her head. “No.”

Then she glanced at Lacy.

“And I never will—not until we marry.”

Lacy raised an eyebrow. “Never?”

“Never,” Sara confirmed. “Not everyone is a Lord Paramount who can control such things.”

Lacy burst out laughing.

“Well, true.”

Then she glanced toward Cregan, still locked in combat, and her laughter softened into a thoughtful hum.

“But he doesn’t let me get too close.”

Sara turned to her, blinking. “Lacy.”

Lacy looked at her. “What?”

Sara gave her a flat look.

“He’s scared of losing control.”

Lacy stared.

Sara arched an eyebrow. “Of dishonoring you.”

Lacy’s head snapped back toward the sparring yard, her gaze locking onto Cregan.

Then back to Sara.

“That’s why he doesn’t get too close to me.”

Sara nodded.

Lacy sat back, her thoughts shifting.

She had been wondering about it—the way Cregan would look away quickly when she got too close, the way his posture stiffened sometimes, the way he was so careful with his touches, his words.

And now, suddenly—it made perfect sense.

A slow chuckle slipped past her lips.

“Well,” she mused, tilting her head. “I guess I’ll just have to see if I can get him to lose control.”

Lacy requested time with Cregan after supper, wanting to see if a new invention would be something the North would enjoy.

When she arrived at his solar, Jory was guarding the door as usual.

But this time, he didn’t question her presence.

He simply nodded and let her walk right in.

Inside, Cregan stood the moment he saw her.

PLEX was also present, standing near the large wooden desk, its glowing interface dim but active.

Cregan turned toward the mechanical guardian and spoke.

“That will be all for the evening.”

Without hesitation, PLEX turned and exited, heading back toward the pod.

Lacy watched him leave, then turned back to Cregan, holding out a small wooden box.

“Here.”

Cregan arched a brow, taking it from her hands.

He opened the lid—and inside was just a folded cloth.

He frowned.

“What is it?”

Lacy grinned.

“It’s a party game called Twister.”

Cregan looked up at her, amused. “A game?”

“Yep.”

“And you wish to play it?”

“With you.”

Cregan’s smirk deepened.

Without missing a beat, he turned his head and—

“PLEX.”

Lacy’s eyes immediately narrowed.

PLEX, who had barely made it to the corridor, halted and turned back.

“How may I be of assistance, Lord Stark?”

Cregan tilted his head slightly, his smirk never fading.

“Is this ‘party game’ called Twister appropriate to play?”

Lacy’s mouth fell open.

“What—no! PLEX, don’t answer that!”

PLEX’s interface flashed blue for a moment.

Then—

“Override command per Lord Cregan Stark.”

Lacy let out a groan, slapping a hand over her face.

Then PLEX continued.

“The game Twister is not appropriate.”

Cregan leaned back slightly, amused.

“And why is that?”

PLEX listed the reasons in precise, mechanical detail.

“This game requires extreme proximity, bodily entanglement, and precarious positioning that is often unsuitable in formal or modest settings. Given Lady Morin’s current relationship status with Lord Stark, it may be considered highly suggestive.”

Cregan’s grin turned downright wolfish.

Lacy huffed, crossing her arms.

“You’re insufferable.”

Cregan chuckled. “I rather enjoy winning.”

Lacy spun on her heel, storming out of the solar before he could see the light flush creeping up her neck.

Round one goes to Cregan.

But she would be back.

Next time, she’d make sure PLEX was conveniently occupied at one of the mines.

Lacy sat at her desk inside her pod, deep in thought.

For days now, she had been trying to figure out a way to get closer to Cregan—without alarming him to the fact that that’s exactly what she was trying to do.

The man was stubborn as a damn ox, disciplined like a soldier, and frustratingly controlled.

But she’d noticed the small things.

The way his gaze lingered on her longer than before.
The way he tensed when she was too close.
The way his hands would clench slightly, like he was forcing himself not to reach for her.

And now that she knew why—thanks to Sara—she had a new plan.

She just needed a way to close the distance… naturally.

Of course, since Cregan had PLEX monitoring every conversation in Winterfell, she couldn’t exactly tell Sara about this plan before she thought of it this time.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the deep, reverberating ring of a bell.

Lacy’s head snapped up.

That’s the bell I placed on the keep’s entrance gates.

Each bell had a distinct tone, a system she had suggested so the guards could identify which gate was accessed and who had arrived without needing to see them immediately.

This one was loud, deep, and unmistakable.

House Manderly.

She immediately rose from her chair and made her way out of the pod, heading toward the gates.

Cregan had made it clear—they must meet every guest upon arrival as a show of proper welcome.

By the time she reached the entrance, Sara was already there, adjusting her furs against the cold.

A moment later, Cregan himself arrived, his grey cloak sweeping over the ground behind him as he approached.

Just in time, the heavy carriage bearing House Manderly’s sigil rumbled to a stop.

The door swung open, and Lord Desmond Manderly stepped out.

He was a large man, thick with a nobleman's weight, his cheeks flushed pink from the cold as he took in the sight of them.

“Lord Stark,” he greeted, giving a formal nod.

Cregan returned the gesture. “Lord Manderly.”

Manderly’s gaze swept over Lacy, and she gave him a respectful nod in greeting.

Then, his eyes fell upon the tray presented by one of the kitchen hands—a large, twisted bread lightly salted on top.

The new welcome tradition.

Lacy had insisted they switch from the typical offering of bread and salt to something far better—

A soft salted pretzel.

Lord Manderly eyed it with curiosity.

“What’s this?” he asked, taking the offering.

Cregan smirked. “Eat it.”

Manderly took a tentative bite—and immediately, his eyes widened.

“Seven hells.”

Lacy bit her lip to keep from laughing.

The lord finished chewing, then looked at Cregan.

“I’ll need another.”

Cregan gave a knowing nod.

“That means you’ll be doubly welcomed and doubly protected.”

Manderly let out a booming laugh, clapping a hand over his stomach.

“Gods, I’ll have to visit Winterfell more often.”

Lacy grinned.

The North could use a little more flavor.

Once Lord Manderly was settled, he met with Cregan and Lacy to discuss the success of his mission to procure the items Lacy had requested.

They sat around a large wooden table, Cregan at the head, Lacy to his right, Manderly across from her.

Manderly set down a parchment and smiled.

“Lady Morin, I was able to procure all of the seeds you requested.”

Lacy sat forward slightly, intrigued.

“Even the ones with different names?”

Manderly nodded.

“The names vary, but your drawings helped immensely.”

He unrolled the parchment and began listing off some of the items he’d acquired.

Frostgrain (Named by Lady Morin as Emmer Wheat (Farro))
Icebarley (Named by Lady Morin as Siberian Rye)
Crowgrain (Named by Lady Morin as Buckwheat)
Ghostseed (Named by Lady Morin as Quinoa (Altiplano Variety))
Lacy’s eyes gleamed as he continued.

Fruits & Berries for Food & Wine

Sunburst Berries (Cloudberries)
Redfrost Berries (Lingonberries)
Firethorn (Sea Buckthorn)
Frostcurrants (Haskap Berries)
Icevine Fruit (Siberian Kiwi)

Vegetables & Herbs for Cooking & Medicine

Ironroot (Maca Root)
Bitterroot (Wasabi Radish)
Winterleaf (Sorrel)
Bitterbloom (Chicory)
Ghostwort (Angelica Root)
King’s Herb (Lovage)

Nuts & Oil-Producing Plants for Trade & Industry

Winterkernels (Siberian Pine Nuts)
Goldseed (Camelina (False Flax, Oil Plant))
Darkmint (Perilla (Shiso, Medicinal & Oil Plant))

Lacy couldn’t hide her excitement.

These were all cold-weather crops, meaning they could thrive in the North’s harsh climate.

This was a massive win.

“This is incredible,” she said, looking at Cregan. “These will completely change how the North grows food.”

Cregan nodded, clearly pleased. “You’ve done well, Lord Manderly.”

But Manderly wasn’t done.

He leaned forward, his expression shifting.

“Now for the other matter.”

Cregan’s brows furrowed slightly.

“The sword.”

Manderly smiled.

“The Iron Bank purchased your Northern Valyrian steel sword.”

Lacy blinked.

Cregan stilled.

“The Iron Bank?” he repeated.

Manderly nodded.

Then, he casually dropped the number.

“Five million gold dragons.”

The room went completely silent.

Lacy’s mouth fell open.

Cregan’s hands tightened into fists against the table, his entire body going still.

Manderly, clearly enjoying their reactions, leaned back in his chair, grinning.

Lacy was the first to break the silence.

“Five… million?” she echoed.

Manderly chuckled. “Aye.”

Lacy let out a stunned laugh, running a hand through her hair.

“Shit, Cregan, you could buy a kingdom with that kind of gold.”

Cregan exhaled slowly, his mind already racing.

That was enough gold to arm the North for generations. To fortify its defenses. To ensure Winterfell never struggled through another long winter.

But most importantly—

It meant House Stark held something even the Iron Bank wanted.

He looked at Lacy, who was still grinning, wide-eyed.

Cregan
The room was dead silent after Lord Manderly announced the sum.

Five million gold dragons.

Cregan sat back in his chair, fingers pressed against the wooden table, his jaw tight, his mind racing.

That was more wealth than any Northern house had seen at once in generations.

It was enough to ensure Winterfell would never know hardship again.

Enough to fortify their defenses, prepare for winters harsher than any before, and—most importantly—enough to rid them of any unwanted debts.

His gaze flickered to Lacy, whose bright eyes gleamed with excitement, her lips curved into a wide, stunned smile.

Shit, Cregan, you could buy a kingdom with that kind of gold.

Her words rang in his ears.

A kingdom?

No.

But he could secure the North’s sovereignty in a way that no other Warden of the North had before.

He exhaled slowly.

“We’ll pay the Iron Throne what is owed,” he said, his voice measured, controlled.

Manderly nodded. “A wise choice.”

It was.

No matter how much he detested sending Northern coin to a throne that had little care for his people, he knew it was necessary.

The crown had been underpaid for years.

Not by his doing—but by the maester’s deceit.

This would clear those accounts and ensure that when he traveled to King’s Landing to swear fealty, he would do so with honor intact.

But it wasn’t just about debts.

This gold changed everything.

The mines would expand.
The steel mills could grow.
The harbors could be strengthened.

The North had always been rich in resources, poor in coin.

Now?

That would no longer be the case.

Cregan’s hand tapped against the table once—a final decision settling into place.

Then, just as he was about to turn back to Manderly—

Lacy shifted beside him.

She leaned in just slightly, her voice dropping to something soft… sultry.

“So…” She dragged the word out, her fingers grazing the edge of her cup.

“Does that mean I can finally build my hospital and school, Lord Stark?”

Cregan’s entire body went still.

His grey eyes snapped to hers, locking onto the challenge she had just laid before him.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

And gods…

He had been playing this game with her for days now.

Every glance, every unspoken moment, testing each other’s patience.

But now?

Now she was pushing him.

And he could tell she knew it.

His lips curled into a slow smirk, his gaze darkening as he leaned slightly forward.

For a brief moment, he forgot about Lord Manderly.

Forgot about the Iron Bank.

Forgot about everything except her.

“You ask as if I was ever going to deny you.”

Lacy’s lips parted slightly, her brows lifting in intrigue.

Oh, she wasn’t expecting that one.

Cregan’s smirk deepened, watching the flicker of emotion that crossed her face.

He could feel the weight of her breath hitching, see the way her fingers tightened subtly against the cup she held.

This was new.

This was something neither of them had named yet.

And the way she looked at him now—**like she had just realized she had been playing a game without knowing the stakes—**sent something sharp through his chest.

Lacy exhaled slowly, then tilted her head.

“I should have just asked nicely then, shouldn’t I?”

Cregan chuckled—deep, low. A sound that settled in her stomach in a way she wasn’t expecting.

He leaned back, exhaling through his nose, but his gaze never left hers.

“Yes,” he said, his voice smooth, deep.

“You may.”

The air between them stretched—thick, heavy, charged.

A game.

That’s what this was.

And she had just made her move.

Lacy’s smile widened slightly, her eyes flickering over him, reading him, measuring his reaction.

Manderly cleared his throat loudly.

Cregan blinked once, slowly, his jaw tensing as he sat back.

The moment passed.

But the game?

The game was far from over.

Lacy
The Great Hall of Winterfell was alive with celebration that evening.

Long feasting tables groaned under the weight of roasted meats, fresh breads, and newly introduced dishes that had already begun to reshape the North’s cuisine.

Cups overflowed with strong Northern ale and rich spiced wine. Laughter rang, mixing with the deep, rolling voices of men who had fought in bitter winters and now found themselves toasting to an unexpected windfall.

The North had never been rich in coin—only in iron, stone, and blood.

But tonight?

Tonight, the Starks had struck gold.

Lacy sat at the high table, half-listening to the conversations flowing around her.

She had expected excitement, but what she was hearing was more than that.

There was strategy in these talks.

Discussions of trade, alliances, and what this newfound wealth truly meant for the North’s future.

Her gaze flickered toward Cregan, who was deep in conversation with Lord Bolton.

The man’s dead-eyed stare made him unreadable, but his voice carried across the table.

“…I say she and Edric should accompany you to King’s Landing.”

Lacy’s fingers tightened slightly around her cup.

Sara and Edric?

Bolton continued, his tone calm but firm.

“Once Sara takes the name Stark, the betrothal will be set in stone. There’s no sense in waiting until the Moat is rebuilt just to travel back south for formalities.”

He glanced at Cregan.

“Swear her and Edric’s fealty now, before the King and Hand—before the Iron Throne itself.”

Lacy leaned back slightly, considering his words.

It made sense.

If Sara was to be legitimized, it would secure the Bolton-Stark alliance immediately, rather than waiting for Moat Cailin’s restoration to be completed.

And politically?

It would send a clear message—one that placed Edric Bolton, not his elder brother, as the Stark-chosen heir to the Dreadfort.

Lord Manderly, further down the table, nodded along.

“It would also serve Lady Morin well.” His voice was smooth, thoughtful. “The South already whispers about her origins—call her sorceress, or worse. She has a mind unlike theirs, a tongue quicker than they are used to.”

His eyes flickered toward her briefly, as if weighing her reaction.

“But if she stands before the court at Lord Stark’s side… if she is seen, if they hear her words, watch her manner… they may see something else entirely.”

He smiled.

“She has the Stark look about her, after all.”

Lacy raised an eyebrow.

The Stark look?

That was a stretch.

But…

Was he wrong?

She had already noticed the way the smallfolk had warmed to her—especially after she had begun treating them in Winter Town.

They had given her a name.

"Lady Blessing."

They saw her as one of their own.

And if the North could accept her…

Could the South?

Her mind churned with the possibilities, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her cup.

She had assumed Cregan wouldn’t let her travel with him—too many snakes in King’s Landing.

But this wasn’t just about politics.

This was about perception.

If she stood before the Iron Throne, would it change the way the world saw her?

Or more importantly—

Would it change the way the Crown saw the North?

She glanced at Cregan, who was still engaged in discussion.

Her decision settled.

She would talk to him.

Tonight.

Lacy found Cregan alone in his solar, standing before the fire, his broad back to her.

She stepped inside, closing the door behind her, ignoring the slight flutter in her chest.

This wasn’t nerves.

This was determination.

She had made up her mind.

“I want to go to King’s Landing with you.”

Cregan turned immediately, his sharp grey eyes locking onto hers.

His expression was unreadable.

Then—

“No.”

Lacy folded her arms.

So, he was going to shut her down immediately?

Not even hear her out?

Fine.

She took a slow breath, her voice calm but firm.

“Hear me out.”

Cregan exhaled sharply, rubbing his jaw.

“Lacy—”

“You’re taking Sara and Edric.” She cut in smoothly. “Why not me?”

His jaw tightened.

“Because it’s different.”

Lacy arched an eyebrow. “How?”

“The South is filled with liars, manipulators. You think I’ll let you walk into that pit?”

She shook her head.

“That’s exactly why I need to go.”

Cregan gave her a look that said he wasn’t convinced.

She stepped closer.

“You’re taking Sara because her presence solidifies her legitimacy.”

“Yes.”

“You’re taking Edric because it shows the Bolton alliance is firm.”

“Yes.”

“But what about me?”

Cregan’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“You are not some piece on a board to be moved, Lacy.”

She smirked. “No, I’m the one making my own moves.”

He let out a slow breath, turning slightly, but she wasn’t done.

“Manderly was right,” she said, her voice softer now, but no less determined. “If I stand before the court as your betrothed, they will see me.

She stepped closer, forcing him to meet her gaze.

“I have nothing to hide.”

Cregan’s shoulders stiffened.

She continued.

“The South sees women as pawns, but I am not a pawn. They think a woman cannot be as learned as I am. That intelligence and invention belong only to men.”

Her voice hardened.

“If I stand in that court, I prove them wrong.”

Cregan’s lips pressed into a thin line.

She knew she had his attention now.

She went for the kill.

“I have done nothing but help the North since I arrived.”

His eyes flickered.

“I built the glassworks.”

She took a step closer.

“I introduced a new way of farming, a way to breed livestock better.”

Another step.

“I brought food sources that will last generations.”

Another.

“I made the mines safer. I made the workers safer. I made the people’s lives better.”

Cregan exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening.

But she could see it.

He was thinking.

He was breaking.

She wasn’t done.

“And the South should see that why?” he asked, his voice low, measured.

She smiled. “Because they should know the North is strong. They should know what we are capable of.”

His eyes darkened slightly.

She had him.

Now, time to seal the deal.

“And if nothing else, I can make the journey easier.”

Cregan narrowed his eyes.

Lacy’s grin widened.

“The Rover.”

His lips parted slightly, his brow furrowing.

She pushed on.

“If I remove the unnecessary equipment, it can fit five people comfortably.”

She watched as realization dawned on his face.

“We wouldn’t need horses. No days of hard riding.”

Cregan stared at her.

She smiled.

“Three days, Cregan. Maybe less.”

Silence.

Lacy could see the cracks forming in his resolve.

One last push.

“You could send your guards ahead of us, giving them time to scout and secure our arrival. Meanwhile, I can use the time to assess the roads, plan for a railway system when the time comes.”

Cregan’s jaw flexed.

He looked away for a moment, staring at the fire.

When he turned back, she knew he was close to relenting.

But he still wasn’t saying yes.

Which meant…

She smiled brightly, quickly closing the space between them before he could argue.

She rose on her toes, placed a soft, fleeting peck on his lips, and pulled back just as fast.

“Great! I’ll start preparing.”

Cregan stilled.

For a brief moment, he just stared at her.

His expression unreadable.

Then—his jaw flexed hard, his hands clenching at his sides.

She saw it.

The barely contained tension.

The way his entire body had gone rigid.

She had shocked him.

And that was exactly what she had wanted.

Lacy spun on her heel, heading toward the door before he could recover.

Round two goes to Lacy.

But this time?

She had a feeling Cregan wouldn’t forget.

Preparations for King’s Landing
Three weeks had passed since Cregan had reluctantly agreed to let Lacy accompany him to King’s Landing.

Now, she and Sara sat in her pod, surrounded by an array of finely crafted dresses, outerwear, and accessories made by Winterfell’s dressmakers.

Lacy sifted through the neatly folded garments, deciding which ones she’d take with her.

Sara held up a grey and white gown, running her fingers over the soft fabric.

Lacy arched an eyebrow, glancing at her with a smirk.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take that one?” Lacy teased. “Edric would love to see you in it.”

Sara’s cheeks flushed instantly as she quickly set the dress aside.

“If I wore that,” she muttered, “I don’t think Edric would ever let me leave the keep again.”

Lacy winked playfully. “That’s the point.”

Sara shook her head, laughing despite herself. “No, Lacy.”

Lacy just chuckled, placing a deep blue velvet cloak into her fire- and waterproof container suitcase.

Sara glanced over at her.

“Has Cregan seen any of these dresses?”

Lacy grinned, reaching for a specific garment—one she had carefully folded and placed aside earlier.

She held it up.

A one-piece, wide-leg jumpsuit that flared out like a dress, made of fine black fabric, with a long sheer cape draping from the shoulders.

Sara’s eyes widened. “That’s beautiful.”

Lacy nodded, smirking. “He’ll see this one when we leave Rosby Castle.”

Sara tilted her head, admiring the piece. “No one will even be able to tell it’s trousers.”

Lacy laughed softly, her smile mischievous.

“That’s what makes it fun. The pants only flare out at the bottom—but the rest fits my body like a glove. And when I take off the cape…”

She turned the outfit around, showing Sara the completely open back.

Sara blinked, then gasped.

“Lacy!”

Lacy just laughed, folding the jumpsuit carefully and tucking it into her suitcase.

They finished packing the last of the clothing into the reinforced trunk when the door slid open, and PLEX stepped inside.

His mechanical voice hummed through the room.

“Lady Morin, Lady Stark, Lord Stark requests your presence in his solar to discuss the final travel plans. His men have reached the capital.”

Lacy and Sara exchanged a look.

It was time to see what awaited them in King’s Landing.

Chapter Text

Jory was puking his guts out on the side of the dirt road.

Lacy grimaced, stepping away from the sound of retching as she turned her attention to the ruins before her.

Moat Cailin.

She had read about it in the Stark records, studied its place on the maps, but seeing it in person was an entirely different experience.

The remains of the stronghold stretched across the swampy landscape, a monolithic relic of a lost era.

Great blocks of black basalt—once part of a grand curtain wall—now lay scattered, half-sunk into the marshy ground, like the broken bones of some long-dead giant. What had once been a fortress as mighty as Winterfell was now little more than ruins, swallowed by time and neglect.

The three remaining towers still stood, though just barely.

One tower—tall and slender—had missing pieces along its crenelated crown, making it appear unfinished, or worse, gnawed at by age and weather. Its moss-covered walls were streaked with white ghostskin, giving it a spectral appearance against the dreary sky.

To the right of it stood the largest of the towers, squat and wide like a defensive bunker, with a tree growing straight through its northern side. It was the only tower that still stood straight, the remnants of its walls clinging stubbornly around it like a failing exoskeleton.

Then there was the leaning tower, tilting so dramatically that Lacy was half-convinced it would crumble under the weight of the next strong wind.

It was a defensive nightmare—yet still commanded the only land passage through the Neck. Any invading force heading north had to brave the swamps, the lizard-infested waters, and the ruins themselves.

Lacy crossed her arms.

“This place is a wreck.”

Cregan grunted beside her, arms folded as he surveyed the ruins with an unreadable expression.

“It’s a wreck,” he admitted. “But an important one.”

Lacy huffed, rolling her shoulders. “PLEX, give me a reconstruction list.”

PLEX’s mechanical voice hummed in response.

“To reconstruct Moat Cailin into a functional defensive structure, the following steps are required:”

Excavation & Structural Reinforcement: Removal of debris, stabilization of remaining structures, and reinforcement of existing towers with steel girders.
Foundational Repairs: Resurfacing basalt foundation to prevent further sinking into the marsh.
Masonry & Tower Restoration: Reconstruction of collapsed walls, rebuilding sections of the curtain wall using quarried stone and mortar mixing.
Defensive Modernization: Addition of reinforced wooden gates, upgraded arrow slits, and defensive platforms for siege weaponry.
Bridge & Causeway Reinforcement: Strengthening causeway foundation and integrating flood-resistant barriers.
Internal Infrastructure: Development of new barracks, storage areas, command centers, and potable water access through aqueduct filtration systems.
Marshland Fortifications: Installation of controlled floodgates and water redirection trenches to prevent enemy traversal through the Neck’s waterways.
Lacy nodded, mentally going over the list.

Cregan raised an eyebrow. “That’s a lot.”

Lacy shrugged. “Anything worth doing is going to take a lot.”

She then tilted her head, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

“PLEX, what upgrades would be required to bring this place to Renaissance-era standards?”

PLEX processed for a moment before replying.

“To elevate Moat Cailin’s infrastructure to a Renaissance-equivalent fortification, the following technological advancements should be considered:”

Cannon Emplacements: Installation of defensive gunpowder-based artillery for ranged attacks.
Reinforced Bastions: Star-shaped fort designs to prevent easy scaling and provide multiple firing angles.
Improved Siege Defenses: Drawbridges, murder holes, boiling oil reservoirs, and heavy counterweighted portcullises.
Water Filtration Systems: Enhanced aqueducts with sand and charcoal filtration for clean drinking water.
Expanded Living Quarters: Construction of insulated barracks, officer lodgings, and supply storage units.
Advanced Farming & Hunting Stations: Agricultural terraces for swamp-resistant crops, freshwater fishing stations, and enclosed poultry housing.
Lacy grinned.

“Oh yeah, we can work with this.”

She turned to Cregan, expecting resistance.

But instead, she found him watching her intently, arms still crossed, expression unreadable.

“You truly intend to rebuild Moat Cailin?”

Lacy tilted her head, smirking. “We are going to rebuild Moat Cailin.”

Cregan exhaled sharply, but there was a glint of something new in his eyes.

Approval.

And maybe, just maybe—

Something more.

Lacy folded her arms, glancing toward Sara with a knowing smirk before turning her gaze back to Cregan.

"It'll need to be perfect for the future House Starks of Moat Cailin," she said pointedly, watching as Sara turned a lovely shade of red.

Edric Bolton, standing just behind her, remained silent, but there was a flicker of approval in his sharp eyes as he studied the ruins once more.

Cregan let out a low huff, shaking his head slightly but saying nothing.

Lacy turned back to PLEX. "What tower is best for us to sleep in tonight?"

PLEX's interface blinked before responding.

"The Gatehouse Tower remains the most structurally sound. Limited exposure to the elements, intact flooring, and defensive walls still partially intact. It is the best option for temporary lodging."

Lacy nodded, glancing at Cregan.

He gave a short nod in return. “We’ll make camp there.”

With that decided, they began their trek toward the tower, the remnants of Moat Cailin casting long shadows against the twilight sky.

Tomorrow, they would continue south.

Their next stop—The Crossroads Inn.
The hum of the rover's engine was the only sound for miles, save for the rhythmic crunch of its reinforced tires against the dirt road.

Lacy gripped the controls with ease, her gaze locked forward, but every so often, she would glance at the monolithic structures in the distance.

Cregan sat beside her, his posture relaxed—at least, as relaxed as he ever got—his sharp gaze sweeping their surroundings like a man who expected danger at every turn.

Behind them, Sara sat just behind her brother, arms folded but eyes darting curiously toward the growing silhouette ahead.

Jory, seated next to her, had his sword resting against his leg, his fingers idly tapping against the hilt.

Edric sat directly behind Lacy, quiet, ever watchful.

And, of course, PLEX kept perfect pace beside them, its metal frame moving effortlessly across the uneven terrain.

The Twins.

The identical castles loomed in the distance, built of ancient grey stone, their massive curtain walls stretching into the sky like something out of a medieval fortress simulation. They stood on either side of the river, moats deep enough to drown a man carved around them to further reinforce their fortress-like nature.

Lacy’s fingers tightened on the controls as they neared.

Between them stretched the massive arched bridge, smooth grey stone that seemed out of place compared to the rest of the structures—clearly reinforced over the years. It was wide enough for two wagons to pass at the same time, though she could already tell from the way the stone was worn that foot traffic had long overtaken that of carts and horses.

Towering above the middle of the bridge stood the Water Tower, a defensive structure with narrow arrow slits, a murder hole, and a set of thick metal portcullises that could drop at a moment’s notice to trap an enemy inside. The entire design was ruthlessly efficient, built with nothing but defense in mind.

If she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, she would have thought something like this belonged in a military defense report.

The castles themselves were practically mirrored images—large courtyards within high walls, watchtowers standing at every corner, and a barbican positioned at the front to keep intruders at bay. From the high tower windows, she could already feel a dozen unseen eyes watching them.

She glanced beyond the walls, spotting an orchard on one side, a cornfield on the other, and rolling hills to the west. This wasn’t just a fortress—it was a self-sustaining stronghold.

It was a bottleneck.

A death trap.

And the only land crossing for hundreds of miles in either direction.

Lacy slowed the rover as they approached, her mind racing with the implications of such a choke point.

She turned to Cregan, eyes sharp.

“We need to build some bridges,” she said, her voice firm. “The North can’t have just one land access point. It’s a massive vulnerability.”

Cregan smirked, clearly amused by how fast she had reached that conclusion.

“PLEX, map out the best areas for three bridges in the North,” he commanded without hesitation.

PLEX’s interface blinked once before responding.

“Mapping initiated. Identifying optimal locations based on river depth, land stability, and strategic necessity.”

Lacy grinned, already imagining the future possibilities.

Then she turned in her seat, watching the reactions of the others—

Because for once, the non-Northerners were about to realize just how different things would be with her around.

A s the rover rumbled to a stop, Lacy adjusted her grip on the controls, eyes flicking toward the towering gate that granted passage to the south. The massive stone structure loomed ahead, a heavy iron portcullis blocking the way, guarded by a handful of men who stood rigid as their strange convoy arrived.

The Northern banner on Cregan’s shoulder was unmistakable, but it was not Cregan that had them frozen in place.

It was the rover.

Lacy watched as their eyes darted between the vehicle and Cregan, their faces shifting between wariness, confusion, and outright disbelief.

The murmur of voices inside the guard post grew louder.

Cregan, ever unshaken, pushed open the rover’s door and stepped out, his fur-lined cloak catching the breeze as he squared his broad shoulders.

Edric and Jory followed suit, their hands resting lightly on their sword hilts—not as a threat, but as men who knew what to expect when stepping into unfamiliar territory.

Lacy, however, did not step out.

Neither did Sara.

She kept her hands on the controls, pulse steady but her instincts on high alert.

Cregan strode forward, his deep voice carrying effortlessly in the tense silence.

“I am Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. How much is the crossing fee?”

The guard at the gate—a man with a thick brown beard and a mail-clad chest—looked like he’d been punched in the gut. His eyes flickered back and forth, from Cregan to the rover, his mouth opening and closing as if struggling to decide which deserved his attention more.

The silence stretched.

And then—

The shouting began.

From the far side of the bridge, men started running toward them.

Not just one or two.

A dozen.

Lacy’s instincts screamed.

Without hesitation, her voice cut through the moment, sharp and unwavering.

“PLEX, activate protection barrier! Defensive arms on standby—engage if anyone attacks!”

A pulse of blue energy crackled around the rover’s exterior, forming an invisible shield that shimmered against the light. At the same time, PLEX’s optics flared bright, its metallic limbs shifting as it moved into a ready stance.

The moment the barrier snapped into place, all movement outside halted.

The guards who had been approaching skidded to a stop, some nearly tripping over themselves as they stared at the energy field in absolute horror.

Weapons were half-drawn.

One man fell backward in the dirt.

Another made the sign of the Seven.

The lead guard at the gate was visibly sweating now.

Cregan turned his head toward Lacy, his expression unreadable, before his gaze slid to PLEX, who stood poised like a sentinel of death.

A single moment of silence.

Then, calmly, Cregan spoke.

“Stand down. We are not under attack.”

The statement was meant for everyone.

Lacy, however, didn’t immediately release the command.

Her heart still pounded from years of survival instinct.

This wasn’t her world.

And in her world—men running toward you never meant anything good.

Cregan’s voice was lower when he spoke again.

“Lacy.”

She turned her head and met his steady grey eyes.

There was no anger there.

No frustration.

Just a quiet patience.

She exhaled sharply, pressing a button on the console.

The barrier flickered, then faded.

PLEX, however, did not relax.

It remained in guard mode, its optics still scanning the area, ready to move at a second’s notice.

Cregan turned back toward the men.

The soldiers who had rushed forward were still frozen in place, some with hands still on their weapons, but none daring to make another move.

The lead guard looked like he was seconds away from fainting.

Cregan sighed.

“Now. About that crossing fee.”

The guard stuttered, his mouth opening and closing uselessly as he tried to form words.

"I—I—"

Before he could even finish, another voice cut through the tension from beyond the gate.

"What is going on here?"

A man stepped through the open portcullis, dressed in fine mail and a dark grey surcoat embroidered with two twin towers. His gaze immediately locked onto the strange scene before him—his soldiers frozen in place, a massive metal creature standing guard, a strange glowing vehicle, and, at the center of it all, Lord Cregan Stark.

The moment the Frey knight took it all in, he too froze.

His eyes widened.

His mouth parted—

And then he, too, began to stutter.

"L-Lord Stark—" he swallowed hard, blinking rapidly. "W-We did not rec—" another pause, "receive word that you would be traveling this way—" another gulp, "We—we would be honored—" another stammer, "to receive you and your guests!"

Cregan stood stone-faced through the knight’s nervous rambling, his hands loosely clasped behind his back. When the man finally managed to finish his sentence, Cregan lifted a brow.

"And whom am I speaking with?"

The knight snapped out of his daze, bowing stiffly at the waist.

"Forgive me, my lord! I am Ser Forrest Frey, son of Lord Walder Frey."

Cregan studied the man for a long moment before offering a small nod. "Well met, Ser Forrest."

Then, shifting slightly, he continued, "We have sent word ahead for rooms at the Crossroads Inn. We do not intend to linger here."

Ser Forrest visibly relaxed—just slightly. "Of course, my lord, but I will need to speak with my lord father regarding the crossing fee."

Cregan’s gaze narrowed ever so slightly.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then, finally—"Very well. Escort me to him."

The Frey knight visibly hesitated, but then quickly nodded, motioning toward the castle gates.

Cregan turned on his heel and strode back toward the rover, his cloak billowing slightly with the motion. He looked directly at Edric.

"Stay with them."

Edric gave a short nod. "Aye, my lord."

Cregan then shifted his attention to Jory.

"With me."

Jory immediately stepped forward, falling into place beside him.

Then, finally, his gaze settled on Lacy.

The amusement already dancing in her eyes told him she was going to do something ridiculous the moment he left.

"Behave."

Lacy grinned, her hands already moving toward the controls.

"Only if you take PLEX."

Cregan sighed, exhaling through his nose.

Then, turning his head slightly, he said, "With me."

Without hesitation, PLEX’s optics flickered in acknowledgment, its metal frame shifting as it fell into step behind him.

Lacy leaned back in her seat, still grinning.

Then, just for fun, she activated the barrier again, ensuring that no one except Cregan and Jory could return without her say-so.

Cregan turned heading towards the castle with Jory and PLEX following.

Cregan returned looking extremely irritated, his expression one of barely contained frustration as he climbed back into the rover. The moment he slammed the door shut, he exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his jaw.

Lacy, who had been watching him closely, arched an eyebrow. “That bad?”

Cregan’s grey eyes flicked to hers, something unspoken passing between them before he spoke.

“We’ve been asked to attend a feast and be welcomed as guests for the night.”

Jory let out a low sigh, while Sara and Edric exchanged glances.

Lacy leaned back in her seat, fingers drumming against the wheel. “What about the rooms at the inn?”

Cregan didn’t answer right away. Instead, he held her gaze for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then—

“We’ll speak on it later.”

The way he said it, the way his eyes lingered on her, told Lacy that there was more to this than he was letting on.

But she simply nodded in understanding, accepting that now wasn’t the time to push.

With a flick of her fingers, she shifted the rover into motion, guiding it smoothly toward the first castle’s courtyard.

Arrival at the Twins
The courtyard was packed.

Word of their arrival had clearly spread quickly, because a sea of Frey retainers, servants, and guards lined the stone yard, their faces a mixture of awe, unease, and barely-contained curiosity.

Some whispered behind their hands. Others stared outright at the massive mechanical beast walking beside the strange, glowing carriage.

The Frey household stood waiting at the base of the steps, their colors of blue and grey stark against the dull stone backdrop.

Lacy cut the engine, the rover humming into silence as she turned her head to Cregan. “Ready?”

Cregan simply grunted in response, pushing open his door and stepping out with calm, practiced authority.

The moment his boots hit the stone, the gathered Frey household straightened.

Lacy followed right behind him, Sara, Edric, and Jory falling into step behind her.

The Freys were easy enough to spot—their noble garb, the identical twin tower sigils embroidered on their doublets, and the way they positioned themselves at the forefront, clearly awaiting introductions.

The eldest man, short but thick around the middle, with thinning white hair and sharp eyes, stepped forward.

“Lord Stark.”

Cregan gave a sharp nod. “Lord Frey.”

“Welcome to the Twins.” Lord Walder’s tone was smooth, but his eyes flickered constantly—to the rover, to PLEX, and finally, to Lacy.

She didn’t miss the way his gaze lingered.

For just a beat too long.

But then he was speaking again, moving through a series of introductions with practiced ease.

“This is my wife, Lady Alyssa.” A thin woman who seemed too young to be his wife gave a polite curtsy.

“My sons—Stevron, Emmon, and you’ve already met Forrest.”

The three men—two older, one younger—gave respectful nods, though Forrest still seemed uneasy from his earlier encounter.

“My daughters—Jeyne and Fairenna.” The two women curtsied, one blushing slightly, the other watching Lacy and Sara with sharp, assessing eyes.

“My brother, Ser Ryger.”

The man inclined his head, but his gaze never left PLEX.

“And my nephews, Walton and Olyvar.”

They gave their own brief nods, though their attention flickered constantly to the strange mechanical beast standing near the rover.

Finally, Lord Walder turned his attention back to Cregan.

“And you, my lord? Who have you brought to my halls?”

Cregan, ever the stoic wolf, met his gaze evenly. “My men and my kin.”

He motioned slightly toward each in turn.

“Ser Jory Forrester, sworn sword and trusted companion.”

Jory gave a sharp nod, ever disciplined.

“Ser Edric Bolton, second son of Lord Bolton and my future goodbrother.”

That earned some murmurs from the Freys, especially from Forrest, whose gaze flickered toward Sara.

“My sister, Lady Sara Stark.”

The murmurs grew slightly louder.

And then—he turned slightly.

Lacy knew it was coming, but still—when Cregan’s voice dropped slightly, when he spoke with clear intent, she felt the weight of his words settle over her like a brand.

“And lastly—Lady Morin. My intended.”

The silence was immediate.

The moment those words left his lips, every Frey froze.

Lord Walder’s brows lifted slightly, his expression slipping just enough to reveal pure, unfiltered shock.

But what amused Lacy most was that—for a split second—he forgot to keep staring at PLEX.

Cregan didn’t give them long to recover.

“My lord,” he continued smoothly, “if you wouldn’t mind showing us to our rooms, we would like a moment to refresh ourselves before the feast.”

Lord Walder snapped out of his daze, looking momentarily embarrassed at having been caught staring.

He cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. Yes, of course.”

Turning slightly, he motioned to a nearby maid. “See them to their chambers.”

Cregan did not move.

Instead, he added, “I request rooms next to mine for my intended, my sister, Ser Edric, and Ser Jory.”

A flicker of something crossed Lord Walder’s face—hesitation, maybe even mild frustration—but he masked it quickly.

A slow nod.

“It will be done, my lord.”

Cregan said nothing more.

But as they turned to follow the maid inside, Lacy caught the small, fleeting smirk that danced across his lips.

He had seen it.

And he had made sure they all knew it.

Lord Frey wasn’t just hosting the Warden of the North.

He was hosting the future Lady Stark.

Chapter Text

Lacy stared in utter disbelief at the burned-out shell of Harrenhal, her fingers tightening around her arms as she took in the twisted, blackened remains of what was once the grandest castle in Westeros.

For the first time, it truly hit her.

They really had fucking dragons in this world.

She had known.

She had listened to Sara and Cregan’s stories, heard the descriptions, and even seen the occasional dragon figurines carved into tapestries or the crests of houses.

But this?

This was different.

This was proof.

Real, tangible, world-altering proof that dragons existed.

And not just existed.

They had burned stone.

Melted castles.

Turned what was once the most formidable stronghold in Westeros into a cursed ruin.

Her mouth opened and closed for a second before she finally turned her gaze to Cregan.

Then back to the castle.

Then back to Cregan.

And then—

“What the fuck.”

Cregan barked out a laugh.

A real one.

Not a smirk. Not a quiet chuckle.

But a full, deep-chested laugh that made his shoulders shake.

Lacy just kept staring at him, completely deadpan. “Why the hell are you laughing?”

Cregan smirked, his grey eyes gleaming in the midday light. “I was wondering when you’d finally believe us.”

Lacy exhaled, shaking her head as she turned back to the ruined towers.

She had requested this stop on their journey south, partially out of curiosity, partially out of doubt.

And yet, standing here now, seeing the scorched towers that still bled molten stone even centuries after the Conquest, she couldn’t deny it anymore.

Real. Fucking. Dragons.

Her eyes traveled up the crumbling walls, the charred, melted stone, the skeletal remains of what was once a mighty fortress.

The science behind it boggled her mind.

Stone wasn’t supposed to burn like that.

Yet it had.

And all it had taken was one dragon.

Balerion the Black Dread.

A single dragon had unmade this place in a single night.

Lacy exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples.

I don’t even want to wait to get to King’s Landing now.

The urge to see one up close—to analyze it, understand it, maybe even touch it—was overwhelming.

But she knew she’d have to wait.

There was one more stop before the capital.

Rosby Castle.

Lacy’s thoughts drifted back to the Freys, and her jaw clenched slightly.

Gods, she hoped Rosby would be better than that shit show.

A Frey’s Welcome – A Flashback
The Frey household had been—an experience.

And not a good one.

From the moment they arrived, Lacy had noticed it—the way the lord and his wife shrank away from her, how the household staff flinched at the mere sight of her, how whispers spread like wildfire whenever she entered a room.

At first, she had thought, Okay, maybe they’re just cautious.

Maybe she was too new, too different, too unknown.

But then, they made the mistake of speaking.

The sheer audacity of them—

They had the nerve to call her world strange and uncivilized.

Her.

Uncivilized.

Lacy had been polite up until that point.

But after that?

Oh, she let them have it.

She turned the tables right back on them, giving them a full breakdown of what she thought of Westeros.

No real sanitation. No proper education for women. People eating with dirty hands and drinking from unfiltered water sources.

And that was just the start.

She had even turned to Cregan—loudly—and declared that the South didn’t seem nearly as cultured as the North.

Cregan had laughed.

A big, full-bodied laugh that had made his whole frame shake.

And gods—she had liked that sound way too much.

But that night, as she had lain in bed, she had kept thinking.

If the South was truly as backward as she was starting to see… did she ever really want to come back?

The answer had come swiftly.

No.

She didn’t.

Back to the Present
Now, they were on the way to Rosby.

Then the capital.

And then?

Back home.

Lacy exhaled deeply, rolling her shoulders before giving Harrenhal one last lingering look.

She didn’t know why, but something about this place unsettled her.

Maybe it was the history.

Maybe it was the curse people whispered about.

Or maybe, just maybe—

It was the ghost of melted stone, the lingering fear that a creature strong enough to do this still existed in this world.

She turned back to Cregan, her voice quieter this time.

“We should get moving.”

Cregan nodded once. “Aye.”

With that, they headed back to the rover, the ruined castle looming behind them like a silent, charred reminder.

Lord Rosby welcomed them at the gates, his face pale, his smile forced, and his hands trembling slightly as he greeted them.

Lacy didn’t even have to step out of the rover to know—

This was going to be worse than the Twins.

And then it happened.

His wife and daughter took one look at her… and fainted.

Lacy blinked.

Cregan sighed.

Lord Rosby looked horrified, but instead of addressing them first, he rushed to his fallen kin, calling for his men to assist them.

Lacy crossed her arms, tilting her head. “Well. That’s new.”

Sara snorted quietly beside her.

Cregan, standing just outside the rover, rubbed his forehead like he had a headache brewing. “I would say you’ll get used to it, but…” He gestured toward the scene before them.

Lacy sighed. “I won’t.”

Lord Rosby returned moments later, his face red with embarrassment, and tried to salvage his introduction, stumbling over his words but managing to welcome them inside.

The stuttering didn’t stop.

Lacy just bit the inside of her cheek and followed Cregan into the keep, already dreading the evening ahead.

She stepped out of her chambers after getting dressed for supper, adjusting the long sleeves of her gown as she met Sara in the corridor.

"Ready?"

Sara gave a small, amused smile. “As I’ll ever be.”

They walked together toward the dining hall, Lacy’s mind already preparing for another night of bland food and awkward conversations.

As they neared the hall, she caught the deep rumble of Cregan’s voice ahead.

“…only three nights of travel,” he was saying, likely in response to a question from one of the men.

The moment Lacy and Sara stepped inside, every man at the table stood, offering respectful nods in greeting.

That, at least, was better than the Twins.

They took their seats, the food was served, and as expected—

Bland.

Lacy chewed the roast on her plate, resisting the urge to sigh. They really need to start using spices down here.

Then, Lord Rosby cleared his throat, his gaze flickering between Lacy and Cregan.

"Lord Stark, if I may ask… is it true that Lady Morin fell from a star?"

Cregan’s jaw twitched slightly, but he answered evenly. “She arrived through means beyond our understanding, but yes, she is not of this world.”

Lord Rosby shifted uncomfortably. “Fascinating… and you have been told what her world is like?”

Cregan simply nodded.

Lacy just watched.

Her fingers tightened slightly around her fork as she listened.

Was the man really asking about her… to Cregan… as if she wasn’t sitting at the same damn table?

Cregan’s response was calm, measured, but then—

Something unexpected happened.

Under the table, his hand reached for hers.

Lacy froze.

He didn’t grab it forcefully.

Didn’t pull.

He just… held it. Lightly. Steady.

Lacy turned to look at him, but his eyes remained on Lord Rosby, his expression unchanged.

Like it was nothing.

Like it was natural.

Like they had always done this.

Lacy felt her heart stutter in her chest.

Cregan had never done something like this before.

Not even when they were alone.

Her fingers twitched slightly, then relaxed.

She smiled at him, squeezed his hand once, and continued eating.

The rest of the meal was a blur.

Later that night, when she lay in bed staring at the ceiling, she realized something.

She had been so caught up in the moment—

So damn happy that Cregan was holding her hand—

She forgot to snap at Lord Rosby.

Shit.

They were tied now.

Lacy looked up from where she sat near the vanity as Sara entered her chambers that morning.

She paused.

Sara was wearing a white gown, delicate but strong, the Stark grey direwolf embroidered large across the front.

Lacy smiled. "You look beautiful."

Sara blushed. "Thank you."

Lacy tilted her head slightly, observing her. She had never seen Sara wear anything but grey and black before.

Not in the North.

Not in Winterfell.

And yet, here she was, draped in white, looking every inch the noblewoman she would soon become.

Sara shifted slightly under the scrutiny, then cleared her throat. "Did you need help finishing?"

Lacy grinned. "Yes."

She stood, slipping off her robe, reaching for the jumpsuit laid out on the bed.

Just as she began pulling it on, Sara suddenly blurted—

"What are you wearing?"

Lacy froze mid-motion.

She looked over her shoulder, saw Sara staring—wide-eyed, mouth slightly parted, barely concealed shock on her face.

Lacy followed her gaze downward.

Oh.

She lifted an eyebrow. "My underwear?"

Sara blinked rapidly, still staring. "The other women of your world wear those?"

Lacy resumed pulling up the fitted jumpsuit, fastening it into place. "All of them."

Sara pressed a hand to her chest. "Could they be made… for the women of the North?"

Lacy snorted, shaking her head. "Of course."

Then, she gave her a mischievous look. "If you find me the workers, I’ll show them how they’re made."

Sara nodded, though she still looked mildly scandalized.

Lacy chuckled and moved to fasten the rest of her suit, glancing at Sara through the mirror.

"Did you give Cregan and Jory their clothes?"

Sara perked up slightly. "Yes. My brother smiled."

Lacy smirked.

She had designed their outfits herself—a blend of Northern practicality and modern function.

For Cregan:

A black leather jerkin, fitted but flexible.
Black leather bracers and greaves.
A white cotton tunic, strong but breathable.
Black cargo pants, designed for both movement and durability.
Black leather boots, sturdy but sleek.
Jory’s was the same design, but in brown leather instead of black.

Lacy fastened the last button at her throat, then turned to Sara.

"Button the top one for me?"

Sara did as she was asked, but looked up at her curiously.

Lacy’s grin widened. "Now it’s time to make him cry."

She snatched her sheer cape, slung it over one shoulder, and strode toward the door.

Sara hesitated, then hurried after her, looking a little worried.

When Lacy stepped into the courtyard, all eyes turned to her.

Cregan stood near the rover, speaking with Edric and Jory.

The moment he saw her, he smiled.

Lacy smiled back.

Then—

His eyes lowered.

And she saw it.

The moment he realized.

The moment he noticed the cut of her jumpsuit.

The way it flared wide at the legs, deceivingly like a dress—until she moved.

The way it hugged her body, seamless and fitted, the black fabric sleek against her form.

The way her back was completely exposed, save for the delicate straps that crisscrossed near her shoulders.

The sheer cape flowed off one side, fastened at her throat but thrown over her arm in a way that left her partially bare.

Cregan choked.

Sara winced beside her.

Lacy turned to Lord Rosby, whose face was nearly as red as the wine served at supper.

She smiled sweetly. "It was lovely meeting you, my lord."

And with that, she turned, her head high, her stride deliberate, her heels tapping softly against the stone.

There was a sway to her step, a purpose to her movement—

And Cregan had not recovered.

His expression was priceless.

Lacy bit back a laugh, climbing into the rover with Sara.

Once inside, she turned to Cregan, still standing outside, still looking half-stunned, half-murderous.

Her smile was pure mischief. "You look good."

Then, a slight tilt of her head, a touch of teasing in her voice—

"Ready to go, my love?"

Cregan blinked.

Then, he exhaled sharply through his nose, clenched his jaw, and climbed into the rover.

Jory, wisely, said nothing.

Edric, watching with mild amusement, smirked.

Sara, sitting beside Lacy, shook her head in exasperation.

And Lacy?

Lacy just smiled.

Round two to her.

Chapter Text

Lacy couldn’t believe the smell.

The stench of King’s Landing hit her long before they ever saw the city walls.

It had only taken them thirty minutes to reach the gates of the Red Keep—

But she had smelled it twenty minutes out.

A rancid mix of waste, rot, unwashed bodies, and livestock, all stewing under the midday sun.

Her nose wrinkled in disgust as she sat at the rover’s controls, her hands tightening around the wheel.

For all the North’s brutal winters and harsh landscapes, at least the air was clean.

This?

This was a biohazard.

As the heavy gates of the Red Keep swung open, the city guards stood rigid, gripping their weapons tightly as they eyed the strange metal beast rolling toward them. The smell of rot and waste was thick in the air, clinging to the walls and stone streets, making Lacy wrinkle her nose in disgust.

Her hands gripped the wheel of the rover, but her gaze flicked to Cregan, who, despite their arrival, still had his eyes on her.

She huffed. “I already told you, I’m showing them who I am. And it’s just for today.”

Cregan exhaled sharply, rubbing his face as if physically restraining himself from saying something he would regret. Then, without another word, he stepped out of the rover.

Immediately, the crowd that had gathered outside the keep gasped at the sight of him, their eyes darting between the mechanical beast, the black-clad Stark lord, and the towering metal guardian that moved like a living thing.

Murmurs rippled through the crowd—

"A sorceress!"
"Did you see that thing move?"
"By the Seven, what is it?"
"The North has gone mad!"

Lacy watched them from behind the windshield, her gaze sweeping over their awed and fearful expressions.

Cultural backwater indeed, she thought dryly.

Then, another figure emerged from the gate, dressed in flowing green and gold, the Hand of the King’s heavy chain of office resting across his chest.

The man hesitated only briefly at the sight before composing himself and stepping forward.

Cregan turned his sharp gaze toward him as the man inclined his head. “Lord Stark,” he greeted.

His voice was even, but Lacy caught the subtle way his fingers tightened behind his back.

“I am Lord Otto Hightower, Hand of the King.”

Cregan’s expression didn’t shift.

“I received your raven,” Otto continued, clasping his hands before him. “The king would like to speak with you about your request.”

Cregan nodded once, but his tone remained cool. “Then let us not delay.”

But Otto made no move to lead them inside. Instead, his sharp, calculating eyes swept over their group. Lacy watched as he assessed each of them—Jory, Edric, Sara—but it was clear his true focus was on her.

“You travel with interesting company, my lord,” Otto said smoothly, his gaze flicking between the rover and PLEX, though his voice held a thread of unease.

Cregan’s lips curled into a faint smirk. “I do.”

Otto’s eyes lingered on Lacy for a long moment, his mind clearly working through a dozen different questions, before he finally spoke again.

“And who, may I ask, is this?”

Cregan’s stance didn’t shift, but something about his presence sharpened.

“This,” he said clearly, “is Lady Lacy Morin, my intended.”

The words rang through the courtyard like a hammer on steel.

The gathered nobles and courtiers who had been whispering froze at the declaration, and Otto’s carefully neutral expression fractured just slightly.

Lacy didn’t flinch under the weight of so many stares. She had expected this reaction.

Instead, she smiled, tilting her head slightly.

“I believe the phrase you’re searching for is ‘well met,’” she said smoothly.

Otto blinked. His lips parted, then pressed together, as if struggling to decide how to respond.

Cregan’s fingers brushed against the small of Lacy’s back, a silent show of support and possession.

Finally, Otto exhaled through his nose and gave a stiff nod. “Well met, Lady Morin.”

Lacy’s smile widened just slightly.

Otto turned back to Cregan. “I will escort you all to the throne room. The king is expecting you.”

Before anyone could move, a knight of the Kingsguard stepped forward, his white cloak shifting as he studied PLEX warily.

“My lord,” the knight said cautiously, “I must ask that your… creature… remain outside the throne room.”

Lacy arched an eyebrow, but Cregan spoke first.

“It is no creature,” he said coolly. “And it will go where I go.”

The knight hesitated, looking to Otto for instruction.

Otto gave a tense, forced smile. “Let us not keep the king waiting.”

Without another word, he turned sharply and strode through the gates, leaving the rest of them to follow.

Lacy exhaled, shifting her gaze to Cregan, who caught her smirking.

“Don’t say it,” he muttered.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” she said innocently.

“Liar,” he shot back, but there was the faintest trace of amusement in his voice as he reached for her hand and guided her forward.

And just like that, they entered the dragon’s lair.

~

The grand doors to the throne room loomed ahead, their iron hinges set into the massive stone frame. The torches along the walls flickered, casting long shadows across the polished black and white tiles beneath their feet.

Lacy’s high heels made clicking sound as she walked beside Cregan, her eyes flicking around the towering chamber. The sheer scale of it was overwhelming—a fortress within a fortress, meant to intimidate all who entered.

The ceilings stretched impossibly high, vaulted beams arching overhead, and the banners of House Targaryen hung oppressively from the walls.

And at the far end of the chamber—

The Iron Throne.

It was worse than she imagined.

A jagged monstrosity of twisted, blackened steel, its sharp edges jutting out like the fanged maw of some great beast. There was nothing elegant about it, nothing refined. It looked like it would gut a man just for sitting in it wrong.

Lacy had seen power displayed in many ways back home. Towering skyscrapers, private jets, elite gatherings of politicians and billionaires.

But this?

This was barbaric.

Her gaze flicked to the man sitting upon it.

King Viserys I Targaryen.

He was older than she expected.

His long silver hair had thinned near his temples, and though his robes were rich—layered in gold and embroidered with dragons—they did little to hide the weariness etched into his frame.

It wasn’t just age that burdened him.

It was the weight of his crown, the weight of his throne—a seat that had already begun to consume him.

At the base of the Iron Throne, divided on either side, stood the figures Sara had already warned her about.

To the left, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen—tall, regal, her black-and-red gown draping effortlessly around her. At her side stood her husband-uncle, his posture casual yet commanding. Surrounding them were their children: three dark-haired boys standing with quiet confidence and, nestled between them, two silver-haired babes, each dressed in House Targaryen’s colors.

To the right, Queen Alicent Hightower, poised and elegant in deep green trimmed with gold. Beside her, two silver-haired young men stood tall, their expressions unreadable, while a lone girl, dressed in a gown of rich emerald, clutched her hands together in front of her.

Their eyes were sharp, each set trained on Lacy with the same calculating intensity—a silent assessment, a measured scrutiny, like predators weighing a potential threat.

Lacy resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

She was already over it.

The royal court was also gathered.

Lords and ladies lined the edges of the throne room, whispering behind their hands. Their expressions ranged from curious to outright horrified as they took in the metal beast that followed them, its glowing blue optics scanning the room.

PLEX was not kneeling.

Unlike the men of the North who had bent their heads in deference, the AI stood unmoving, an unspoken challenge to the traditions of this world.

And they noticed.

Lacy kept her expression neutral, but she didn’t miss the way some of the more devout nobles clutched at their seven-pointed stars, muttering prayers under their breath.

Cregan, ever the embodiment of Northern discipline, showed no sign of unease.

He strode forward with calm, controlled authority.

When he reached the steps leading to the throne, he lowered to one knee, bowing his head.

"Your Grace."

Jory and Edric followed suit.

Sara hesitated only for a fraction of a second before doing the same, her hands tightening into her skirts.

Lacy remained standing.

And the court noticed that too.

She saw the way Alicent’s lips pressed together, the way Otto shifted ever so slightly beside her, the way murmurs rippled through the gathered lords and ladies.

She was making a statement without saying a word.

King Viserys studied Cregan first, his tired eyes filled with something like relief.

"Lord Stark," he said, his voice warm but weary. "It has been many years since the North has graced my halls. You are welcome here."

Cregan lifted his head. "Your Grace honors me."

Viserys’ gaze flicked past him, landing on Lacy. His brow furrowed slightly.

"And her?" he asked, leaning forward. "The woman of whom I have heard so much?"

Lacy smiled.

She placed her hand on her hip, tilting her head slightly, and finally dipped her head just enough to be respectful—but not submissive.

"King Viserys," she greeted. "It’s a pleasure to meet you."

Otto Hightower stiffened at her tone.

Lacy wasn’t speaking as a lord’s intended. She wasn’t speaking as some noble lady seeking favor.

She was speaking as an equal.

And it ruffled the court immediately.

Viserys studied her, intrigued.

But Lacy wasn’t looking at him.

Her gaze had already shifted—past the weight of his crown, past the throne of melted swords, past the weary eyes of a king worn down by years of rule—and settled on Princess Rhaenyra.

Before Viserys could make another comment, Lacy spoke first.

"Also, might I add—it is an honor to meet you, Princess Rhaenyra."

Her voice was steady, deliberate.

"When Cregan told me you were the heir, I let out a breath of relief."

She paused, tilting her head slightly, expression unreadable before she added—

"No offense, King Viserys, but in my world, queens were often the most celebrated rulers."

A small smile played at the corner of her lips as she watched for Rhaenyra's reaction.

The room shifted with the weight of Lacy’s words.

Rhaenyra’s lips parted slightly in surprise before they curled into a knowing smirk. Amusement flickered in her violet eyes, as if she had just found an unexpected ally in the most unusual of places. She tilted her head, examining Lacy not as a foreign anomaly, but as a woman who spoke with confidence—one who seemed to have little patience for the games of court.

“Is that so?” Rhaenyra finally said, her voice smooth but laced with intrigue. “And tell me, Lady Morin, what makes a queen so celebrated in your world?”

Lacy held Rhaenyra’s gaze, unflinching, a slow smirk playing at the corners of her lips.

“It’s simple, Princess,” she said, voice smooth and unwavering. “Because they earned it.”

The room stilled for a brief moment.

Lacy tilted her head slightly, her gaze sharp yet amused as she continued, “The first queen in my world—at least, the first to rule in her own right—was the daughter of a king. But not everyone wanted her to wear the crown.”

A hush settled over the room as Lacy spoke, her voice carrying a quiet intensity.

“The nobles, driven by their own ambitions and religious fervor, tried to place another on the throne. They thought they could cast her aside. But they were wrong.”

She paused for a beat, her eyes flickering across the gathered nobles.

“She took her crown back—with blood. And when she was done, she became known as Queen Mary the Bloody, for the nobles who opposed her did not live long enough to make the same mistake twice.”

There was a ripple of reaction at that, some shifting uncomfortably, others listening more intently.

But Lacy wasn’t finished.

“Then came her baby sister—young, underestimated. But unlike her, this queen ruled with cunning, not fear. Under her reign, my world entered a golden age. Trade flourished. Knowledge expanded. Even the common folk ate and slept a little better than before.”

Rhaenyra’s lips curled into a small, knowing smile.

“And her name?”

Lacy smirked. “Elizabeth.”

Daemon leaned back slightly, studying her with intrigue. “And this golden age—was it because of her, or in spite of her?”

Lacy met his gaze easily. “Because of her. She was as ruthless as she was wise, as feared as she was loved. She understood something few rulers ever do—that power must be wielded, not simply inherited.”

Alicent’s expression remained unreadable, but Lacy could see the way her hands tightened around her skirts.

Lacy continued, her voice steady. “Then came Queen Victoria. They called her the Grandmother of Nations. She married her heirs to the heirs of other kingdoms, uniting nations through blood rather than war. Under her reign, my world saw a new era of expansion, diplomacy, and power.”

Rhaenyra raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “A queen who made kings?”

Lacy nodded. “And she was far from the last.”

She glanced briefly at King Viserys before adding, “The longest-reigning queen in my world’s history was another Elizabeth. She ruled for longer than most men even lived, guiding her nation through war, prosperity, and change.”

That seemed to stir something in Viserys, his tired eyes sparking with fleeting curiosity.

“And who sits upon your world’s throne now?” he rasped.

Lacy opened her mouth. “Queen—”

“Enough.”

Alicent’s voice cut through the air like the snap of a whip.

All eyes turned toward her.

Her green silk gown shimmered in the candlelight, her face composed—but Lacy saw the tension there, the way her jaw was set just a little too tight.

“Your world’s customs and rulers are… interesting,” Alicent said carefully, her voice measured, “but this is not your world, Lady Morin.”

Lacy’s lips curled slightly, not quite a smile.

“No, it’s not,” she agreed. “But power? Power is the same, no matter where you stand.”

Alicent’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but before she could respond, King Viserys exhaled, breaking the moment.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, rubbing a hand over his brow.

Aegon rolled his eyes, looking utterly bored with the conversation. He was barely paying attention, his fingers drumming against his goblet.

But Aemond—Aemond was watching.

His single blue eye narrowed slightly, taking in Lacy’s posture, her words, the way she addressed his sister. He was calculating, assessing, just as he did with every perceived threat.

“Indeed,” Rhaenyra added, her voice laced with amusement as she studied Lacy with newfound interest. “Most fascinating.”

"Lady Morin," he mused, as if testing the name on his tongue. "Tell me, is it true? Did you truly fall from the sky?"

Lacy inhaled slowly.

Here we go.

She could feel every eye in the room on her.

Waiting.

Testing.

Judging.

She glanced at Cregan. His gaze was steady, unwavering.

He was trusting her to handle this.

So she met the king’s eyes and spoke clearly.

"I did."

A sharp murmur spread through the hall.

"By the Seven…" someone whispered.

"Impossible," another muttered.

Viserys, to his credit, seemed more fascinated than disturbed.

Otto, however, was another story entirely.

The Hand of the King stepped forward, his expression carefully schooled into one of calculated concern.

"Your Grace," Otto said smoothly. "Surely we must question the validity of such claims. There have been many… exaggerations."

Lacy grinned.

"Then you should be thrilled to have me here, Lord Hand," she said. "Now you can finally get some answers."

Otto’s jaw tightened.

Cregan’s lips twitched slightly, but he remained silent, letting her handle this in her own way.

Viserys chuckled, though there was a slight strain to it.

"Yes," he agreed. "Answers would be… illuminating."

He leaned forward, studying her.

"What do you want, Lady Morin?"

Lacy tilted her head.

"I want to help the North," she said simply. "The people have lived too long under the weight of winter without the means to make their lives easier. I bring knowledge that can change that."

Otto interjected quickly.

"And yet, such knowledge could be dangerous if left unchecked," he said, his tone lined with careful suspicion.

Lacy arched an eyebrow.

"Define dangerous," she said lightly.

Otto didn’t falter. "Unnatural knowledge often leads to unnatural consequences."

Lacy shrugged. "So does stupidity. Which one would you prefer?"

A few gasps rippled through the court.

Otto’s nostrils flared.

Cregan covered his mouth briefly, but she caught the telltale sign of amusement in his eyes.

Viserys exhaled.

"You are bold," he said.

Lacy smiled.

"I prefer capable," she corrected.

There was a long silence.

Then, to everyone’s surprise, the king laughed.

A full-bodied, amused laugh that echoed off the throne room walls.

Otto’s expression darkened, but he said nothing.

Viserys waved a hand.

"You intrigue me, Lady Morin. But we shall speak more of this later." His gaze turned back to Cregan. "For now, I believe a proper welcome is in order. A feast shall be held in your honor this evening."

Cregan nodded once. "Your Grace is generous."

The king smiled, but Otto’s expression remained stone-cold.

The throne room had fallen into tense silence, the weight of politics and unspoken power hanging thick in the air.

Lacy had been about to say something else to King Viserys when a sharp, mechanical chime suddenly pierced through the chamber.

PLEX’s voice boomed, echoing off the vaulted ceilings.

"ALERT: MONARCH THREAT DETECTED."

Lacy’s head snapped toward him.

The entire court stilled.

Cregan’s hand instinctively went to the hilt of his sword. Jory and Edric immediately stepped forward, eyes sharp and ready for danger.

Lacy narrowed her eyes. “Report.”

PLEX’s optics flashed blue before responding.

“Monarch Alert Activated. Medical scan of King Viserys Targaryen detects three separate poisons currently active in his bloodstream.”

Chaos erupted.

Gasps. Murmurs. Shocked whispers.

Viserys himself stiffened, his weathered hands gripping the arms of his twisted iron throne. His face was a mask of confusion and—beneath it—a flicker of realization.

Cregan’s head turned sharply toward Lacy, his body going rigid beside her.

Lacy didn’t hesitate. “PLEX, scan for the source of the poison.”

Before the AI could respond, a sharp voice cut through the growing panic.

“THIS CREATURE IS ATTEMPTING TO HARM THE KING! ATTACK!”

Otto Hightower.

The Hand of the King had stepped forward, his face twisted into an expression of manufactured outrage, his hand raised as if to signal the guards into action.

Lacy didn’t think—she reacted.

“PLEX, activate defensive dome! Set to STUN!”

The moment the command left her lips, a pulse of energy surged outward.

A translucent blue barrier expanded in a dome around them, encapsulating Lacy, Cregan, Sara, Edric, Jory, and—most importantly—King Viserys.

The guards moved.

The moment one stepped too close, an invisible force sent him flying backward, landing on his ass with a stunned cry.

The entire throne room fell into horrified silence.

The barrier shimmered around them, crackling with energy, sending an unmistakable message—no one was getting in.

Lacy turned, her eyes burning with fury as they landed on Otto.

And then she smiled.

A slow. Dangerous. Smile.

“I swear to all the gods, old and new, I will bring this entire fucking castle down if another motherfucking person makes a move.”

Dead silence.

Cregan didn’t say a word.

Didn’t even try to stop her.

Because for the first time since they’d arrived in this gods-forsaken capital—he saw exactly what she was capable of.

And gods, he loved it.

Lacy’s attention snapped back to the pale-faced king.

“Your Grace.” Her voice was calm, but beneath it, there was steel. “Do you want to know who the fuck has been poisoning you?”

Viserys stared at her.

Then, slowly, he spoke.

“…Yes.”

Lacy smirked.

“PLEX. Tell us.”

And the court braced for the truth.

The throne room was frozen, the only sound the hum of the energy barrier PLEX had cast around them. Every pair of eyes was locked onto the mechanical guardian as it processed Lacy’s command.

Then, PLEX’s interface pulsed blue before a holographic projection materialized in the air.

Three images.

The first appeared—a dark chamber lined with shelves of vials and herbs.

King Viserys stiffened. His tired, clouded eyes sharpened with sudden recognition.

“…That is the Grand Maester’s quarters,” he rasped.

A gasp rippled through the court.

Lacy’s gaze snapped to the pale-faced Grand Maester Mellos, standing near Otto Hightower. The man looked as if his soul had just left his body.

Before anyone could speak, PLEX shifted to the next image.

A bedchamber.

A very specific bedchamber.

King Viserys turned his head—slowly, deliberately.

Not toward Otto.

Toward the queen.

Alicent Hightower.

Rhaenrya’s breath hitched.

The queen’s face was blank. But her knuckles were white as she clutched the folds of her dress.

The tension was thick.

Then, PLEX revealed the last image.

A dungeon. Dark. Stone walls. Faint torchlight. Chains along the floor.

Lacy frowned.

“…Your Grace,” she asked carefully, “Do you recognize this place?”

Viserys still hadn’t looked away from his wife.

It took a moment, but finally, he wrenched his gaze from Alicent and turned to the image.

His brows furrowed.

“…No,” he admitted hoarsely. Then—his gaze snapped back to Alicent.

She flinched.

“PLEX, check for standards around the room,” Lacy ordered.

The holographic image zoomed in, enhancing a banner hanging on the damp walls.

A tripartite pale—blue, red, and green on white.

The king let out a shuddering breath.

The colors House Strong.

Silence.

PLEX’s voice broke it.

“Analysis complete. The poisons present in King Viserys’ bloodstream are as follows: Cone Snail Venom, Arsenic, and Ricin.”

Cregan’s jaw clenched.

The court was a mix of horror and confusion.

Then, Cregan took a step forward, his voice like ice.

“Give us the Westerosi names.”

PLEX’s interface flickered.

“Manticore Venom, Widow’s Blood, and Basilisk Venom.”

A collective gasp.

Viserys closed his eyes, his frail shoulders shaking as he buried his face in his hands.

Lacy inhaled deeply, then spoke carefully.

“Your Grace… I can treat you. But you have to allow me to.”

The king’s head snapped up.

His bloodshot eyes locked onto her, desperation written across his face.

Then, his voice cracked as he spoke.

“…Yes. Yes. Please.”

And with that, the game has changed.

Chapter Text

Cregan sat in the chamber granted to him for the duration of their stay in King’s Landing, his arms resting on the heavy wooden chair, his fingers idly tapping against the armrest.

The day had been… eventful.

His mind replayed the events over and over, each moment sinking deeper into his thoughts.

The King’s verdict.

Viserys had not hesitated once he knew the truth.

The Grand Maester and Lord Larys Strong had been ordered to the Black Cells.

The Queen herself—locked in her rooms under heavy guard.

And when Otto Hightower had tried to intervene, tried to paint this as some Northern ploy, the King had dismissed him without a second thought.

Cregan had seen the flicker of panic in Otto’s usually composed face.

It was the first time the man had lost control.

Cregan inhaled deeply, then exhaled slowly, leaning forward.

And then there was Lacy.

He could still see her standing there, calm and sure, in front of the entire royal court, pulling out that strange, glossy red container from the supplies she had brought along.

She had called it a medical kit—a thing meant for treating injuries.

He had expected it to contain bandages, balms, and maybe a few herbs.

He had not expected the sheer volume of small, intricate tools she pulled from its depths.

It had looked… endless.

Like a magician’s trick.

And then, there was the tent.

A small, flat object that had, in the span of mere moments, unfolded into a well-made tent large enough to stand inside.

The court had gasped, but Lacy had merely shrugged it off, as if such things were normal in her world.

She hadn’t even set it up fully—not in front of the court.

And yet, what she had shown was enough.

Cregan let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head.

The South was not ready for her.

He thought back to when she had ushered the King inside.

She had left the flaps open so all in the throne room could witness her work.

She had been methodical, precise, confident.

Cregan had watched her hands move—unpacking one strange object after another, each with a specific purpose, each used with careful efficiency.

Then had come the needle.

She had told the King he would feel a slight prick, and Cregan had expected… something larger.

Instead, she had pressed a slim metal object to the King’s arm, and before anyone could react, she had already drawn blood.

Without pain.

Without cutting.

It had been a clean, precise thing, and for the first time, Cregan had seen true astonishment on the faces of those watching.

Even the King himself had stared in mute shock.

Cregan ran a hand down his face.

He knew Lacy was a healer—she had treated his men, his people, even him.

But seeing her work here, in front of the court of the Iron Throne, was something else entirely.

It was not just skill.

It was power.

A power the South had never seen before.

And that…

That could make her dangerous to the wrong people.

Cregan’s jaw tensed slightly.

The South had tried to poison its own king—who was to say they wouldn’t try something else?

His fingers curled into the armrest of his chair.

Lacy had told him she could handle herself.

But this was not the North.

And while she might have the knowledge to save lives, there were plenty here who would rather see her silenced.

Cregan Stark had never been a man of politics.

But he was a man of action.

And if the South thought they could move against Lacy, if they thought they could scheme and plot against her, they were about to learn exactly why House Stark still stood.

No matter what came next, one thing was certain.

Cregan Stark would not let her stand alone.

The morning began with the sound of dragons roaring.

Cregan awoke with a sharp breath, his body immediately tense.

Another horrid day in King’s Landing.

He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling slowly, listening to the distant thunderous cries of the beasts that ruled the skies here. It was a sound no Northerner would ever grow used to.

Still, he forced himself to sit up. He had much to do.

Lacy. Sara. The King.

He needed to check on all of them.

As he stood, his thoughts drifted to the clothes Lacy had made for him.

The soft leather jerkin, fitting him like a second skin. The cotton tunic, lighter than anything he had ever worn but still warm. His trousers, which were different than those of Westerosi make—stitched as a single piece, tailored with precision. And the boots…

By the Old Gods, the boots.

Each step felt like walking on clouds.

Cregan flexed his foot, feeling the supportive cushion beneath the sole.

Lacy had crafted these for him, and now he could not imagine wearing anything else.

He would need to have his men outfitted the same—his personal guard first, then the rest.

If they were to protect the North, they would do so with the best gear possible.

After dressing, Cregan finally left his chambers, Jory falling in step beside him.

Together, they made their way through the winding halls of the Red Keep, heading toward the throne room.

And when he arrived—

His heart nearly stopped.

The tent.

The red medical tent that Lacy had used to treat the king was gone.

His body locked up immediately.

Where was she?

Why had it been removed?

Had someone—

A voice cut through his panic.

“Lord Stark. The King would like to see you in his private chambers.”

Cregan’s head snapped toward PLEX, standing near the entrance to a corridor that led away from the throne room.

Jory’s hand was already on his sword hilt, reading his lord’s body language.

Cregan forced himself to breathe, nodding curtly.

Without hesitation, he followed PLEX, his steps quick and forceful, his mind racing through every possible worst-case scenario.

Had someone taken her?

Had someone silenced her?

By the time he reached the King’s private chambers, his pulse was hammering.

PLEX stepped aside, the doors opened—

And he nearly collapsed in relief.

There she was.

Sitting comfortably, a plate of food in front of her, speaking easily with Sara, the Princess Rhaenrya, Prince Daemon, and King Viserys, who looked far more alert than he had in years.

Cregan stilled in the doorway, his shoulders loosening only slightly.

Lacy turned, and the moment she saw him, her face lit up.

A beaming smile spread across her lips, her eyes shining.

Cregan felt his breath hitch.

How was it that she could wash away his worry with something so simple?

She motioned for him to enter, and for the first time that morn, Cregan Stark relaxed.

As soon as Cregan stepped into the chamber, King Viserys turned his head toward him.

The King looked better—not just marginally, but shockingly so.

His skin had regained color, his posture was stronger, and his eyes were clear, free from the feverish haze that had plagued him for years.

There was recognition in those eyes. Sharpness.

For the first time since arriving in King's Landing, Cregan saw the man, not just the crown.

Viserys sat at the head of the table, a plate of food before him, eating with steady hands.

"Lord Stark, come in. Sit." His voice was stronger than it had been in years.

Cregan glanced at Lacy, still cautious, but she nodded subtly, reassuring him.

The King took another bite of his meal, then gestured toward PLEX, who stood motionless in the corner, monitoring.

"I must say, Lady Morin, your..."—he gestured vaguely toward PLEX—"guardian is unlike anything I've ever seen."

Lacy grinned, leaning back in her chair. "That’s the idea."

Viserys chuckled, shaking his head.

Then, he turned his gaze to Cregan, studying him carefully.

"You look troubled, Lord Stark."

Cregan hesitated, before exhaling sharply and stepping forward.

"Your Grace, I arrived to find the tent removed and no sign of Lady Morin. Given what transpired yesterday... I feared the worst."

The King nodded slowly, his expression shifting—understanding, but also tinged with something else.

"You care for her."

Cregan stiffened, but he did not deny it.

Lacy, of course, didn't help. She just smirked, poking at her food.

Viserys gave a tired but amused chuckle.

"You need not worry, Lord Stark. Lady Morin has done what no one else could. She saved my life."

Cregan looked at Lacy, and her smile turned softer.

"He's not out of the woods yet, but he's on the right track," she confirmed.

Viserys took another bite before sighing.

"I cannot imagine what would have happened had you not come, Lady Morin." The Princess said as she looked at Cregan then, her expression growing serious. "And I imagine the Hand would prefer you had not."

Cregan did not miss the meaning behind those words.

The princess knew that Otto Hightower was not loyal.

That whatever Lacy had uncovered had confirmed her suspicions.

Viserys put his fork down, rubbing his face tiredly.

"I owe you both a great debt."

His eyes flickered to PLEX, then back to Lacy.

"But I have many questions. And I suspect I am not the only one."

Cregan sat firmly beside Lacy as they explained everything to King Viserys.

Lacy, as usual, was direct, sparing no details about her arrival through the wormhole, her crash-landing, and how she had come to be in the North.

Cregan, for his part, filled in the necessary political context, explaining her role in Winterfell, the technologies she had introduced, and why he had seen fit to betroth her to House Stark.

Viserys listened intently, his fingers steepled, his expression a mix of awe and contemplation.

"To think, a woman from another world now walks the halls of my castle," the King murmured, almost to himself.

Before he could speak further—

A sharp knock came at the chamber doors.

"Your Grace," came the voice of a royal guard, "Prince Aemon has arrived."

The King straightened, blinking as if pulled from deep thought.

Viserys inhaled deeply, gathering his thoughts before nodding toward the door. “Let him in.”

The guard stepped aside, and Prince Aemond Targaryen entered.

Cregan did not miss the way Lacy straightened slightly in her seat, nor how the temperature in the room seemed to drop as Aemond’s single violet eye swept over them, assessing.

The young prince was a sharp contrast to his older brother, Aegon, who had lounged beside their mother in court the day before with a cup in hand. Aemond moved with calculated precision, his posture rigid with quiet intensity. He carried himself not just as a prince—but as a man accustomed to war, a man who had earned his place astride Vhagar, the largest dragon in the world.

When his gaze finally settled on Lacy, he tilted his head slightly, curiosity flickering behind the cold steel of his expression. “So,” he said smoothly, “it is true, then. The woman from another world.”

Lacy didn’t flinch under his stare—if anything, she looked unimpressed. “And you must be the guy who lost an eye.”

Jory let out a sharp breath, barely suppressing his amusement. Cregan clenched his jaw, schooling his expression to neutrality. Sara, seated quietly behind Lacy, paled.

Aemond’s eye darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line.

Viserys sighed, rubbing his temples. “Aemond, behave.”

The prince didn’t respond at first, merely watching Lacy in a way that set Cregan on edge.

But then, Aemond turned to the King, expression shifting to something more serious.

“I came to speak with you about the Queen.”

Viserys’s expression darkened. He set his fork down, exhaling sharply as his fingers steepled together. The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of Aemond’s words lingering.

Cregan exchanged a glance with Lacy.

Aemond’s stance remained rigid, his hands behind his back as he awaited his sire’s response.

But Viserys only shook his head, as if exhausted by the very mention of it.

“Enough. Aemond, we will speak later. For now, leave us.”

The prince’s jaw clenched, but he did not argue. He simply inclined his head, his smirk from earlier replaced by something unreadable.

“As you will, Your Grace.”

Then, Aemond turned, his black-and-red cloak billowing behind him as he strode from the room.

When the doors shut, Lacy huffed, leaning back. “Well. He’s charming.”

Cregan’s lips twitched despite himself. “You certainly know how to make an impression.”

Viserys exhaled, shaking his head as he looked between them. “Rest while you can. The morrow will bring more questions, and I suspect few of them will be kind.”

Cregan understood the warning beneath those words. King’s Landing was not the North. And the court would not be as forgiving as the King.

He glanced at Lacy, who seemed entirely unconcerned.

The morrow would be another battle.

And he would be at her side when it came.

The Small Council Meeting

The chamber was silent, save for the faint crackling of the torches lining the stone walls. The weight of the conversation was palpable, the air thick with tension as King Viserys I Targaryen sat at the head of the table, watching the faces of his council with tired yet sharp eyes.

Cregan sat with Lacy at his side, his expression unreadable. Across from them, Rhaenyra sat poised, Daemon leaning casually in his chair beside her, while the rest of the Small Council settled into their seats, their thoughts hidden behind carefully schooled expressions.

The absence of Otto Hightower was noted, but his presence lingered like a shadow in the room.

The meeting began as expected—with political maneuvering disguised as pleasantries.

Lord Jasper Wylde, the Master of Laws, was the first to speak. His dark, beady eyes settled on Lacy before flickering to Viserys.

“There is the question of Lady Morin’s… position,” Wylde said carefully. “Her knowledge, her skills—unparalleled, to be sure—but should they not serve the realm rather than be tied to the North alone?”

Ser Criston Cole, ever the Hightower loyalist, nodded in agreement. “A woman of such importance should be placed where her influence benefits the Crown.” His gaze settled on Cregan, cold and unwavering. “Surely, a union with House Targaryen would be more fitting.”

The meaning was clear—they wanted to break the betrothal and bind Lacy to the royal family instead.

Before Cregan could respond, Daemon let out a sharp, amused exhale.

“She saved the King’s life,” he said, his voice edged with dangerous amusement. “Perhaps that entitles her to make her own choices, don’t you think?”

Wylde, unbothered by Daemon’s flippancy, pressed on. “And what of Westerosi law? Lady Morin’s origins are unknown. Does she even hold the right to claim nobility?”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his patience wearing thin. He leaned forward, his voice steady and firm.

“She is my intended,” he said. “Our betrothal is already recognized in the North, and I will not see it undone by southern politics.”

Silence settled over the room, the tension thick.

Viserys, looking upon Lacy with something close to gratitude, exhaled and sat back. “She saved my life. That alone grants her rights that need no precedent. If she has chosen Lord Stark, then I will not dispute it.”

Wylde and Criston exchanged a glance but said nothing more.

Frustration flickered across their faces, but they did not challenge the King’s word.

The conversation shifted, and Wylde found another matter to protest.

“There is also the question of Moat Cailin,” he said. “The stronghold is too vital to be given to a legitimized Snow.”

Lacy, silent until now, finally spoke. “Then it’s a good thing that you don’t get to decide that,” she said smoothly.

A ripple of amusement passed through Daemon, and even Rhaenyra’s lips twitched.

Tyland Lannister leaned forward, his golden lion sigil gleaming in the candlelight. “From a financial standpoint, legitimizing Sara Snow strengthens Northern trade routes. If House Stark retains control, the North remains loyal to the Crown.”

Wylde scoffed. “And what’s to stop them from shutting the gates when winter comes?”

Daemon smirked. “What’s to stop them from doing that now?”

The table fell silent.

Viserys, rubbing his temples, let out a weary sigh. “Enough. It is settled. Sara Snow will be legitimized.”

Wylde’s lips thinned, but he bowed his head in forced acceptance.

Criston, his expression unreadable, did not speak—but his disapproval was clear.

Lord Lyman Beesbury, who had remained quiet for much of the conversation, finally spoke. “There is also the question of Lady Morin’s… expertise.”

Lacy raised a brow. “My expertise?”

Beesbury’s fingers tapped against the table. “Your inventions. Your knowledge. These things could change the very foundation of Westerosi trade and economy.” He hesitated, glancing at the King. “Should we not ensure such advancements benefit the entire realm?”

Lacy’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “You mean you want control over them.”

Beesbury didn’t argue.

Wylde nodded in agreement. “Such knowledge should not belong to any one region—”

“I’m not here to be your inventor-for-hire,” Lacy cut in sharply, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Tyland, ever the opportunist, cleared his throat. “Perhaps a trade agreement, then. Instead of taxation or control, the Crown and the North could enter into a partnership—one that allows for mutual benefit.”

Lacy considered it, tilting her head. “That depends. Would that agreement come with strings attached?”

Daemon chuckled, clearly enjoying the way Lacy navigated their games.

Viserys, growing weary of the bickering, raised a hand. “Lady Morin is free to operate as she sees fit.” He exhaled, rubbing his brow. “But I will ask only this—you will not create weapons for any one kingdom. Your knowledge will not be used to wage war.”

Lacy nodded. “Fair enough.”

Rhaenyra, quiet for much of the discussion, finally leaned forward. “And what of the Queen?”

The air shifted.

Aemond was mentioned—his interest in Lacy noted.

The Queen’s trial loomed—would Lacy testify?

Otto was still absent likely with his daughter—but his influence remained.

Viserys, looking more tired than before, exhaled. “Many will seek to use you, Lady Morin,” he said finally. “You must be careful.”

Lacy’s expression didn’t change, but something flickered in her gaze—understanding.
As the tension in the room settled, Cregan cleared his throat, drawing all eyes to him once more. His voice was steady, deliberate—cutting through the chamber like the Northern wind.

“There is one more matter to address before we conclude this meeting,” Cregan said, his grey eyes sweeping across the gathered council members. “A matter of deception that has gone unnoticed for years.”

King Viserys lifted a brow, leaning forward slightly. “What matter, Lord Stark?”

Cregan turned briefly to Lacy, who gave him a small nod before he continued.

“It was brought to my attention that the North’s taxes—those meant for the Crown—have been manipulated. A portion of what should have been sent to the Iron Throne was, instead, diverted to the Citadel.”

The room fell into immediate silence.

Rhaenyra’s gaze sharpened, Daemon’s lips curved into a smirk as if he had been expecting something like this. Ser Criston Cole’s jaw tensed, and Lord Wylde’s face darkened.

Viserys’ brows furrowed. “The Citadel?”

Cregan nodded. “The maester sent to Winterfell had been withholding funds—an entire ten percent of what was owed—for the past four years. He funneled the gold to the Citadel while falsifying reports to the Crown, making it appear as though the North was paying less than what was due.”

Viserys’ expression darkened, his fingers tightening around the armrest of his chair. “And you have proof of this?”

Lacy leaned forward, her voice smooth but firm. “I went through every ledger, Your Grace. Compared every payment made, every shipment recorded. I cross-checked all financial entries from Winterfell, the Crown’s records, and the Iron Bank’s statements. There was no mistake—the North was being deliberately shorted, but not by its own lords.”

Tyland Lannister, the Master of Ships and ever the businessman, rubbed his chin. “And how much, exactly, are we speaking of?”

Cregan held their gazes, then delivered the final blow.

“A million gold dragons.”

The room erupted.

Lord Beesbury looked ready to faint, Lord Wylde’s expression turned to stone, and even Criston Cole’s carefully controlled mask slipped, his fingers clenching into fists.

Viserys exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “A million dragons?”

Daemon let out a low whistle. “Well, that explains why those grey rats never go hungry.”

Rhaenyra’s gaze flickered to her father, waiting for his response.

Lacy smirked. “The good news is—the gold has been accounted for.”

Viserys snapped his attention to her. “Explain.”

Cregan didn’t hesitate. “The Iron Bank now holds the full sum, available for the Crown to withdraw at any time.”

A stunned silence fell over the council.

Tyland, ever the opportunist, leaned forward. “You recovered a million gold dragons and placed it in the Iron Bank?”

Lacy nodded. “We did. The North does not steal from its King. The funds were never ours to keep.”

Viserys sat back, processing the sheer weight of what had just been revealed. His eyes burned with something between fury and relief.

“This is a grave betrayal,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “The Citadel has no right to interfere with the realm’s taxes.”

Daemon, ever the one to revel in chaos, grinned. “Perhaps it’s time the Citadel is reminded of its place.”

Criston Cole finally spoke, his tone clipped. “And what of the maester responsible?”

Cregan’s expression darkened. “He was judged in the North. His fate has already been decided.”

Cole said nothing, but his eyes flickered briefly to Wylde, who looked equally displeased.

Viserys ran a hand down his face, exhaustion creeping into his features. “I will see to it that the Citadel is questioned. They will answer for this treachery.”

Cregan nodded but said nothing further. The truth had been laid bare, and the Crown was now aware of what had transpired.

The silence in the room was heavy, but there was no denying it—

The North had exposed corruption at the highest levels.

And now, everyone knew it.

With that, the meeting was concluded.

As Cregan and Lacy stood, Rhaenyra’s gaze lingered on them, a silent promise of future conversations. Daemon grinned like a wolf who had just caught the scent of fresh blood.

And as they walked toward the doors, Cregan heard Lacy murmur under her breath, just loud enough for him to hear:

“That went well.”

Cregan let out a short chuckle. “For now.”

Because one thing was certain—

The South would not take this lightly.

Chapter Text

Lacy sat comfortably across from Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen, a delicate cup of tea in her hands. Across from her, the princess was the picture of regal composure, dressed in black and red, her silver-gold hair cascading over her shoulders.

Sara sat beside Lacy, slightly tense but curious, her keen eyes darting between them as if unsure whether she was supposed to be here at all.

The tea room was elegant, bathed in soft light from the afternoon sun filtering through arched windows. The scent of cinnamon and honey drifted through the air, mixing with the fragrant teas served in delicate Myrish porcelain cups.

Rhaenyra had summoned her for tea.

And so far, the conversation had been nothing short of fascinating.

“I must admit, Lady Morin,” Rhaenyra said, swirling her tea lazily, her violet eyes gleaming with intrigue, “your world fascinates me.”

Lacy smiled. “It fascinates me too—though I grew up there, so I guess I’m a little biased.”

Rhaenyra smirked. “You spoke of queens before—their reigns, their power. I have spent my whole life fighting for a throne that was promised to me. Yet, in your world, queens ruled with more freedom. Without the constant whispers of men plotting against them.”

Lacy exhaled, tilting her head. “Well… at least, not all the time.”

Rhaenyra’s lips twitched, amused. “Tell me more, then. About your world. What has changed? What do women do?”

Lacy set her cup down. “Alright, where do I start?”

She leaned forward, resting her arms on the table.

“In my world, women can rule countries, lead armies, run massive businesses, become scientists, engineers, doctors… You name it, we do it.”

Rhaenyra’s expression shifted, a mixture of awe and longing flashing across her features. “So women are truly… free?”

“Yes,” Lacy said, “but it wasn’t always that way. It took centuries of change, of struggle. Women had to fight for every right they have today.”

Sara listened quietly, her eyes wide.

“Some of the greatest minds in my world were women—mathematicians, physicists, rulers. Hell, I was an astronaut before I ended up here. Trained to go beyond the stars.”

Rhaenyra leaned forward slightly. “An astronaut?”

Lacy grinned. “A person who travels beyond our world—to other planets.”

Sara nearly dropped her tea.

“You—you mean like a dragonrider?” Rhaenyra asked, her brows raised.

Lacy chuckled. “Kind of. But instead of riding dragons, we ride ships made of metal, and instead of fire, we use fuel and engines.”

Rhaenyra sat back, staring at her in wonder. “And these women—these queens and rulers—you said one united her world through marriage? And another reigned longer than any man before her?”

Lacy nodded. “Queen Victoria. Queen Elizabeth. Queens who shaped entire generations. Queens that made history.”

Rhaenyra’s fingers curled slightly around her cup. “And yet, here, I must fight for what is mine by birthright.”

Lacy studied her carefully. “You’re going to be a great queen, Princess.”

Rhaenyra met her gaze, something unreadable passing through her expression.

For a moment, she said nothing.

Then, softly, she asked, “Do you miss it?”

Lacy blinked.

“My world?”

Rhaenyra nodded.

Lacy exhaled. “Every single day.”

The room fell quiet.

Sara looked at her lap, unsure what to say.

Rhaenyra studied her, her expression unreadable. “And yet, you do not seem desperate to return.”

Lacy shrugged. “What’s the point? I don’t even know if I can return. And besides…”

She trailed off, her fingers idly tracing the rim of her tea cup.

She thought of Winterfell.

Of the North.

Of Cregan.

“I have something worth staying for,” she admitted.

Rhaenyra’s eyes softened, as if she understood more than Lacy had meant to say.

Silence stretched between them, comfortable yet charged with unspoken words.

Then, Lacy leaned forward again, breaking the moment.

“Alright, I have a request.”

Rhaenyra arched a brow. “Oh?”

Lacy smirked.

“I want to see a dragon.”

Sara stiffened beside her.

Rhaenyra tilted her head, amused. “You do?”

Lacy grinned. “Hell yes, I do.”

The princess chuckled, sipping her tea.

“Well then, Lady Morin,” Rhaenyra said, setting her cup down, “I think it’s time you were properly introduced to Syrax.”

Princess Rhaenyra, Lacy, Sara, and Lady Elinda Massey sat comfortably inside the princess’s carriage as it made its way toward the Dragonpit. The streets of King’s Landing bustled around them—crowded, loud, and rancid with the thick scent of too many bodies, too much filth, and a complete lack of proper sanitation.

Lacy wrinkled her nose, barely suppressing a gag as she muttered, "How do you stand the smell of this place?"

Rhaenyra smirked, amusement flickering in her violet eyes.

"I don’t," she admitted smoothly, adjusting the long sleeves of her gown. "No one truly does. We all just pretend not to notice."

Lacy huffed, giving her a skeptical look. "You mean to tell me you’ve lived here most of your life, and it still bothers you?"

Rhaenyra exhaled through her nose, glancing out the carriage window. Below them, King’s Landing stretched endlessly, thick with smoke, filth, and the unmistakable stench of humanity.

"Of course, it does," she said matter-of-factly. "King’s Landing was built too fast, too chaotically. It swells with more people than it can support, and there are not enough wells, not enough waste pits, not enough fresh air to clear the rot from the streets."

She turned back to Lacy, tilting her head slightly. "But we are royalty. And royalty does not complain. We endure."

Lacy crossed her arms, unimpressed. "That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard."

Sara gasped beside her. "Lacy!"

But Rhaenyra laughed—a full-bodied, amused sound, shaking her head.

"You truly are unlike any noblewoman I’ve met," the princess said, her eyes gleaming with intrigue.

"Damn right," Lacy muttered, still side-eyeing the city outside. "Back home, we have plumbing, sanitation, city planning, trash removal. We don’t just pretend the smell isn’t there. We fix the problem."

Rhaenyra hummed, as if considering. "And how would you fix King’s Landing?"

Lacy shot her a knowing grin. "Oh, you don’t want me running your city, Princess. Half the nobles would riot before I was even done laying pipes."

Rhaenyra smirked. "Then perhaps I should put you in charge of them."

Lacy chuckled. "Yeah, well… we’ll work on the North first."

The princess leaned back against the carriage seat, inhaling deeply before exhaling with purpose.

"I must admit, I envy you," she mused. "You get to leave."

Lacy arched a brow. "And you don’t?"

Rhaenyra shook her head, smiling, but there was something wistful in her expression.

"This is my cage, Lady Morin," she said simply, her gaze drifting toward the distant city walls. "And like the smell—I have no choice but to endure it."

Lacy frowned at that, then spoke without thinking.

"Then make your own way out."

Rhaenyra’s gaze snapped to hers, intrigued. "And how do you propose I do that?"

Lacy shrugged, her mind already calculating. "Establish a business—one that is structured properly. One-third of the profits go toward paying the workers, another third is reinvested into purchasing homes and funding orphanages, and the final third keeps the business running—covering supplies, expansion, and operations."

The princess blinked, then narrowed her eyes slightly, considering the idea. "And where do I find these workers?"

"From the poorest districts," Lacy answered without hesitation. "Over time, you buy up entire blocks, renovate them, and offer housing only to your employees. Instead of charging full rent, you deduct a small, reasonable amount from their wages—enough that they have stable housing, but the business remains sustainable."

Rhaenyra studied her for a long moment, her expression unreadable. "And what kind of business would this be?"

Lacy grinned. "When we return to the Keep, I’ll tell you all about the brick and soap makers of my world."

Before the princess could respond—

A low, distant rumble shook the air.

Sara stiffened beside her.

Lacy’s eyes widened.

And Rhaenyra?

She simply smiled.

Her voice was laced with quiet excitement as she turned her gaze forward.

"Come," the princess murmured, leaning slightly toward Lacy. "It’s time to meet a dragon."

Three Days Later – The Throne Room of the Red Keep
The Great Hall was silent as Cregan Stark strode forward, his heavy boots echoing off the polished stone floor. The banners of House Targaryen draped the chamber in red and black, their three-headed dragon looming above the Iron Throne. At its base sat King Viserys I Targaryen, his frame stronger than it had been in years, thanks to Lacy Morin’s intervention.

Beside him stood Princess Rhaenyra, regal in her black and red gown, her violet eyes unreadable. Prince Daemon lingered at her side, arms crossed, his smirk betraying his amusement at the formalities.

The gathered nobility of King’s Landing watched intently, waiting for the Lord of Winterfell to speak.

Cregan knelt before the Iron Throne, lowering his head in solemn respect.

“I, Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, do hereby swear my loyalty to you, King Viserys Targaryen, and to your rightful heir, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. House Stark shall stand as the sword and shield of the realm, as it has for generations before me.”

The North’s oath had always been weighty—it was not given lightly, nor was it ever broken.

Viserys inclined his head, his expression one of quiet relief. “I accept your fealty, Lord Stark. The North remains strong under your watch.”

Cregan stood, meeting the King’s gaze directly before stepping aside.

The herald’s voice rang out again. “Lady Sara Stark, newly legitimized, future Stark of Moat Cailin.”

Murmurs rippled through the court as Sara entered, head held high, her white gown bearing the direwolf of House Stark proudly upon her chest. Her presence here, her mere existence, had already ruffled some of the nobility. A bastard made true? Given control of the North’s most strategic stronghold?

At her side walked Ser Edric Bolton, her betrothed, standing tall and unwavering.

Sara approached the Iron Throne, kneeling gracefully.
“I, Sara Stark, swear my fealty to King Viserys and to Princess Rhaenyra, my future Queen.”

The King nodded approvingly, though many of the lords exchanged uneasy glances.

Legitimizing Sara wasn’t just about giving her a name—it was about cementing Northern control over Moat Cailin, ensuring that House Stark, not the Crown or the Riverlands, held dominion over the gateway between North and South.

Daemon smirked, clearly enjoying the unease of the southern lords. Rhaenyra, however, gave Sara an approving nod.

Cregan could see Criston Cole in the corner, jaw clenched tight, disapproval plain on his face.

Good.

Sara rose and stepped aside, standing next to Cregan.

The hall began to settle once more, expecting the formalities to conclude.

But then—

The herald’s voice rang out once more, carrying across the hall:
“Lady Lacy Morin, intended of Lord Stark.”

Silence fell.

The lords and ladies of the court turned in stunned confusion, whispers breaking out like wildfire.

No one expected her to be called forward.

And then, Lacy walked in.

Her all-white fitted wide-leg jumpsuit draped elegantly over her form, her grey Stark cloak billowing behind her. Upon its back, embroidered in striking silver thread, was the direwolf sigil of House Stark.

She moved without hesitation, without fear.

A stranger in their world, yet walking as though she belonged.

Cregan stood straighter, unable to take his eyes off her.

If the South had not yet understood who she was, they would now.

Lacy stepped before the Iron Throne, her unfamiliar clothing, her presence—everything about her was a defiance to tradition.

And yet, when she spoke, her voice was unwavering.

“I, Lacy Morin, swear my loyalty to you, King Viserys Targaryen.” Her gaze flickered, not to the King, but to Princess Rhaenyra, before she continued, “—and to your rightful heir, Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen.”

The entire hall fell silent.

Whispers stilled.

A few gasps were audible.

She had sworn to both.

To the King, yes—but also to the future Queen.

And that was a declaration the court would not forget.

Cregan smirked as he took in the stunned expressions.

Lord Tyland Lannister looked intrigued, but his calculating gaze was already considering what this meant for the future.

Lord Jasper Wylde looked displeased—he had tried to argue against Lacy’s influence once before.

Lord Criston Cole? Furious.

But it was Queen Alicent’s reaction that caught Lacy’s attention.

She had gone pale, her hands clutched together tightly in her lap.

And yet, the real surprise was Rhaenyra.

The Princess’ eyes gleamed with something new. Respect. Interest. Maybe even amusement.

She tilted her head slightly, a slow, approving smile forming on her lips.

“Rise, Lady Morin.”

Lacy did.

And as she turned, she caught the King watching her with a look of deep contemplation.

He knew what she had just done.

He knew what it meant.

Lacy Morin had just declared herself Rhaenyra’s ally—before the entire realm.

As Lacy stepped back, Cregan immediately moved to her side, offering his arm.

She took it without hesitation, her fingers curling around his forearm.

They walked together out of the throne room, past the whispering lords and ladies, past the watchful eyes of both Alicent and Rhaenyra.

And the moment they stepped into the corridor, Cregan leaned in close, his voice low.

“That was dangerous.”

Lacy only grinned.

“That was necessary.”

Cregan let out a slow exhale, then smirked.

“You continue to surprise them.”

Lacy raised an eyebrow, playful. “And you?”

Cregan’s smirk widened.

“You stopped surprising me a long time ago.”

The doors to the Feast Hall opened before them.

A grand banquet awaited—food and drink in abundance, music already playing.

The North had sworn its loyalty.

And tonight, the South would celebrate.

Even if they didn’t yet realize…

That the world had just begun to change.

The last two days had flown by for Lacy Morin.

Between helping Princess Rhaenyra map out the first stages of their joint business ventures and securing the North’s first trade deal with the future Queen, she had barely found time to rest.

The princess had been eager to move forward with their plans—one focused on luxury scents and perfumes, aptly named Scents of a Dragon, while the other, Bricks, Titles, and More, would supply everything from furnaces to durable housing materials.

And while Rhaenyra was passionate about the gold this would bring to her House, Lacy had been focused on resources—namely, ensuring that the North would supply the princess with paper goods for packaging her soaps and coal for her furnaces.

A solid trade route.

One that benefitted both of them.

But now, all of that had to wait.

Today, she was to testify in the trial of the three poisoners.

She had been waiting in her chambers, seated with Sara, who had been going over some of the notes Lacy had given her for when she took control of Moat Cailin.

“Are you nervous?” Sara asked, looking up at her.

Lacy exhaled, tapping her fingers against her thigh. “No. Just… impatient.”

Sara nodded, understanding.

Then, finally—

A knock at the door.

“The King has summoned Lady Morin,” a guard announced.

Lacy stood immediately, pressing out the folds of her black-and-silver tunic before grabbing her grey Stark cloak.

She turned to PLEX, who was already scanning her surroundings.

“Come on, big guy.”

With that, she stepped out into the corridor, the clicking of her boots echoing as she made her way to the throne room.

The heavy doors of the throne room swung open, their iron hinges groaning under the weight of the moment.

Lacy Morin strode forward, flanked by PLEX, whose metallic frame gleamed under the flickering torchlight. She wasn’t sure what she expected when King Viserys summoned her, but as her eyes swept over the assembled tribunal, she had to fight the urge to swear out loud.

At the center of it all, seated on the Iron Throne, was King Viserys I Targaryen. Though still frail, there was a fire in his eyes that had been missing for years. His restored strength—thanks to her intervention—was evident in the way he sat straighter, his hands gripping the armrests of his blade-forged seat.

But it wasn’t the King that shocked her.

It was the judges.

To Viserys’ left, draped in holy white robes, was the High Septon—a round-bellied man with small, beady eyes that immediately narrowed upon her arrival.

To his right sat Lord Tyland Lannister, his golden mane perfectly kept, his rich crimson tunic gleaming with gold embroidery. He looked at her not with disdain but with something worse—calculated interest.

And then, there was the third judge—an aged, sharp-faced man with a weathered brow, clad in House Tully’s colors. The silver trout of his house leaped proudly on his chest.

Lacy inhaled deeply.

So these were the men tasked with passing judgment today?

The Faith. The Nobility. The Crown.

Three different pillars of Westerosi power, united only when it suited them.

She should’ve expected nothing less.

The High Septon tilted his head, peering at her like a disobedient child.

“This is the woman?” His nasal voice carried through the throne room, laced with barely veiled contempt. “The… foreigner, who speaks of things not meant for a woman’s tongue?”

Lacy didn’t flinch.

She tilted her head slightly, offering him a polite, unreadable smile.

“I would hope my tongue was meant for speech,” she said smoothly. “Or are we to sit in silence and pretend I was never summoned here?”

A ripple of chuckles moved through the assembled court.

The High Septon’s brows furrowed in disapproval. “You speak before the Seven, girl. You will show respect.”

Lacy clasped her hands in front of her, her expression one of deceptive politeness.

“I respect that you have your beliefs, High Septon. But I suggest you tread carefully before assuming yours are the only ones that matter.”

His mouth twisted, his face turning red. “The gods have guided Westeros for thousands of years—”

“And yet, they still let men bleed and die,” Lacy interjected, her voice as sharp as a blade. “Tell me, how many kings has your Faith saved? How many plagues have you cured? How many wars have you prevented?”

Silence.

She smirked. “I’ll wait.”

The High Septon looked ready to explode, but Lacy didn’t give him the chance.

She took one slow step forward, eyes locked on him.

“In my world, religion has tried to place itself above the crown before. And when it did, it brought nothing but destruction.”

She saw the way his jaw clenched, but she continued, undeterred.

“There was once a king who died without an heir. His daughter, Mary, should have taken the throne, but the nobles—men of Faith like you—claimed she was unfit to rule. They tried to place another in her stead.”

The High Septon frowned.

“What happened?” Lord Tyland Lannister cut in, intrigued.

Lacy smirked. “She killed them all.”

The court stilled.

“Burned them, beheaded them, quartered them—she made sure every man who plotted against her died painfully.”

She let the words sink in, then shrugged.

“They called her Mary the Bloody Queen.”

A few gasps rippled through the gathered nobles.

Even Princess Rhaenyra, watching from the side, smirked in amusement.

The High Septon’s face tightened, his hand curling into a fist.

Lacy tilted her head. “You are lucky the women of Westeros are far more forgiving.”

Before the Septon could recover, the Tully Lord scoffed.

“This is nonsense,” he said, grumbling with distaste. “A mere woman cannot know such things. She cannot heal a King!”

Lacy let out a slow, controlled exhale.

Oh, this was going to be fun.

“Lord…?” she prompted.

The old man sniffed. “Lord Gover Tully.”

“Lord Tully.” She folded her arms. “Tell me, how many lives have you saved?”

The lord’s brows furrowed. “What—”

“I mean it,” Lacy pressed. “How many sick have you healed? How many wounded have you treated? How many fevers have you broken?”

The old lord looked baffled. “I—”

“That’s right,” she cut in, “none.”

A few chuckles rippled through the crowd.

She turned to King Viserys, meeting his gaze.

“Your Grace, would you say I know nothing of healing?”

Viserys, who had remained quiet until now, sat up straighter.

His gaze swept the room before he spoke.

“I would say,” he said slowly, his voice carrying across the chamber, “that she knows more than every maester in this realm.”

The throne room erupted.

Even Lord Tyland Lannister—ever the politician—looked impressed.

Lord Tully, however, turned red with rage.

But Lacy wasn’t done.

She stepped forward, voice carrying.

“The truth is, men of this world keep women uneducated on purpose. Because if women had access to knowledge, men like you would lose their power.”

The old lord glared daggers at her.

But he had no response.

The tribunal was reeling.

The judges were either fuming, impressed, or both.

But then—

PLEX’s voice rang out.

“Would you like to present recorded evidence, Lady Morin?”

The King stiffened. “Evidence?”

Lacy turned to PLEX.

“Play it.”

A second later—

The sound of voices filled the throne room.

“—Once my father is allowed to see the King, he will change his mind.”

A woman’s voice.

The entire court turned toward Queen Alicent.

But PLEX wasn’t done.

The next voice sent a ripple of pure horror through the room.

“If the North has gained her, we must act swiftly. The King will not live forever. There are other ways.”

Otto Hightower.

The throne room descended into chaos.

Even Queen Alicent’s children stared at her in horror.

The High Septon went pale.

Lord Tully looked ashen.

Tyland Lannister’s calculating gaze sharpened.

And King Viserys—his face twisted with fury.

“Guards,” he commanded, his voice shaking with rage. “Bring Otto Hightower to me. Now.”

And just like that—

The realm had changed.