nyrasvoid

[nyrasvoid]

FORGET ABOUT SMUT. PLEASE I AM TIRED OF IT. I NEED ANGST. I NEED GUT WRENCHING EMOTIONAL TURMOIL THAT MAKES ME SICK TO MY STOMACH. I NEED TO BAWL JUST FROM THINKING ABOUT IT.

[nyrasvoid]

my drafts keep growing…

[nyrasvoid]

Winterbound pt.2

♡ Cregan Stark x Fem!Reader

𖤓 Summary: tensions rise in Winterfell as Cregan Stark’s absence forces his wife to rule alone. After Lady Cerra kills the reader’s beloved horse, rage erupts. Justice is served, and their fractured marriage begins to heal.

⚝ Warnings: animal death, smut (mdni), oral (f receiving), verbal conflict, grief, public humiliation, emotional manipulation (kinda), physical violence (slap), power imbalance

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊ A/N: I think I might write a pt.3 for this but I’m not sure

⭑ Word count: ≈4k words

• Part 1 here

It’s been a hard winter.

The kind that leaves your skin dry and your temper shorter than it should be. Cregan had ridden to the Wall over two weeks ago. You remain at Winterfell ruling in his absence. No one says it aloud, but that’s what it is. They send their complaints, their petitions and their demands to you.

Today started with noise.

You heard it through the thick window panes of your chamber and felt something was wrong.

You threw on your cloak and went through the snow. No one stopped you. No one offered any answers.

You found it there, in the stables.

Silversong.

The pale silver mare Aemond had gifted you in honor of your betrothal. The last living tie to a man who was many things. Cruel, clever, ambitious, but who had once cared enough to send you a creature so beautiful it stole your heart the moment you saw her.

Now she was dead. Her throat cut clean.

The straw was soaked with her blood. It steamed in the cold, still warm. The stableboys avoided your eyes. One boy dropped the brush he was holding and backed away, whispering apologies.

You knelt beside the mare’s body and touched her mane. Your vision blurred with tears, but not with grief.

With rage.

“Who did this?” you said.

No one answered.

You rose to your feet, your tone now much colder. “Who. Did. This.”

The steward hesitated near the gate. Then a voice broke through. The old washerwoman, half-blind and always lurking, spoke from the hayloft ladder where she stood listening.

“Lady Cerra.” she said, soft and low. “She said the horse bit her son. Didn’t wait to ask. Just sent her men and said to kill it.”

“She killed my horse,” you said, voice like ice. “without trial…without proof.”

The steward tried to interject. “My lady-”

“She touched what was mine.”

He went pale. “It was said the mare-“

“I don’t care what was said. She had no right. No warning. No message sent to me. She knew what this horse meant. And she did it anyway.”

“My lady…please-”

“She wants a war?” you snapped, your voice rising. “She can have one. She thinks I’m some soft southern girl, here to smile and nod and step aside. Fine. Let her learn what southern girls can be.”

You turned and stormed away from the stables.

• ────────── ⋆���☆⋅⋆ ────────── •

A few days ago, you had sat on the high seat at the great hall, meeting with key northern lords and bannermen. Cregan’s orders echoed in your mind: ‘Hold the line. Don’t agree to anything drastic.’

Lord Roderick Dustin, lord of Barrowton, leaned over the table. “Winter is harsh. Our granaries are low. If Winter Town’s people starve, they won’t be able to send supplies to the Watch.���

“If the lords are so concerned about the night’s watch, then let them donate it directly.” you replied. “The Watch suffers because we have yet to organize actual trade. We must not rob from our own villages.”

He frowned, slamming a fist on the table. “And you suggest what? That we trade with White Harbor while they cripple us with tariffs?”

“What we will not do,” you answered “is steal from starving villages to feed the Wall. Fix the system. Make the lords contribute or establish proper trade. Stop bleeding the smallfolk to make up for your mismanagement.”

Lord Dustin’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening beneath his beard.

“Easy words from a girl who’s never watched her bannermen freeze to death with empty bellies. The smallfolk bleed, aye. But so do we. You think trade will come riding in like a knight to save the North? We’re not the Reach. No one gives us anything. We take what we must to survive.”

He leaned forward, voice lower. “You want to talk mismanagement? Fine. But do not stand in a northern hall and act like you know what real northern hunger is.”

“You wonder if I understand hunger.” you said. “Believe me, I do.”

Then Lady Cerra spoke, her lips curved in that thin, mocking smile.

“My lady,” she said “you know nothing of northern hunger. If you make the wrong decision, you will be the one to blame when children suffer. Or worse, when their parents revolt.”

You leaned forward from your chair, eyes fixated on hers.

“Do not patronize me.” you said. “I know enough to know starving farmers take knives. I know enough to respect the dead. I refuse to starve Winter Town so that some lad at the Wall can have his third loaf.”

Silence stretched.

Cerra looked away, her voice composed. “Then I suppose your authority is limited to grand speeches.”

Your smile was cold. “We’ll see.”

• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •

Snow clung to your cloak and in your hair as you stormed back into the great hall, your skirts stained dark with the mare’s blood. The heavy oak doors slammed behind you, silencing the murmurs of the gathered lords and bannermen.

All eyes snapped to you. The steward tried to step forward. “My lady, please, calm yourself.”

“No.” Your voice echoed through the room. “No calming.” You took slow steps forward, fury radiating from your every movement. “I demand answers.”

A thick silence fell. Every man and woman turned to the steward.

“Who gave the order to kill Silversong?” you said, voice rising, “Who deemed it right to cut the throat of a creature gifted to me? Who thought themselves judge, jury, and executioner?”

The steward swallowed hard, his usual composure faltering. “It was Lady Cerra’s decision, my lady.”

A bitter laugh escaped you. “Lady Cerra.”

The hall shifted uncomfortably. Someone murmured, but you silenced them with a glance.

“Where is she?” you demanded.

The doors creaked open and, as if summoned by your fury, Lady Cerra entered, slow and deliberate. She paused just inside the hall, eyes sweeping the room like a predator. Then they locked onto you.

“The beast was dangerous.” she said smoothly. “You have no children, Lady Stark. Perhaps you don’t understand how swiftly a child’s life can be at risk.”

You stepped forward, your hand flashing out before thought.

Smack.

The sound echoed like a thunderclap.

A hush fell over the hall.

Cerra’s cheek reddened where your palm had struck, and for a moment her arrogant smile vanished.

“You have no right,” you said, voice low and hard, “to destroy what is mine, without trial, without word.”

Cerra’s eyes blazed. “And what if it had killed my son? What then? Should I wait for your permission to protect my own blood?”

Your fingers curled into fists. “You will answer to me.”

Cerra laughed, cruel and sharp. “You have no power here, girl.”

“I have more power than you realize,” you shot back. “And I will not let this stand.” You paused. “And I will make sure my husband doesn’t either”

The steward stepped between you, voice trembling. “Please, my lady, do not escalate. We must keep peace.”

You laughed bitterly. “Peace built on blood? No. I want justice.”

Cerra’s smile returned, colder than before. “You will learn the North does not bow to threats.”

You leaned close, voice deadly. “Try me.”

• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •

You retreat from the great hall, the heavy wooden doors closing behind you with a sharp thud.

Once inside your chambers, you throw off your cloak, letting it fall heavily to the floor.

The hearth’s fire flickers weakly, barely warming the room. You slip out of your gown, leaving only your shift. You drop to your knees before the fire, trying to warm yourself so you could calm down.

A soft knock at the door makes you look up.

Sara stands hesitantly in the frame. Her face is pale, her eyes filled with concern. She hasn’t spoken to you in days.

“You should have kept quiet.” she says quietly, her voice almost a whisper. “Cerra won’t let this go.”

You stare at her, cold. “Neither will I.”

Sara steps inside, closing the door behind her. She kneels beside you. “This isn’t just about a horse, or a fight between two women.”

You turn your gaze back to the fire. “Then what is it?”

Sara’s voice drops even lower. “It’s a warning. To you, to everyone who’d think to stand against the northern lords.”

You laugh bitterly, shaking your head. “Let them come.”

She reaches out, touching your hand gently. “Be careful, my lady. This winter is beingcolder than others. The lords will rebel if they feel belittled.”

You squeeze her hand, a fleeting moment of gratitude in your grief.

That night, you find yourself walking through the snow outside Winterfell. You go to the stables alone, the place where Silversong once stood alive.

The stable is dark, save for the faint light from the stars.

You take the worn leather saddle from the empty stall, your fingers tracing the scars and stains that tell stories of rides in the past.

Your hands tremble as you carry it through the snow, past the walls of the castle, to the Godswood.

You kneel beneath the twisted branches of the ancient heart tree, the snow muffling the sound of your sobs.

Slowly, you bury the saddle in the cold earth.

Your hands blister and ache from the effort, but it does not matter.

You sit back on your heels, and for a long time you sit there and say nothing.

• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •

It was midafternoon when word reached you.

Lord Cregan Stark had returned.

The guards expected you to greet him at the gate. You didn’t.

Instead, you remained where you were, seated by your chamber window, watching Rickon chase the dog in circles near the hearth. The boy’s laughter echoed through the stone walls, and for a moment, the sound muffled everything else.

You didn’t even look up when the door creaked open.

Cregan stood there, taller than you remembered, broader perhaps.

“You didn’t come to greet me.” he said softly.

“No.” you replied.

He stepped in. Rickon squealed with joy and barreled into his father’s legs.

“I missed you.” Rickon said as his father scooped him up.

“I missed you too.” Cregan murmured, ruffling his hair. “You’ve grown taller, I think.”

“I haven’t.” the boy grinned.

You turned your face back to the window.

“I heard,” he said carefully, “about what happened. With the mare.”

You said nothing.

He sat down in the chair across from you, elbows resting on his knees, as though bracing for what was to come.

“She wasn’t just a gift.” you continued. “She was the last thing I had from before all this. Before the marriage. Before Winterfell.”

“I understand-”

“No, you don’t.” You turned to him now. “Cerra humiliated me. And you’ve done nothing.”

“She’s the wife of Lord Dustin-”

“Exactly. That’s your excuse? That she has a powerful husband?” you paused. “Well, I also have a powerful husband and he seems to be doing nothing to serve me justice.”

You turned to him now, eyes narrowed.

“She made a fool of me in my own hall.”

“We need Barrowton’s men. Their grain. Their steel. I can’t jeopardize that-“

“You’re jeopardizing me.”

He flinched.

“Do you think they don’t see it?” you said. “The way the lords talk over me, the way they eye me when I speak? That woman walked into my stables and killed my horse, and you think your silence doesn’t speak volumes?”

Cregan’s voice dropped low. “My silence keeps peace.”

You stood.

“Your silence makes me weak.”

The words landed like a slap. He stepped back a pace.

“I’ve done everything right,” you continued. “I’ve kept the smallfolk fed, kept the keep warm, kept order…”

“I know.”

“Then punish her.”

He was quiet for too long.

“No.”

Your breath caught. “What?”

“I won’t punish her.” he said evenly. “Not openly. Not yet.”

You turned away, jaw clenched. “Then you’re not the man I thought you were.”

“I won’t fight with you tonight,” he said. “I’m tired.”

“Then get out.”

He opened the door to leave, but not before looking back once.

“I missed you.” he said.

You didn’t reply.

• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •

That night, the halls were quiet. You had just begun to undress when the knock came.

It was a maid, not one of yours, but one of the keep.

“My lady,” she murmured. “Lord Stark requests your presence. In your shared chambers.”

You nodded once.

When you arrived, the fire was already lit. Cregan stood near it, his cloak discarded, his belt undone. He turned when you entered.

“You sent for me.” you said flatly.

“I did.”

You folded your arms. “Why?”

His eyes met yours, unblinking. “Why do you think?”

Your lip curled. “You want to fuck.”

He let out a quiet scoff, something close to a laugh, but bitter.

“No.” he said. “Not tonight.”

“Why not?” you shot back. “Isn’t that what I’m here for?”

His jaw tightened. “You don’t enjoy it. I won’t ask for it again until you want me to.”

You stared at him.

“What?” you said, voice cold.

“You don’t enjoy it.” he repeated. “You do your duty. You let me take you. But I won’t touch you again until you want it.”

The words hit you in a way you hadn’t expected. Not because of their kindness, but because of what they implied.

“That’s it?” you said bitterly. “You pity me now?”

“No. I respect you.”

You laughed. “You think this is respect? Withholding your cock like you are doing me a favor?”

“I think taking a woman who doesn’t want it isn’t fucking.”

“You don’t want me because I don’t moan when you touch me?”

He stepped closer. “I don’t want to take what’s not given.”

“You already did,” you said. we were wed. That was the deal. I am here to give you children. Whether I like it or not is irrelevant.”

He paused. “It’s not irrelevant to me.”

You laughed, a sharp and bitter laugh.

“Maybe the problem isn’t me,” you said, stepping closer. “maybe the problem is that you’re not very good at it.”

His jaw tensed. “Is that so?”

“Maybe I feel nothing because you’ve never given me anything worth feeling.”

The silence between you made the moment even more tense.

Then, slowly, he stepped forward, until his breath was warm against your cheek.

“Sit on the desk.” He said.

You blinked. “What?”

“Sit.” he repeated, voice like gravel.

You did, legs swinging over the edge. He dropped to his knees before you, hands at your hips, and began to lift your skirts.

Your thighs tensed beneath his hands. His touch was patient, not demanding. He didn’t force your legs wider. He waited.

“Say it.” he murmured, voice low and rough. “Say you want me here.”

You looked down at him, chest rising and falling faster than you cared to admit. “Why?” you said, breath catching. “So your pride can recover?”

His lips brushed the inside of your thigh. “No. Because I don’t want your silence. I want you.”

“You want me now?” you whispered. “When I’m still furious with you?”

“I want all of you.” he said. “Your rage, your coldness, everything. I want you. Not your duty. Not your obedience. Just you.”

Your fingers found his hair, not gently, but roughly, and you pulled it, tilting his face up.

“Then prove it.” you said. “Make me feel something.”

His lips curved into a smirk. “Gladly, my lady.”

His mouth was warm as it touched the inside of your thigh.

You had expected something crude. Just a man trying to prove a point. But this wasn’t just that.

He took his time.

You felt the first sweep of his tongue and your fingers curled hard against the edge of the desk. It was passionate, slow, like he was learning the taste of you. You hated how good it felt. Hated how your breath hitched when he did it again, firmer this time. Your thighs trembled.

“You’re quiet.” he murmured. “Still feel nothing?”

Your hand flew to his hair, fingers twisting roughly in the dark strands. “Don’t stop.”

That was answer enough.

His hands gripped your thighs now, holding you open. His tongue moved deeper, circling, stroking your sensitive bud. You bit your lip. Your head fell back. He didn’t rush. He devoured you.

You could feel your climax very close slow, unbearable.

Every pass of his tongue pushed you closer.

“Cregan-” you gasped.

He hummed against your clit, and the vibration made your hips jerk. He gripped your hips harder, keeping you still. And then, you finally came.

Your thighs trembled. Your hands shook. Your mind went blurry for one brief moment.

You were still catching your breath when he rose. His mouth was damp, his expression unreadable.

You slid off the desk slowly, fixing your skirts with shaking hands.

“I’m still angry with you.” you said, not looking at him.

“I know.”

You stared at the door.

“Do not speak to me,” you added, “until you’ve done something about her.”

He clenched his jaw, but he said nothing. Only nodded once.

And you left.

Back in your chambers, you undressed in silence. You sat by the fire, fingers brushing your lips, your legs still trembling slightly.

• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •

You sat at the long table with Rickon at your side, his small fingers clumsily reaching for bread. Your dog dozed near the fire. Across from you, Cregan sat in silence.

He hadn’t said much when he entered. Just a nod in your direction, a quiet “Good morning” and then nothing else. You responded with silence.

The space between you felt heavy.

Rickon glanced between you both.

“Are you angry at papa?” he asked, mouth half-full.

You didn’t answer. Not directly.

Instead, you reached for his cup and helped him drink. “Eat your eggs before they go cold.”

Cregan gave a soft sigh, clearly about to speak.

“Don’t.” you said flatly, eyes never leaving Rickon. “Not here.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything about yesterday.” he said, voice calm. “I was going to ask how you slept.”

You set your fork down.

“I slept fine. Alone. As usual.”

He nodded once, lips pressing into a thin line.

You stood up.

“I have things to attend to. If Lord Stark has any further requests, he may send a raven like everyone else.”

You walked away without waiting for a reply, your footsteps echoing on stone.

• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •

Later that morning, you stood beneath the Godswood with two village women from Winter Town, helping them organize the wool and leather sent in. You were overseeing distribution to the poorest households before the week’s next snowstorm.

“It’s not enough.” One of the women muttered. “They’ll need firewood too.”

“I know,” you said. “I’ve arranged for two carts to be sent tonight. I’ll make sure the children are warm.”

You were just tying the list back into its scroll when you heard fast footsteps over the snow.

“My lady!” It was Elyn, your younger maid, cheeks flushed, panting. “Come quick- it’s Lord Stark. He-he did it.”

You blinked. “Did what?”

“He punished Lady Cerra. Stripped her of her seat on the winter council. Took back all her lands around Long Barrow and gave them to her younger cousin. Said she had violated northern law and insulted his wife publicly.”

You stared.

“He… did it?”

Elyn nodded so hard her cloak nearly slipped off. “It just happened. In front of everyone. She screamed. Lord Dustin looked ready to start a war, but Lord Stark stood firm. Said any challenge would be met like treason. My lady, everyone saw it. They saw him do it for you.”

A strange feeling surged in your chest.

You turned toward the keep.

“Fetch my cloak.”

• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •

He was still in the Great Hall, speaking with an old lord.

Cregan saw you immediately. He dismissed the man with a brief word and stepped down toward you.

You met him halfway.

“You did it.” you said.

He gave a curt nod. “Cerra was out of line. There had to be consequences.”

“I didn’t think you would.” you admitted. “I thought you’d protect her. For politics. For Lord Dustin’s favour.”

“I weighed the cost,” he said. “and I chose you.”

“I’m glad you did it. For me.”

He gave a slight nod. “I didn’t do it for thanks.”

“I know,” you replied. “but you’ll have it anyway.”

He watched you quietly for a moment, then asked: “And now?”

You tilted your head. “Now?”

“Will you return to our chambers?”

You let the question hang in the air for a while.

“I will.” you said. “Gladly. Not because I must. But because I choose to.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close.

“I won’t ask anything of you.” he said. “Not unless you ask it first.”

And then the both of you left to go to your shared chambers.

When you reached the stairwell that led to the

apartments, Cregan paused and turned to you.

“I meant what I said,” he began, voice low. “about choosing you.”

You nodded. “I believe you.”

“I should’ve done it sooner.”

You raised a brow. “Yes. You should’ve.”

His mouth twitched in acknowledgment of the deserved scolding, but he didn’t look away. “It wasn’t just about avenging what she did.” he continued. “It was about… setting things right with you.”

You frowned, slightly confused. “And what does that mean?”

He exhaled slowly, as if the next words were heavy in his mouth. “When we married, I saw you as duty. A strong southern bride to match my northern name. That was what I told myself. That it was about Winterfell. Stability. Legacy.”

You folded your arms, unsure where this was going, unsure if you wanted to hear it.

“I didn’t realize,” he said, stepping closer, “that I had come to expect you to carry everything while giving you so little in return. You weren’t just sent here to breed sons and warm my bed.”

You tilted your chin up. “I know that.”

“I didn’t.” he said plainly. “Not at first.”

The confession was raw. Not romantic. Not poetic. Just honest in the way northern men always were.

He continued. “I want more than just a partner in name. I want you beside me. Truly. I want you to know this is your home. That he-“ he nodded toward the door behind you, where Rickon’s voice faintly echoed “-is our son. Not only mine.”

Your breath hitched a little at that.

“You’ve raised him kindly,” you said after a pause. “you don’t need me to-”

“I do.” he interrupted. “And so does he.”

“I want you to be his mother.” Cregan said. “Not because the law says you are, but because he sees you as such. And because you want it.”

You took a slow breath, eyes searching his face.

And then you leaned forward, just enough to press your lips to his.

It wasn’t harsh or rushed. It was soft, steady. His hand rose to your waist, pulling you closer. He let you set the pace. And when you finally pulled back, your eyes lingered in his.

You swallowed. “Starting over doesn’t erase what happened.”

“I know.” He looked down briefly, then back at you. “But maybe it makes room for what comes next.”

Your eyes searched his. “You want me to share your bed.”

“I want you to want to.”

A silence stretched.

You took a step forward. Then another.

You saw him straighten.

“I’ll fulfill my duty, as a wife and as a mother to Rickon. Not because it’s expected,” you added. “but because I’ve decided it’s what I want.”

“Thank you.” he said.

You gave a half-smile. “Don’t thank me yet. I’m still angry with you.”

He nodded solemnly. “I would expect nothing less.”

You turned to go, but paused at the stairwell.

“Oh, and Cregan?”

“Yes?”

“If you ever let another woman undermine me like that again…”

He raised a brow. “You’ll take my head?”

“No,” you said with a cold smile. “I will cut off your cock in your sleep.”

He grinned. “Then I’ll do my best to behave.”

[nyrasvoid]

Winterbound

♡ Cregan Stark x Fem!Reader

𖤓 Summary: you were meant to marry Prince Aemond Targaryen. But war changes everything, and you’re sent to the North instead, to marry a stranger, Lord Cregan Stark. Winterfell is cold, unfamiliar, and unwelcoming, and so is your new husband.

⚝ Warnings: arranged marriage, dubious consent (implied non-con), emotional neglect, mild ilness, non-explicit smut, cold intimacy, culture shock (reader is from the south), social isolation (reader doesn’t feel welcome in the north) lmk if I forgot something

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊ A/N: this is supposed to be a slow burn fic, so the relationship dynamic is intentionally cold and distant at first.

⭑ Word count: ≈3.57k

You were six when your father first told you about your betrothal to prince Aemond Targaryen. He spoke with pride in his voice as he told you of Aemond’s strength, of his claim, of the glory that your union would bring to your house. ‘A Targaryen,’ he said, ‘in our bloodline, in our future. Your children would be dragonriders, just imagine it.’

You had memorized every single detail of your husband to be. Aemond’s long silver hair, his mismatched eyes, one deep violet, the other scarred with a blue stone in its place.

You dreamed of yourself in velvet and silk green dresses, riding beside Aemond, your skirts brushing against his dragon-scaled armor.

You began to count the days until your union. Until your life would begin to have sense.

But war, as your father now told you, has its own plans.

You were in your balcony when the raven landed. You remember the silence in the air the moment the wax seal broke. Your father read the message in silence, and his lips pulled into a hard line.

“Aemond Targaryen has taken a Baratheon girl to wife.” he said not even looking at you. “For alliance. For strategy.”

“But-” you began, your voice tight in your throat.

“You were nothing but a piece in this game.” he snapped “Now you are a useless one.”

He tossed the scroll into the fire, flames swallowing the parchment like it didn’t matter.

That night, you didn’t cry. You sat by the window, staring at the moon’s pale reflection on the pond, and thought of what you had lost.

“You’ve heard the news,” he said, “I have received proposals for your hand.”

“One caught my attention,” he continued. “Lord Cregan Stark has written. He seeks to marry you and bring you north.”

You sat rigid, heart pounding. “Winterfell?” you whispered. “The North?”

He nodded.

“You know northern men are savages.” you said, voice trembling. “And, their winters never end.”

Your mother, also worried, added quietly, “He must be a brute... Surely there is a gentler lord?”

Your father stared at you both, unmoved. “He has a strong army, a great house. With the war, I want this alliance sealed, immediately.”

• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •

The next morning, the carriage was ready, your belongings already packed: dresses, nightgowns, books to keep you entertained, and your small dog nestled in a blanket on the seat beside you.

As the carriage left the familiar walls of your home, your heart sank. Your dog whimpered softly and looked at you for comfort. You stroked its head and whispered, “We’ll be alright” but you were not certain about it either.

• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •

The trip to Winterfell took forty days. At first, the roads were smooth and the sun was warm. You passed green hills and quiet rivers, and for a while, it felt more like a long ride than a farewell. You spent your days reading in the carriage, your dog curled up beside you, and your maids chatting softly behind the curtains.

But as the days went on, everything changed. The trees grew thinner, the sky turned gray, and the wind came sharp through the cracks in the carriage. The farther north you went, the colder it got. You started wearing wool under your dresses, wrapping yourself in every blanket you had packed, but it never felt like enough. At night, you could see your breath when you spoke, even inside the carriage.

Your dog huddled close for warmth, shivering a little, and you held it in your lap, whispering that everything would be alright.

By the time you were halfway there, the ground was dusted with frost even in the morning, and you had developed a cough that worsened with every stop. Your maids tried to keep your spirits up, but even they had stopped smiling as much. The journey became quiet, slow, and heavy, like the snow beginning to fall outside the windows.

On the thirtieth day, the first flakes of snow fell. You thought Winterfell must be even colder than that. Your nose burned from blowing your nose constantly, and by the time you disembarked at the gates, you had a fever.

The keeper at the gate informed you that Lord Stark was away at the wall, helping to organise supply lines. You felt a rush of disappointment. You had expected at least a greeting from your husband-to-be.

Sara Snow stands in the courtyard, arms folded, already draped in thick furs. She meets your eye with a nod.

“Welcome.” she says “Come inside before the cold stiffens your fingers.” “Thank you” you reply as you follow her inside.

Your maids hurry forward to help with your things. One of them whispers ‘Stay strong, milady.’

The halls echoed with your own footsteps. A few passing servants gave you short bows, but their eyes lingered on your clothes, your fine gloves, your southern style. Even your jewelry seemed too bright here.

Sara led you through the great hall. “You’ll want to meet Rickon before the evening meal” she said. “He’s two. Cregan’s son. I hope you find it in your heart to care for him from now on.”

“Of course” you replied, unsure of what else to say.

The nursery was quiet. A little boy with dark hair and pale skin sat beside a low fire, chewing on a wooden bear. A young nursemaid stood nearby, nodding at you before leaving. Sara crouched beside the boy.

“Rickon,” she said gently. “this is the lady your father will marry.”

Rickon glanced up at you, blinking solemnly. You knelt slowly, offering a soft smile. “Hello, Rickon,” you said. “It’s cold out there, isn’t it?”

He didn’t answer, but his gaze settled on your dog. He stood, waddled over, and gently touched its fur. Your dog let out a low huff and licked his hand. Rickon giggled.

You exhaled, surprised by how quickly you took a liking for the child. “He’s sweet.”

“He’s a Stark.” Sara replied, standing again. “Born in winter. He’ll survive anything.”

You stroked Rickon’s hair once, then let your hand fall. You were already exhausted, and the cold had settled deep in your bones. Your cough returned on the walk to your chambers.

Sara’s voice broke the quiet. “Milady, those southern dresses are too thin for our winds. You’ll freeze if you keep dressing like that. You would do well to learn our ways.” There was no warmth in her tone or her expressions.

You nodded, trying not to tremble. “Thank you.”

• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •

Your rooms were… modest. Not small, but everything was built for function, not luxury. Dark wood, thick furs, heavy curtains. Your maids unpacked in silence, hanging your gowns, all too bright, all too thin, beside plain northern cloaks that had been left in the wardrobe.

You sat by the fire, your dog curling up at your feet. “I feel out of place.” you murmured.

Elaine, the youngest of your maids, gave you a look. “They’ll warm to you,” she said. “They just don’t know you yet.”

You weren’t as hopeful. “These people don’t want a lady from the South. They wanted one of their own.”

That night, the stew in the hall was thick and hot, but you barely tasted it. Conversation hummed in the background as servants passed. Sara sat near the head of the table. You kept your head down, only speaking when spoken to.

The next day, snow still fell, and you hadn’t yet seen your betrothed.

When you asked Sara if Cregan would return soon, she only said, “Tomorrow, if the winds are kind.”

“He didn’t think to send a message?”

Sara’s face didn’t change. “He has men to feed and guard. He’ll come. You’re not the only burden on his shoulders.”

The words stung, but you said nothing.

• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •

Later that day, she brought you the gown you’d wear for the ceremony. It was gray wool, unadorned, thick and scratchy.

“I didn’t have time to have a dress made,” you said, eyeing it. “I brought my own, but-”

“They’re not suited for the weather. This one is. You can thank me later.”

You stared at the plain fabric. “It’s not… what I expected.”

Sara’s eyes met yours. “Neither was this marriage. You’ll wear it.”

When you were alone again, you sank onto the edge of your bed, staring at the flames. You missed your mother. You missed your father, even in his anger. You missed the songs sung in your courtyard, and the honeycakes your cook used to make just for you. Here, even the fires felt colder.

You wrote a letter to your mother that night, then tucked it away before sealing it.

• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •

The sky was grey when the horns blew from the distance. You rushed to the window, nearly tripping over your gown. Men had gathered in the courtyard, among them, unmistakable even at a distance, was Lord Cregan Stark.

He dismounted his horse, towering over the men around him. He was broad-shouldered and tall, face hard and handsome in a way that was somehow both noble and brutal.

When a knock came at your chamber door, you nearly jumped.

Sara entered, gaze cool. “He’ll come see you now.”

You nodded, smoothed your gown with trembling hands, and followed.

The corridor felt endless, your steps quick on the stone. You kept your head high, reminding yourself that you were no mere lady. Still, your hands were cold when you stepped into the receiving room.

Cregan stood by the fire, arms crossed. He turned when you entered, and for a moment, he simply stared.

“My lord,” you said, curtsying. “it is good to see you returned safely.”

He gave a short nod. “You arrived without trouble?”

“Yes, though the cold has been… challenging,” you replied with a small smile. “It’s far colder than I imagined. Even in summer.”

He stepped forward, closer but still keeping a respectful distance. “This is summer, my lady”

You tried again. “Winterfell is vast. I walked the gardens yesterday. There was snow still clinging to the branches.”

He looked away slightly, toward the fire.

“I also met your son” you said, more softly now. “Rickon. He’s lovely. He came right to me without fear.”

Cregan’s jaw shifted. “He’s usually shy with new faces.”

“I’m glad he wasn’t with me.” you said, hoping he would meet your gaze again. “He reminds me of my little cousin, curious, but quiet. I brought him a book. Stories from the south, with illustrations.”

“That was kind,” he replied. His voice was quieter now, but still flat. “He’s too young to read.”

“Still… I thought it might comfort him.”

He looked at you again.

“You need not try so hard,” he said at last. “We are to be husband and wife. That is enough.”

Something in your chest tightened. “I just… I hoped we might speak. I thought-”

The air in the room seemed colder than before. Your fingers curled at your sides.

He nodded once, as if that concluded the matter. “If you require anything, send for the steward. Sara can attend you if your maids are unfamiliar with the keep. I will see you at the ceremony.”

You opened your mouth to say something, anything to stop him from turning away, but he had already reached the door.

He paused there for a breath, then looked back. “I am glad you’re safe.”

And then he was gone.

You stood alone, heart aching, staring into the fire he had left behind.

He was handsome, and terribly polite.

• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •

Later that afternoon, you took a walk through the hall, your dog beside you. Your gown rustled with every step, blue silk with silver thread. You had chosen it carefully, trying to blend in. But the stares had already started the moment you arrived, and they hadn’t stopped.

As you passed a narrow corridor near the staircase, you heard some voices. You slowed your steps instinctively.

“I don’t care how great her family is.” a woman muttered. “She’ll never be a better lady of Winterfell than Arra”

“She doesn’t know our customs. She had a fox fur cloak, fox! Not even northern stitched.”

“I saw her reading at breakfast,” another said with a chuckle. “A book about courtly love. May the Gods help us.”

“And they say she’s to raise Rickon,” someone whispered. “After what Arra gave to bring him into this world? They’ve already forgotten her.”

You didn’t wait to hear more.

You turned, walking back the way you came. Your cheeks burned, your stomach twisted. They didn’t even lower their voices.

Back in your chamber, you shut the door and pressed your back to it.

“She gave her life,” you whispered to yourself. “and I’m just the stupid girl who wears silk and doesn’t belong in Winterfell.”

Winterfell was colder than snow. And so were its people.

• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •

The morning of your wedding, the cold seemed crueler, as if Winterfell itself wanted to remind you you did not belong there. You sat at your vanity in silence while your maids did your hair, curling and braiding it. The dress Sara had insisted on laid folded on the bed.

You didn’t touch it for a long while. You stared at your reflection, face pale and heavy eyebags from days of little sleep. Even your lips looked colorless.

Elaine offered you a cup of tea, “You’ll feel better once the vows are spoken, milady.”

You looked at her through the mirror. “Will I?”

She hesitated. “Perhaps not right away. But he’s your husband. You’ll grow into this place.”

You didn’t answer. Your eyes drifted to the window again, where snow fell slow. There were no bells. No flowers. No guests from your homeland to celebrate your union.

Eventually, you dressed. The gown fit just right, but it didn’t make you feel in any special way. Only your wedding jewels gave a hint of color, delicate emeralds, a gift from your mother, and apparently too bright for this place.

The ceremony was held in the Godswood. A short, cold affair beneath the great weirwood tree, its red leaves falling from its branches. A few northern lords and ladies stood by as witnesses, wrapped in furs. No one smiled.

Cregan waited near the tree, wearing a dark cloak. When he saw you, he gave the slightest smile. He complimented you, and you nodded in response. He didn’t reach for your hand until the Septon gestured for it.

You stood side by side before the old gods and the new. Your gloved fingers barely touched. You could feel the tremble in your own hand, though you prayed he couldn’t.

The Septon’s voice was low.

“Do you, Lord Cregan Stark, take this woman to wife, to cherish and protect until your last day?”

“I do.” Cregan said.

His voice was steady, but not warm.

“Do you, my lady, take this man to husband, to honor and serve, until your end?”

“I do.” you replied, your throat tight.

When it came time to speak your vows, you forced your voice not to tremble.

“I take you, my lord, not for glory nor gain, but in duty, and in good faith. I will honor your house, raise your son as my own, and stand with you through storm and frost.”

Cregan replied in turn.

“I take you, my lady, not for softness nor song, but in duty, and in trust. You will keep my hearth, and bear my name, and I shall shield you from wind and war.”

• ────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ────────── •

The septon gave the final blessing, and you turned to Cregan just in time to see him step forward. His hand lifted, firm and callused, and cupped your cheek, giving you a soft peck on the lips.

The crowd gave a cheer, though no one shouted your name.

And then the feast began.

The great hall of Winterfell had been decorated with pine boughs and candleholders. The long tables were overflowed with roasted meats, some vegetables, warm breads and thick stews.

Cregan sat at your side at the high table, but barely looked at you once the food arrived. He drank deeply, laughing as other northern lords made bold toasts and crude jokes.

You watched him loosen the collar of his cloak and throw his head back in laughter after a tale about a bear fight on the Kingsroad.

You smiled politely when people looked your way, but no one truly spoke to you. You had no friends at this table. None of your family had come.

“Where is Rickon?” you asked softly, trying to bridge the distance between you.

Cregan turned his head toward you. “Abed already,” he said. “he’s too small for such noise. He sleeps like a bear.”

You nodded, unsure what else to say. “I thought perhaps he could’ve-”

He had already turned away again to laugh at something Lord Dustin had said.

You watched him, your new husband, surrounded by people who actually understood his jokes, which reminded you, you were still an outsider.

“Seven hells,” Lord Roderick said, clapping Cregan on the back. “you truly found yourself a jewel from the south.”

Cregan smirked. “Aye, I have been blessed by the Gods with such a beauty.”

You kept your eyes low, cheeks hot.

Lord Dustin leaned in toward Cregan, his voice loud enough for you to hear. “She’s a southerner. But she’s here now. The cold will make her northern quick enough.”

Someone laughed loudly. “And if it doesn’t, the Stark bed might.”

The lords chuckled, but not cruelly, just old men with old jokes.

Cregan said nothing, but you felt the tension in his arm beside yours. He didn’t smile at their jokes, nor laugh. He simply drank and watched.

“To the bedding!” a voice shouted.

The crowd responded with roaring approval. “To the bedding! Strip them bare and warm the sheets!”

You stiffened.

Ladies surrounded Cregan, pulling at his cloak, laughing as they undressed him.

“You’ve had your feast, my lord,” one woman teased, her fingers on his chest. “Now let’s see if you’ve the strength to finish the night.”

“Don’t trip on your own boots, Stark!” called another. “You’ll want to make a good impression!”

Cregan chuckled, allowing himself to be tugged forward, his boots brushing the floor as the women led him toward the chamber.

On the other side of the room, the lords surrounded you.

“Easy, my lady.” said one with a crooked grin. “We’ll carry you like a princess.”

“She looks like she might faint already.” said another, loosening your gown’s laces. “Afraid of your lord husband, are you?”

“Don’t be,” one added, too close to your ear. “He’s a gentle beast. Most nights.”

You tried to squirm away as hands found the ties of your dress, laughing as they pulled it looser.

“Hold her tight, lads. She’ll bolt otherwise.”

They lifted you off your feet. Your breath caught in your throat.

You let out a fake laugh, trying to keep your dignity.

As they carried you through the halls, you saw Cregan ahead, already bare to the waist, his cloak gone, his shirt half-unlaced. He turned briefly as your eyes met. He gave you a smile, the kind meant to reassure, but you were shaking.

The door opened.

They tossed you gently into the room, your half-undone gown falling.

Cregan entered moments later, followed by the final chorus of cheers from the departing guests.

The door shut behind him.

You stood there, arms crossed, shoulders trembling. You couldn’t bring yourself to look at him.

“I’m sorry.” Cregan said after a moment. “They meant no harm.”

You swallowed. “It’s just… it’s not how we do things in the south.”

“I know.” His voice had softened slightly. “It’s a tradition here. Old as the trees.”

“I’ll let you undress.” he said, stepping back toward the hearth.

You hesitated, then reached behind you. The dress slid off your arms, then your hips. You were left in only your underclothes.

Cregan came back toward the bed.

You climbed in slowly, lying on your side, facing the wall.

He slid under the furs beside you, and for a moment, there was only warmth and the faint sound of the wind outside.

He touched your shoulder, gently.

“Look at me.” he said.

You turned, slowly.

He kissed you, not harshly but you didn’t feel anything.

His hand slid over your hip, then to your thigh. You stiffened.

He paused. “I’ll be gentle.”

You nodded, but you couldn’t find your voice.

When he entered you, it burned, a slow, burning pain that made your eyes water. You gripped the fur beneath you, holding your breath. Your whole body tensed, unsure of whether to fight or endure.

Cregan didn’t speak.

It didn’t last long.

He moved inside you with slow thrusts, the scent of wine on his breath, his skin warm against your chest. You winced more than once, but bit your lip to keep from making a sound.

When he finished, he let out a low groan and dropped beside you, pulling the furs over both your bodies.

His breathing steadied.

Moments later, he was asleep.

You laid there, legs sore, a dull ache between your thighs. His seed was already streaming down your thighs.

Your eyes welled.

You turned to your side and let the tears come out.

You were no longer just a girl.

You were now lady Stark.

[nyrasvoid]

In the Heat of Battle ⚔︎

♡ Gwayne Hightower x Fem!Reader

𖤓 Summary: Lady Caswell joins the war in the Stepstones as a healer, tending to the wounded. Amid bloodshed and war, she finds herself drawn to Ser Gwayne Hightower.

𖤐Warnings: violence, minor character death, emotional distress, and that’s it (for this part only).

♜ A/N: Read part 1 here before you read this part. Btw I’m sorry for taking so long but I can only write when I dont have exams and I always have exams 🙁

♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦♜

You wake just before dawn, the light barely entering through the mouth of the cave. The rock beneath your back is hard, and the air is cold.

You sit beside Ser Gwayne, his head resting on your lap while he sleeps peacefully.

Your heart pounds, not from fear, not from adrenaline, but from everything that happened hours before.

You slip out gently, trying not to wake him. There’s still too much to do.

♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦ ♜✦♜✦♜✦♜✦♜

You’re sitting near the fire when Lysa sits down right beside you, holding out a mug filled with watery wine.

“So,” she says, her smile all too knowing. “You disappeared for quite a while last night.”

You look away, trying to hide your embarrassment, but she just grins wider.

“I was tending to Gwayne. He had a fever.”

Lysa raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “A fever, huh? And did tending to him involve… intimate remedies?”

You look around. “Lysa, please,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder. “Keep your voice down.”

“Oh, come on.” She nudges you playfully. “You look like someone who didn’t sleep… but in a good way.”

You sigh, cheeks heating up. “We were talking.”

“Mhm. That must’ve been a long conversation.”

You glance around, only a few are awake yet. “Fine,” you admit, lowering your voice. “We kissed. Then… more.”

Her eyes widen. “More? As in—”

“Yes,” you cut her off. “More.”

Lysa chuckles. “Was it good?”

You hesitate, and then let yourself smile. “It was… intense. He was gentle and careful.”

“Oh gods,” she breathes, sipping from her mug. “You’re in love.”

You shake your head. “Of course not! It cannot be. We’re at war.”

But even as you say it, the smile on your face betrays you.

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Later that morning, you find yourself kneeling beside one of the older wounded, Edwyn.

He’s been slipping in and out of consciousness for most of the morning, the fever consuming him.

His leg is swollen and red, the skin around the wound mottled with black. You already know what that means. You’ve seen it too many times before, and it rarely ends well.

You wipe the sweat from his forehead with a damp cloth, whispering his name gently. “Edwyn. Can you hear me?”

His eyes slowly open. When he sees you, some clarity returns—just for a moment. His hand, cold and trembling, grabs your wrist.

“Please, Lady Caswell…” His voice is filled with pain. “Write to my wife. Her name is Merien. Tell her… tell her I was thinking of her. That I loved her. Right up to the end.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Of course,” you say softly. “I will.”

You reach for parchment and quill with one hand. He watches you as you write, his eyes wet and distant, like he’s already halfway gone.

He trembles slightly. “Tell her I remember her singing by the river. That song she used to hum when she thought I wasn’t listening…”

You pause, looking at him. “Do you remember the words?”

He shakes his head weakly. “Just the sound of it… that was enough to make it feel like home.”

You nod. “I’ll tell her,” your eyes starting to fill with tears.

When you finish, you place the letter into his hands. His fingers tremble violently, barely able to hold the letter.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“I’ll stay with you,” you promise.

And you do. You sit by his side as his breathing slows, each breath shorter than the last, until finally, it stops. His eyes remain open for a moment after he stops breathing.

You close them gently.

But when you look down again, it isn’t Edwyn lying there.

It’s Gwayne.

You blink rapidly and shake your head, pressing your palms hard against your eyes as if you could scrub the image away.

No. No, no.

Stupid.

You rise quickly to your feet—too quickly—and stumble back. You feel sick.

Stupid. Letting yourself get close to a knight. You’ve been foolish. Naive. This, whatever it was with Gwayne, it can’t continue.

You fold Edwyn’s letter and slip it into your pocket to deliver when the war allows you the chance.

Later that day, you’re boiling medicinal herbs when Gwayne approaches. He’s limping less today, though you can tell the wound still causes him pain.

“Lady Caswell,” he pauses briefly, “have you been avoiding me?”

You glance up at him, your expression neutral. “No more than anyone else.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I came to see how your day’s been.”

You look back down at the herbs in your hands. “Busy. Men are dying.”

He’s quiet for a moment, watching you. “Are you alright?”

You nod. “Fine.”

Finally, he corners you by the fire.

“What did I do?” he asks quietly.

You don’t look at him. “Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me. You’re avoiding me.”

You close your eyes. “This was a mistake.”

He steps back. “What was?”

“That night. Us. It can not happen again.”

Gwayne’s jaw clenches. “Why?”

“Because this is war,” you snap. “Because you’re a knight, and knights die. Because I won’t sit waiting to receive a letter saying that you loved me to the end.”

“…So it’s easier to pretend it meant nothing?” he asks, voice low.

You don’t answer. You don’t meet his eyes.

And when he reaches for your arm, you step away.

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The day after, there’s a heavy silence in the cave.

You’re kneeling by a small fire, trying to warm yourself, when the silence breaks.

“We can’t stay here much longer,” says Ser Gwayne. He’s sitting near the cave’s mouth, “We’ll run out of clean water by tomorrow.”

“And food,” adds Harwin, rubbing his hands near the flames. “We’ve only got dry roots and two wheels of cheese left.”

Samwell, the youngest of the soldiers, stands forward. “Let me go. I can check the old camp. See if anything’s left.”

You lift your head. “You’d go alone?”

“I’ll go with him,” says Thom. “We’ll move fast. Take nothing but what we can carry.”

Gwayne doesn’t like it. You can tell by the way his jaw tightens, but he nods. “Be quick. And careful. If you see anything, any sign of enemy banners, you turn back.”

Thom and Samwell disappear at morning time and all you can do is wait. You keep yourself busy, checking bandages, offering sips of water to the feverish. You pass Lysa once or twice, she meets your eyes briefly, neither of you saying much.

Hours pass before the two men return with their hands full.

“Blankets,” Thom huffs, dropping to his knees. “Found a stack in the main tent.”

“And wine, bread and salted meat. Enough for a few more days,” Samwell adds, smiling despite the mud on his face. “Even more bandages.”

That night, as you and Lysa wrap bandages around a wounded man’s chest, a figure appears in the cave entrance.

Lysa gasps, rising to her feet. “Where in the seven hells have you been?”

“I scouted north,” he pants, barely standing. “Followed the river. I found something. An old watchtower. Abandoned. Intact. Might be shelter for the rest of winter, if we fix it up.”

“How far?” Gwayne asks.

“A day trip. Maybe more with the wounded. The path is narrow, steep. Ice on the stone. One wrong step…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence.

Harwin frowns. “Too dangerous for men who can barely walk.”

“So we just rot in this hole?” Lysa snaps. “You’d rather die slowly than try?”

“You think carrying six half-dead men up a cliff path is better?” Harwin shoots back.

“They’re not dead yet,” you say, standing. “We don’t get to decide that.”

“They’ll slow us down,” mutters another man, “If we’re ambushed out there…”

“No one said we’d abandon them,” Gwayne cuts in sharply. “But we have to be realistic. The road’s hard enough for the healthy.”

“And what’s the alternative?” Lysa demands. “Leave them here to die in the dark?”

Gwayne turns to you. “You know what this is. You’ve seen it. Most of them won’t survive the journey.”

You meet his gaze, your jaw tightening. “So we don’t try?”

“If they slow us and we fall behind—”

“Then we fall behind,” you snap. “We find another way. We take shifts. We make stretchers, we rotate the load.”

“That’s easy to say when you’re not the one carrying them,” Harwin grumbles.

“We all carry something,” Lysa says, stepping up beside you. “And you’ll damn well carry your share.”

There’s a pause-long and heavy.

Then Gwayne speaks again. “And if they die anyway? If we kill four trying to save two?”

“Then they’ll die knowing we didn’t give up on them,” you say. “That has to count for something.”

No one speaks after that. Just the sound of the fire crackling.

Finally, Gwayne lets out a breath through his nose, rubs a hand over his face. “We’ll leave at first light. Everyone helps carry. No one gets left behind unless they say the words themselves.”

Lysa touches your hand, she doesn’t say anything, just squeezes your hand once.

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By the time the remaining of your group finally reach the watchtower, you were all exhausted and had no energy to speak.

You made it. Most of you.

Osric had passed just after midday, coughing blood and whispering for a sister no one knew about. Robert’s heart gave out about an hour before you arrived to the watchtower.

Lysa hadn’t said a word after that. Just walked in silence. There’s no time to grieve.

You move quick through the ruins—laying out blankets, helping to build a fire with Harwin and Thom and helping Lysa get water from an old well.

You check on each injured soldier, one by one. Bandages. Water. Warmth. A hand on the shoulder, a few kind words whispered.

But something itches at the back of your mind. A name.

And then you remember Gwayne.

Your stomach drops.

“Where is Ser Gwayne?” you ask, looking up.

Lysa blinks, “Near the eastern wall…he was half-conscious when we got here.”

You grab a chunk of bread, a wool blanket, and head to where he was laid, near the far wall, away from anyone else.

When you see him, he’s trembling violently, curled. His cloak is soaked through, sticking to his skin, and his lips have lost all color.

“Gwayne?” You rush to him, kneeling beside him. “Seven hells…why didn’t anyone tell me?”

He doesn’t respond.

You feel his forehead and flinch. “Gods, you’re burning.”

“Lysa!” you shout over your shoulder. “I need water and clothes, anything dry. Quickly!”

“I’m on it!” she calls from across the building.

You turn back to him. “Gwayne. Can you hear me?”

His eyes crack open for a heartbeat. “You’re… here,” he murmurs.

“I’m here,” you say, brushing damp strands of hair from his forehead. “I’ve got you.”

Lysa returns with a bucket of lukewarm water, a cloth, and a spare tunic. “That’s all I could find,” she says breathlessly. “Do you need—?”

“I’ll take care of him,” you say softly. “Thank you.”

She hesitates for a second, then nods and walks away.

You dip the clean cloth into the water and begin wiping the sweat from his chest and neck.

He shivers violently beneath your touch. “So cold,” he mumbles. “So cold…”

“I know. I know, just hold on.”

You work quickly, unfastening his soaked shirt. His body is flushed red with fever, his muscles twitching with each breath.

“You’re going to be alright,” you whisper, pulling the dry tunic over his head and wrapping the blanket around his shoulders.

“…don’t leave,” he mumbles.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper.

“…was dreaming about you…” he breathes, eyes fluttering. “Your voice...”

Your throat tightens.

“You’re delirious,” you murmur, trying to smile.

“…can’t lose you,” he pauses, “I love you.”

“Gwayne?”

He doesn’t seem to hear you.

“I love you,” he repeats.

Your heart skips a beat.

“What?”

“I tried not to,” he murmurs, his hand twitching against the blanket. “Didn’t want to. It’s wrong.”

“Gwayne, stop” you whisper, stunned.

Tears sting your eyes.

“You’re not thinking clearly,” you say softly. “You’re sick…delirious.” But even as you speak the words, your hand caresses his cheek.

“I’d die for you,” he breathes.

“Stop it,” you whisper, but your voice breaks. “Don’t say things like that.”

“I mean it.”

You lower your forehead to his, your palm still resting on his cheek.

“Then live for me instead.”

He doesn’t respond.

You sit there for hours. He drifts in and out, murmuring nonsense. But his trembling slows., the fever is still there, but for the first time, it seems like something you might be able to fight.

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To Tame a Dragon

♡ Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader

𖤓 Summary: As the firstborn daughter of Rhaenyra, you and your family are summoned to King’s Landing under mysterious circumstances. Upon your arrival, you quickly discover that you’re betrothed to Aemond Targaryen, your strange uncle who never seemed to have an ounce of affection for you.

⚝ Warnings: Arranged marriage, Aemond being a cruel and possessive husband, degradation (uses of “slut” and “whore”), smut (with another lord for now but very short), manipulation, angst, toxic relationships, dub-con elements, slow burn and kinda enemies to lovers dynamic.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊ A/N: for now they kinda hate eachother and reader has a lover but dw cause she will actually end up with Aemond lol. Also if you have any suggestions for the following parts my inbox is open

Also I imagine lord Garrick as Jake Gyllenhaal but imagine him however u like lol

⭑ Word count: ≈2.3k

You and your family had arrived at King’s Landing under strange circumstances. The journey from Dragonstone had been long and tiring, and yet, no one could tell you exactly why you were being summoned to the Red Keep. Your mother, Rhaenyra, had tried to get answers, but no one seemed willing to speak plainly to her.

The moment you set foot on the steps of the Red Keep, you noticed it: their cold indifference. The greens did not welcome you, did not offer the courtesy that you expected from family. It was as if you and your kin had been erased from the family tree entirely.

“You see that?” Your brother Jacaerys whispered, his voice laced with disgust as he looked toward the hall where Aegon and the others stood. “Not a single one of them steps forward to greet us.”

Daemon, walking beside him, clenched his jaw. “They think us beneath them.” He didn’t bother to lower his voice, his words carrying the sting of resentment. “They are reminding us of who they believe holds the true power.”

Your mother’s eyes flashed with a quiet fury, but she said nothing, instead leading the way.

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As you were escorted to your chambers by a guard, you exchanged a glance with your maid Ella, your trusted friend who had accompanied you on this journey. She followed you inside, her steps quick as she moved to help you settle.

“What do you think this is all about?” you asked her, your voice tight with frustration. “Why have we been summoned here?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know, my lady. They haven’t said anything to me. But there is a feast tonight. That’s all I was told.” Her hands worked to remove your traveling cloak. “Let me help you get ready.”

You sighed heavily, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on you. “A feast? At a time like this?”

She gave you a soft, reassuring smile. “It’s tradition, princess. You must attend.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was little you could do. You had to go. You had to pretend to care for the show, though your mind was filled with only one thing: why were you here?

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The banquet hall was filled with lords and ladies, the air thick with the scent of roasted meats and wine. You sat at the long table, feeling a knot of tension in your stomach. You couldn’t help but feel small in the green’s presence, especially as Aegon’s gaze drifted over you.

But the worst of it was Aemond. You could feel his eyes on you from across the room, but you refused to meet his gaze.

As you conversed with your brothers, the topic of the greens came up once again.

“Look at them,” Jace muttered, his voice low. “They think they can get away with this. Not even a word of greeting when we arrive.”

“They can all rot,” you said bitterly. “I can’t stand any of them.”

Daemon smirked. “But that’s what they want, isn’t it? They want us angry. They want us to break.”

You nodded, a sense of frustration building in your chest. “I refuse to bend to them. But I can’t even figure out why we’re here. What do they want from us?”

Before anyone could answer, a voice interrupted.

“Princess,” a lord from one of the great houses stepped forward, bowing slightly. “Would you do me the honor of a dance?”

You blinked in surprise, but a smile quickly tugged at the corners of your lips. “I’d be delighted.”

The lord’s hand was warm as it held yours, and the two of you made your way to the dance floor. He was handsome, tall and with a charming smile that made your heart flutter. As the music played, you flirted with him lightly, enjoying the feeling of his hand on your waist and the way he made you forget about the tension at the table.

But across the room, you couldn’t ignore the sharp gaze of Aemond. It burned through you, dark and possessive.

Aegon, ever the troublemaker, leaned toward his brother, a smirk on his lips. “You know,” he said loud enough for Aemond to hear, “if you’re not going to make a move, I’ll happily do it. She’s got quite the figure, doesn’t she? Those breasts, I’m sure you’ve noticed. If you don’t want her, I’ll take her for myself, brother.”

“I think I’m capable enough of fulfilling my marital duties, brother” Aemond finally muttered, his eyes locked onto you with a possessiveness that sent a shiver down your spine.

You returned to your seat after the dance, still smiling from the interaction, only for the King to call for silence. The room fell still, all eyes on him as he stood, ready to make his announcement.

“My lords and ladies,” the King’s voice echoed across the hall, “I have an important announcement to make. It is with great pride that I announce the betrothal of my granddaughter, to my son, prince Aemond Targaryen.”

You looked to your mother, but she was frozen, her eyes wide with disbelief.

Rhaenyra stood, her voice shaking with fury. “What is this? You did not consult me, didn’t even let me know this decision was being made. You rejected my proposal years ago of marryimg Helaena to Jace, and now—”

But the King cut her off. “The decision is final, they will marry. The advantages to the realm are clear.”

Rhaenyra’s hands curled into fists. “You think I’ll allow this?” she hissed. “You think I’ll stand by and let you make this decision without my consent?”

“Enough,” the King snapped, his voice cold. “This is for the good of the realm.”

The tension in the room was palpable as your brothers attempted to speak on your behalf, but the King remained unmoved.

You felt your heart break. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even bring yourself to say a word as you watched the man who had always been indifferent, cruel even, be forced into your future.

You stood quickly as you stormed out of the hall. You couldn’t stay there, couldn’t bear to hear any more.

You reached your chambers, the door slamming shut behind you as you threw yourself onto the bed, tears spilling from your eyes.

Not long after, you heard a knock at the door.

It was your mother, entering the room quietly. “Darling, I know this is difficult,” she said softly, her voice gentle. “But you must understand… this betrothal—it’s for the good of the realm. You will see that, in time.”

You wiped your tears angrily. “I don’t care about the realm, mother! I don’t want this. I don’t want him!”

Your mother sat beside you, taking your hand in hers. “I know. I know, my sweet girl. But this is the way it must be. For now, we endure.”

You shook your head, still crying quietly. “I don’t want to endure this. I don’t want him.”

She gave you a sad smile, kissing your forehead. “It’s not about what we want. It’s about what we must do.”

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The sun hung high in the sky as you met with your closest friends. Floris Baratheon, Lysa Tully, and Serene Martell were already sitting under the large oak tree. It was supposed to be a relaxing break from the madness of your betrothal.

“We heard, my lady. About the betrothal. How are you feeling?” Floris asked, her voice full of concern. She was always so direct, unlike Lysa, who was quieter but equally perceptive.

“I’m not sure,” you admitted, taking a seat next to them. “It feels like my life is already over before it’s even begun. I’m being forced to marry Aemond. A man I barely know, a man who doesn’t care about me. I don’t even have a say in it.”

Serene, leaned in. “Well, your life might not be over just yet. You always have the option of finding yourself a lover.”

You couldn’t help but laugh bitterly at that. “A lover?” you echoed. “Maybe I could find one.”

Lysa chuckled. “Well, I’ve heard things about Aemond. The rumors say he’s cruel, that he’s got a temper, that he punishes those who displease him.”

Floris nodded, her brows furrowed. “I’ve heard those rumors too. And honestly? I don’t blame you for being upset. Who wants to marry someone like that?”

You sighed heavily. “It’s like my whole future has been decided for me. I can’t escape it.”

Serene raised an eyebrow playfully. “At least you’ve got options, my lady. You’re not trapped in the same way as us. Who knows? Maybe that lord you danced with at the feast would be the one to give you the freedom you’re looking for.”

Your heart skipped at the mention of Lord Garrick Redwyne, who had captivated you at the last feast. He was bold, charming, and you could tell he also took an interest in you.

“You know, you might be right,” you said, trying to hide the smile that tugged at your lips. “I did meet a very handsome lord at the dance. Lord Garrick Redwyne. We danced and… well, maybe he could be the one to offer me some much needed distraction.”

Floris snorted. “Aemond can’t even stand a chance against someone like him. I mean, honestly, have you seen Aemond? I’m sure he’s not good for much other than looking brooding and scary with that missing eye of his.”

Lysa and Serene laughed in agreement. “You should go for it,” Serene added, her voice low but encouraging. “Let him give you what Aemond never will.”

You paused, your mind racing. “I think I just might. It would be nice to have a taste of freedom before I’m locked in a marriage with a man who looks at me like I’m nothing more than a political pawn.”

The conversation turned lighter as you all continued to joke about the idea of lovers, but little did you know, one of the queen’s maids had been standing nearby, overhearing every word. The whispers would soon reach Aemond.

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Later that afternoon, you were summoned to meet with Alicent and some of the workers to begin organizing the wedding.

Alicent wasted no time in pushing her own ideas. “I trust you’re prepared to make the necessary sacrifices for the good of the realm,” she said sharply, eyes narrowing as she gestured to the workers. “This wedding must reflect the union of two great houses.”

You bit your lip, trying to maintain your composure. “I understand, Your Grace. But I’d like to choose the color of my dress. I’d prefer red and gold.”

Alicent’s eyes flicked to you, her lips curling in a thin smile. “Red and gold? You do realize that’s a bold choice, don’t you? Quite revealing for a wedding dress.”

“Why, does it offend you?” you told her, unable to keep the bitterness out of your tone.

“You are marrying my son, dear. A dress of green would be more appropriate.” Alicent’s tone was firm.

You crossed your arms, standing your ground. “I will not wear green. I refuse. If I must marry him, I at least want some control over my dress.”

Alicent raised an eyebrow, but your defiance seemed to catch her off guard. She stared at you for a moment, then finally sighed. “Very well, but make sure it isn’t too revealing.”

You smiled, knowing you’d won this battle, even if it was a small one. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

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That evening, as the grand hall filled with the sounds of laughter, you were heading to your brother Jacaerys to ask him something about the upcoming wedding preparations. But just as you were about to step inside, you spotted Lord Garrick Redwyne once more.

He smiled at you, his eyes lighting up in recognition. “Ah, princess, how wonderful to see you again.”

You couldn’t help but feel your heart race at the sight of him. His charm was undeniable.

“Lord Garrick,” you replied, smiling back. “I was just about to speak with my brother, but I’m glad to see you.”

His smile grew wider as he took a step closer. “Would you care to accompany me for a moment? Away from the crowds?”, he said as he extended his arm for you to hold onto.

You hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I’d like that.”, as you wrapped your arm around his and followed his lead.

He led you through the castle, past the grand halls and into a quieter corridor.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” Lord Garrick said, his voice low as he wrapped his hands around your waist. “I can’t help but wonder what it would be like… to have you, without all the politics, without the pressure of your betrothal.”

You took a deep breath, the tension between you palpable. “I’ve been thinking the same thing,” you murmured, your eyes locked on his.

Without another word, he kissed you—softly at first and then more passionately as the moments stretched. His hands roamed over your body, pulling you closer as his lips moved to your neck. You let out a soft gasp, feeling a shiver run through you.

He moved lower, trailing kisses down your neck, and you gasped softly as he nipped at your skin. His hands were firm, his lips traveled lower still.

His mouth found its way to your most intimate place, and the pleasure was overwhelming, like nothing you had ever felt before. You moaned quietly, afraid of who might hear. You’d waited too long to feel this kind of release, this freedom.

When it was over, you both sat on the cool floor, catching your breath. “That was… incredible,” you whispered, your fingers tracing the lines of his jaw.

Lord Garrick smiled, kissing your forehead softly. “I will be here whenever you need me, my lady.”

For a brief moment, you allowed yourself to forget about Aemond, about the marriage that awaited you. With Garrick, there was no cruelty, no coldness. There was only heat, passion, and the feeling of being wanted for who you were.

As he gave you pleasure, you couldn’t help but think: Maybe I can have a life outside of Aemond, even if it’s only in stolen moments like this.

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The air in the gardens was thick with tension as you walked beside Aemond, the silence between you two almost suffocating. You weren’t looking forward to this forced interaction, but here you were, ordered by the queen to “get to know” the man you were supposed to marry. You had no interest in being his bride, and certainly no desire to get to know him any better.

Aemond’s gaze flicked to you now and then, but you refused to look at him. Finally, after a long silence, Aemond broke it.

“Tell me, why do you always wear that look?” Aemond’s voice broke the silence, his words laced with bitterness. “You’ve been sent here to wed me, yet I don’t see a single ounce of enthusiasm in your expression.”

You didn’t even glance at him as you walked, keeping your pace slow. “Maybe because I have been forced into this marriage” you shot back, the bitterness in your own voice matching his.

“I don’t owe you any pleasantries.”

His lips twisted into a small smirk, though it lacked any real humor. “Of course, you don’t. I suppose that’s why you’ve taken to speaking about me behind my back—saying things I’m sure you think I don’t know.”

You froze. Aemond wasn’t looking at you directly, his gaze focused ahead. You clenched your fists, not willing to let him know he’d struck a nerve.

“What are you talking about?” you spat, though you had a pretty good idea. The rumors, the jokes from your friends… Had they reached him already?

He shot you a glance then, eyes narrowing. “I heard you’ve found yourself someone to entertain you. I suppose it must be rather entertaining to joke about your… lovers.”

Your breath hitched. “What are you insinuating, Aemond?” you asked.

Aemond’s voice dropped to a low tone. “Don’t play dumb with me. I know exactly what I heard. You think I don’t know you’re running around with some other man behind my back? I heard of your little conversation with your friends in the garden. You’re quite the whore, aren’t you? Laughing about my missing eye and discussing your lover like it’s nothing.”

Your jaw clenched at his words. Whore. He had no right to talk to you like that. You took a deep breath, trying to keep your composure. “You have no right of speaking to me in such way.”

You glared at him. “You want to talk about my lover? Fine. I’ll tell you everything. He makes me feel things you could never,” you hissed, taking a step even closer to him. “In fact, I’ve already lost my maidenhood to him.” Lies.

“You think that’s something to be proud of?” he snarled, his voice low and dangerous. “You’re nothing more than a filthy, loose woman, and you’ll regret every second of it once you’re tied to me.”

“You think I’ll regret it?” you snapped back, “You don’t know a damn thing about me, Aemond. I don’t regret anything. Not my lover, not anything I’ve done before now. You’re just angry because I’ve found someone who actually knows how to please a woman.” That said, you turned around to retire to your chambers.

Aemond’s expression twisted into anger. Without warning, he reached out and grabbed your arm, spinning you towards him, forcing you into the nearest wall. You gasped in shock as Aemond pinned you against it. His grip was tight as he pressed you there, his face inches from yours.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” Aemond growled. He gripped your chin tightly, forcing you to look at him. into a bush, his body trapping you against it. “Let me tell you something, princess,” Aemond whispered into your ear, he leaned in closer. “I’ll put a baby in you, and once you’re carrying my child, I won’t touch you again. You’ll be nothing but a vessel for my heir. And when you’re knocked up and useless to me, I’ll get myself a whore. A woman who knows her place. And I’ll bring her to the Red Keep, rub her in your face, and you won’t be able to do a damn thing about it.”

You were petrified as he pinned you against the wall, but he wasn’t finished. “If I find out who your lover is, if I find out you’ve been seeing him behind my back, I’ll make sure you never see him again. I’ll have him dragged out and humiliated, and you’ll never be able to hide from it. You’ll regret every little thing you’ve done.”

Aemond took a step forward, forcing you to tilt your head up to keep your glare locked onto his.

“You think you can humiliate me?” His voice was quiet. “That you can make a mockery of this betrothal? Of me?”

You scoffed, “You’re doing that all on your own, Aemond. If you’re so offended, then call off the wedding.”, you continued “You are a man, a prince I’m sure they will call it of if you object”

His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You think I would let you go that easily?” He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear. “You are mine now. No matter how much you fight it, no matter how much you despise me, you will stand beside me as my wife.”

A shiver ran down your spine at the way he said mine, but you refused to let him see the effect he had on you.

“You can have my hand in marriage, Aemond,” you bit out, “but you will never have me.”

Aemond let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “We’ll see about that, wife.”

He turned on his heel, walking away without another word, leaving you standing there with your heart pounding in your chest.

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i cant do this

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bitch she might just be the father?????

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THIS FANART IS SO GOOD I NEED SOMEONE TO MAKE FANFIC ABOUT THEM WITH THIS VIBE PLEASE

art credits to: crazytom0712

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I’m obsessed with your Gwayne fics and now I need a Cregan fic (respectfully) if your requests are open! If not you can just ignore this ♡

i wanted my next fic to be a cregan one, and I was thinking maybe a series (??) idk yet tho

i just love him so much he’s so manly i want him to hit me (he wouldn’t tho 😊)

[nyrasvoid]

Through Love and Sorrow

♡︎ Gwayne Hightower x Fem!Reader

𖤓 Summary: After the joy of expecting their first child is shattered by a devastating miscarriage, Gwayne Hightower returns home to find his wife consumed by grief.

⚝ Warnings: Angst, Miscarriage, Grief, Hurt/Comfort, Pregnancy Insecurities, Emotional Trauma.

⚝ A/N: this fic also includes a kinda mother-son relationship between reader and Daeron,btw sorry I haven’t posted anything in like two weeks lmao

-Word count: ≈4.4k

This fanfic is a request from a while ago (link)

You sat in your room, the sunlight pouring through the tall windows. Your hands moved skillfully with the needle and thread, working on a small attire—a delicate onesie you had lovingly made for your child, your first with Gwayne.

As you finished the final stitch, you glanced at the door, eager for Gwayne’s return. You had planned carefully how to share the wonderful news with him, and now the moment had arrived.

The door creaked open, and Gwayne stepped in, looking tired but his face brightening when he saw you. “My love,” he greeted, coming over to kiss your cheek. “You look especially happy today. What’s going on?”

You smiled and took his hand, guiding him to sit beside you. “I’ve been working on something,” you said. “And I want to show you.”

Gwayne watched as you pulled the small onesie from behind your back and placed it in his hands. His brow furrowed for a moment in confusion before realization dawned on him. He looked up at you, his eyes wide with disbelief and excitement.

“Is this…?” he started, his voice full of wonder.

You nodded, unable to keep the smile from your face. “Yes, Gwayne. We’re going to have a babe.”

He stared at you for a moment, the onesie still in his hands as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

Then, without warning, he pulled you into his arms, laughing with joy. “A babe! We’re going to have a child!” His voice was full of emotion, his grip on you tightening as he buried his face in your neck. “Gods, I’m the luckiest man alive.”

You laughed with him, feeling the warmth of his love surround you. He pulled back slightly, cupping your face in his hands as he kissed you deeply, then gently placed his hand on your belly. “I can’t believe it,” he whispered, as he got on one knee to kiss your barely swollen belly

“We’ll have a little one running around soon, with your beauty and wit,” Gwayne continued, his voice thick with emotion as he caressed your belly, where your child was beginning to grow. “We’ll teach them everything—how to ride, how to wield a sword, everything. I’ll be by your side through it all.”

You smiled, leaning into his touch. “And I’ll make sure they know how to be kind and strong, like their father.”

Gwayne laughed softly, his eyes sparkling with the kind of happiness that made your heart swell. “And stubborn like their mother, I’m sure.”

The days following the joyful news were some of the happiest of your life. Gwayne was attentive and loving, always making sure you had everything you needed, always talking about the future and the life you would build together. But as time went on, you began to be more worried and insecure.

The other ladies at court had spoken to you, sharing their experiences with childbirth—how their bodies had changed, how their husbands had sometimes seeked comfort elsewhere during those vulnerable weeks after the birth. They’d laugh softly, as if it were just a fact of life, but their words dug deep into your mind, planting seeds of doubt and fear.

You found yourself pulling away from Gwayne, unsure of how to voice your fears. He would come to you with that familiar smile, eager to talk about the babe or to spend time with you, but you would turn away, offering only brief responses, avoiding his touch.

It was not that you loved him any less—if anything, your love for him had only grown deeper—but the fear of losing him, of not being enough, was paralyzing.

One night, as you lay beside him in bed, the silence stretched on longer than usual. Gwayne finally turned to you, concern evident in his voice. “Darling, what’s wrong? You’ve been so distant lately. Have I done something to upset you?”

You stared up at the ceiling, your heart pounding in your chest. You didn’t want to say it, didn’t want to reveal the insecurities that had taken hold of you. But Gwayne was insistent, turning onto his side and taking your hand in his. “Please, my love. Talk to me.”

The words came slowly, hesitantly, as you struggled to express your feelings. “I… I’ve heard the other ladies at court talk,” you began, whispering.

“About how their bodies changed after childbirth, how they couldn’t… couldn’t be with their husbands for weeks, sometimes longer. And how their husbands…” You swallowed hard, unable to finish the thought.

Gwayne’s grip on your hand tightened as he waited for you to continue, his eyes fixed on your face, his worry deepening.

“They said their husbands sought comfort in other women,” you finally confessed, your voice breaking. “In whores. And I—I’m afraid, Gwayne. I’m afraid that I’ll change, that I won’t be… enough for you anymore. That you’ll look elsewhere.”

For a moment, there was silence. You didn’t dare look at him, too ashamed of the words you had spoken. But then Gwayne did something you didn’t expect. He started to laugh—a soft, warm chuckle that caught you off guard.

You turned to him, confused and a little hurt. “Gwayne, this isn’t funny—”

“No, no, it’s not that,” he said quickly, his laughter fading as he saw the tears in your eyes. He leaned in, brushing his lips against your forehead. “It’s just… the thought of me with anyone else is absurd. My love, you are my heart, my soul. There is no one in this world who could ever compare to you.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he silenced you with a gentle kiss. “Listen to me,” he said, his tone serious now. “You are the only woman I want, the only woman I will ever want. The idea of seeking pleasure in someone else when I have you is ridiculous. Those other men—they’re fools. I would never betray you, never.”

You felt a rush of relief at his words, though the doubt still lingered. “But what if—”

“No what-ifs,” Gwayne interrupted, his hand moving to cup your cheek. “I swear to you, on every star in the sky, that I will never stray. And if any man tells you differently, I’ll knock his teeth out.”

A small laugh escaped you, despite yourself. Gwayne grinned, his eyes twinkling as he saw the smile return to your face. “See? There’s that smile I love so much. You’re going to be a wonderful mother, and we’re going to be a wonderful family. No matter what changes, I’ll be right here, by your side.”

That night, the two of you found solace in each other, and as you drifted off to sleep, you felt the fears that had plagued you begin to disappear, replaced by the strength of your bond and the love you shared.

---

A few weeks later, you, Gwayne, and Daeron sat at the dining table, enjoying a simple meal. Daeron was telling you about his day, his young face alight with enthusiasm as he described his lessons and adventures. You smiled fondly at him, listening intently as he spoke about a new bird he had seen in the gardens.

“And then it swooped down, right in front of me! I almost thought it would land on my shoulder like the falcons do on their keepers,” Daeron said, eyes wide with excitement.

Gwayne chuckled, ruffling the boy’s hair. You laughed softly, reaching out to squeeze Daeron’s hand. “You’re already quite the little adventurer. Perhaps one day you’ll ride with your uncle on his journeys.”

Daeron’s face lit up at the thought, and he looked eagerly at Gwayne. “Will you take me with you one day, Uncle?”

Gwayne smiled, “One day, certainly. But I’m afraid I have to leave again in three days’ time for an important matter in Blackcrown. I’ll only be gone for a month, maybe less.”

You felt a pang of worry at his words, though you did your best to hide it. You had hoped he wouldn’t need to leave again so soon, but you understood the responsibilities that came with his position. “Just promise me you’ll be back well before the babe is due,” you said. “I don’t want to have to deliver without you.”

Gwayne took your hand across the table, squeezing it reassuringly. “I’ll be back in plenty of time, I promise. Nothing could keep me from being here for you and our child.”

Daeron looked between the two of you, his eyes filled with a mix of concern and curiosity. “You’ll come back safe, right, Uncle?”

“Of course, Daeron,” Gwayne replied with a warm smile. “I’ll be back before you even have time to miss me.”

True to his word, Gwayne departed three days later. You and Daeron saw him off, Daeron clutching his uncle’s hand until the very last moment, and you pressing a kiss to Gwayne’s lips, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling in your heart. As Gwayne rode away, you couldn’t help but feel a little sadness, but you reminded yourself that he would be back soon, that everything would be alright.

In the days and weeks that followed, you busied yourself with preparations for the babe. You spent hours knitting tiny clothes and blankets, imagining the child that would soon be in your arms. Daeron often kept you company, helping you with small tasks or just sitting nearby, chatting about his day.

One afternoon, you decided to take a walk in the woods with Daeron. The two of you had grown close over the years, and you cherished the bond you shared. As you walked along the familiar paths, Daeron spoke of his lessons.

“Auntie,” he began after a moment of comfortable silence.

Just as you were about to respond, a sharp, sudden pain shot through your abdomen, stealing your breath. You gasped, clutching at your belly as the pain intensified, bringing you to your knees.

“Auntie?” Daeron’s voice was laced with panic as he rushed to your side. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?”

The pain was unbearable, radiating through your entire body. You could barely find the words, but you managed to gasp, “Daeron, get help. Quickly.”

Daeron hesitated, his face pale with fear, but then he nodded. “I’ll be right back. Stay here, I’ll get help.” With that, he sprinted back toward the keep, his small legs carrying him as fast as they could.

You were left alone in the woods, the cold earth beneath you as the pain continued to wrack your body. You knew, deep down, that something was terribly wrong. Fear gripped you as you realized you might be losing the baby. Your heart ached with the thought, but there was nothing you could do except wait.

By the time help arrived, the miscarriage had already happened. The maids and guards who found you tried to help, but the damage was done. The life that had been growing inside you was gone, leaving you with an overwhelming sense of loss and emptiness.

Ignoring the advice of the maesters, who urged you to rest and be carried back to the keep, you walked on your own, numb to the world around you. The only thing on your mind was the baby you had lost and how Gwayne would react when he found out. You couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the disappointment in his eyes, even though you knew it wasn’t your fault.

Once you reached the keep, you went straight to the nursery. The small room that had been filled with so much hope and joy now felt empty and desolate. You sat down on the edge of the small bed, your hands trembling as you picked up the half-finished blanket you had been knitting for the babe.

Days passed in a blur. You couldn’t bring yourself to leave the nursery or eat. The maids came and went, offering food and kind words, but you paid them no mind. The world outside the nursery seemed to fade away, leaving you alone with your grief.

Daeron was the only one who could get through to you, even if just a little. He would visit you every day, sitting beside you and talking about anything and everything. His presence was a small comfort, a reminder that you were not entirely alone, even in your darkest moments.

One afternoon, Daeron came to the nursery as usual. He looked at you with concern. “Auntie, you have to eat something. The maesters say it’s important. Uncle Gwayne wouldn’t want you to get sick.”

You shook your head, still clutching the blanket. “I’m not hungry, Daeron. I just… I can’t.”

Daeron sighed, sitting down beside you. “I know you’re sad. I miss the babe too, even though I never got to meet them. But Uncle Gwayne will be back today. Maybe… maybe he can help you feel better.”

You didn’t respond, the weight of your grief pressing down on you. But Daeron’s words lingered in your mind. Gwayne was coming home. You weren’t sure how you would face him, how you would tell him about the baby, but you knew you couldn’t avoid it forever.

Daeron leaned in and gave you a hug, his small arms wrapped around you tightly. “I love you, auntie. And Uncle Gwayne does too. Don’t forget that.”

His simple words brought tears to your eyes, and you hugged him back. “I love you too, Daeron. Thank you.”

Daeron smiled up at you, his eyes full of warmth and understanding. He squeezed your hand before standing up to leave. “I’ll go and make sure everything is ready for Uncle Gwayne’s return. I’ll come back later, alright?”

You nodded, watching as he left the room. Alone again, you stared down at the blanket in your lap, running your fingers over the soft fabric. You had poured so much love into this tiny piece of cloth, and now it felt like a cruel reminder of what you had lost.

Hours later, you heard footsteps approaching the nursery. Your heart clenched with a mix of dread and longing. The door creaked open, and Gwayne entered, his expression filled with concern and urgency.

“My love?” His voice was soft, but it was filled with worry. He rushed to your side, kneeling before you as he gently took your hands in his. “Daeron told me… told me what happened.”

The tears you had been holding back finally spilled over, and you couldn’t stop them. “I lost the babe, Gwayne,” you choked out, your voice breaking. “I’m so sorry… I’m so, so sorry.”

Gwayne’s eyes filled with pain, but he quickly pulled you into his arms, holding you close as you wept. “Shh, it’s not your fault, my love. You have nothing to be sorry for,” he murmured, his voice soothing as he stroked your hair.

“I feel like I failed you,” you sobbed, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping you grounded. “I couldn’t protect our child…”

Gwayne pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own filled with unwavering love and determination. “Love, listen to me. You did nothing wrong. Nothing. You could never fail me, and this… this is not your fault. It was beyond our control, and I don’t blame you for a single moment.”

You searched his face, looking for any hint of disappointment or anger, but all you found was love and compassion. He kissed your forehead, his lips lingering there as he whispered, “We’re still young, my love. We have time, and we will have children—many, I hope. But right now, all that matters is you. I’m here for you, and we’ll get through this together.”

His words were like a balm to your wounded heart, easing some of the pain that had consumed you. You nodded, resting your head against his chest as you let out a shuddering breath. “I love you, Gwayne,” you whispered.

“And I love you,” he replied, holding you tightly. “More than anything in this world. We will get through this, I promise you that.”

Gwayne held you close for what felt like an eternity, letting you cry, letting you release the pain you’d been holding onto since the miscarriage. His presence was a steady comfort, a reminder that you weren’t alone, that he would be there for you no matter what.

After a long while, Gwayne pulled back slightly, brushing the tears from your cheeks with his thumb. “Come, my love,” he said gently. “Let’s get you out of here. We don’t have to stay in this room. We can go anywhere you’d like—anywhere that will bring you peace.”

You hesitated, looking around the nursery. The room had once been a place of joy and anticipation, but now it felt suffocating, a reminder of the loss you had suffered. You nodded slowly, realizing that staying here would only prolong your grief.

“Alright,” you whispered, letting him help you to your feet. You wavered slightly, still feeling weak, but Gwayne was there to steady you, his arm wrapped securely around your waist.

As you left the nursery together, you found yourself leaning on Gwayne more than ever before. He didn’t mind, guiding you gently through the halls of the keep, away from the place that had brought you so much pain. He led you to your chambers, where a fire had been lit, casting a warm, comforting glow over the room.

Gwayne helped you sit by the fire, then knelt beside you, taking your hands in his again. “You don’t have to be strong right now,” he said softly. “Let me take care of you.”

You nodded, too drained to argue, too weary to pretend that you could handle this on your own. Gwayne stayed by your side, talking to you quietly, telling you stories from his travels, stories meant to distract you, to bring a small smile to your face. He was patient, understanding, never pushing you to talk about the miscarriage, but always offering comfort in whatever way he could.

A few days later, when you had gathered enough strength to leave your chambers, Gwayne took you out to the gardens. The air was crisp, and the scent of blooming flowers filled your senses. It was a welcome change from the stifling atmosphere of the keep.

As you walked together, Gwayne kept his arm around you, his presence a steady reassurance. You were quiet for a while, lost in your thoughts, but eventually, Gwayne broke the silence.

“Do you remember the first time we walked through these gardens?” he asked, a hint of a smile in his voice.

You looked up at him, nodding slowly. “I do. You tried to impress me with your knowledge of every flower and plant.”

He chuckled softly. “And I failed miserably, didn’t I? You knew more about the flowers than I did.”

“You were charming, though,” you admitted, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I fell in love with you that day.”

Gwayne’s smile widened, and he pressed a kiss to your temple. “And I’ve been falling in love with you every day since.”

As you continued to walk, you felt some of the tension ease from your shoulders. The pain of losing the babe was still there, and you knew it would take time to heal, but with Gwayne by your side, you felt a glimmer of hope.

Later that evening, as you sat by the fire in your chambers, Gwayne brought out a small wooden box. “I have something for you,” he said, his tone soft, almost hesitant.

You looked at him curiously as he handed you the box. When you opened it, you found a delicate necklace inside, the pendant a small, intricately carved locket.

“It belonged to my mother,” Gwayne explained. “She gave it to me before she passed, and I’ve kept it all these years. I was waiting for the right moment to give it to you.”

Tears welled in your eyes as you looked at the beautiful locket, your heart swelling with emotion. “Gwayne, it’s beautiful,” you whispered.

He took the locket from the box and fastened it around your neck, his fingers brushing against your skin as he did so. “I wanted you to have something that reminds you that you’re never alone,” he said, his voice filled with tenderness. “Whenever you feel lost, or when the grief feels too much, just remember that I’m here, and that I’ll always be here.”

You touched the locket, feeling the cool metal beneath your fingers, and nodded. “Thank you,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “I’ll treasure it always.”

Gwayne smiled, as he leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, a kiss that was filled with the promise of a future together, a future that, despite the loss you had endured, would still be full of love and hope.

In that moment, you knew that with Gwayne by your side, you could face whatever challenges life threw your way. The grief would not disappear overnight, and the road to healing would be long, but you would walk it together, hand in hand, and eventually, you would find peace.

P.S: i’m sorry my paragraphs look so separated but I have bad eyesight and I can’t read it well if I don’t separate lmao

[nyrasvoid]

idc if some people think it’s basic or cliché, but i will forever love jacaerys x aunt reader, cregan x targaryen reader, and benjicot x bracken reader.

[nyrasvoid]

i’ll be posting this tomorrow 🤗

Hi !!!!

Can I request of gwayne x Targaryen reader (rhaenyra’s sis!) where she is pregnant and they’re both happy and excited to have their kid but while gwayne was away for war reader had a miscarriage , after a month gwayne didn’t come back because of that reader got depressed and just zooming off while looking and holding at the clothes she stitched for the new baby 🥲 that got everyone and her maids worried and gwayne doesn’t know until he got home

but with a happy ending 😭

Thank you! Sorry I just want to get sappy 😭 I really love your works btw🫶🏻💖

no problem girlie I gotcha

since Gwayne has won the poll I’ll write first the fic that I already had in mind, then your request and then a Cregan fic since he got 2nd place

[nyrasvoid]

SINCE I KNEWWWWWW THAT TOM WOULD TAKE DOWN THE VIDEO I SAVED IT FOR YALL

here are the crumbs 💕💕

Saving the pasta for YESTERDAY 💜

[nyrasvoid]

Hello, this is @sansaorgana (it's a sideblog so I can't message you as Sansa, sorry)! 💗

One of your fics with Gwayne inspired an idea of mine – I don't remember a title now but the Reader had a sweet relationship with Daeron in Oldtown there and I had an idea of a fic where Daeron comes to Oldtown and Reader is sceptical at first because of the dragon and having her husband's nephew to raise overall but she grows to love him in no time. 🥰

I'm wondering if I could write this fic? I want to ask you first because I wouldn't want to be accused of stealing ideas or something of this sort. 🌸

I hope you're having a nice day! 💚❤️🐉

omg this is so cute

sorry again for not writing anything 😔😔

[nyrasvoid]

guys i’m sorry for not posting anything I’ve been very busy and also got sick (lol) I promise I’ll try to write the Gwayne fic asap 😞

[nyrasvoid]

PLEASE DONT MAKE ME GET A JOB!!! 😭😭😭