#wolf daemon

[hauntedwizardtree]

Another snippet for the fic I haven't posted yet

“Captain! Captain!”

Percy thrashed his way into a sitting position, tangled up in the sheets, tight and strangling like a burial shroud. At his side, Zosime lay sprawled out on top of the blanket, her tail thumping lightly as moonlight glinted off her irises. She let out a low huff as Percy met her dark eyes, but otherwise did nothing to help. Shakily, Percy reached out, his fingers digging into the fur on the back of the wolf’s neck. She shifted and pressed her head into his neck, her nose cold against his skin. ‘Thena, their old owl plushie was squished between them, and Percy breathed a sigh of relief.

“Just a nightmare,” he muttered in the darkness, too low to wake Grover, who was asleep across the room. A lie, he and his daemon both knew.

A low rumble filled Zosime’s chest, as she wormed her way to lay on top of him, her body pressing against him as a comforting weight, and Percy sighed, knowing what she wanted—for him to put it out of his mind and not think about it.

But that was easier said than done as tears stun his eyes and he could feel the water dripping down his cheeks as Zosime licked his tears away, even as that hole inside him ached and burned, his hand automatically rose to clutch at his shirt, over his heart. The screams of (his) the men crying, begging for help (for him to save them) as they died because of (a god’s) something’s unchecked rage rang in his ear, their daemons exploding into Dust. Percy trembled under the wolf, apologies bubbling against his lips before he swallowed them back down, arms winding around Zosime’s neck and pulling her closer.

They lay for a few minutes, still, silent, and together until Percy felt like he could breathe again without drowning.

Percy glanced over at the table set beside the bed, and the unopened bottle of sleeping pills. The clock read 2:37 am. He should take one, he knew. Mom had bought them for him to take when the nightmares were too bad, when they kept him and Zosime up at night.

But there was always a whisper of something, niggling at him whenever he contemplated it. That whisper that told him that he couldn’t afford to sleep too deeply. He needed to be awake, alert, to get—somewhere. His heart ached at the thought of that nebulous place that he could not remember, that Zosime wouldn’t let him remember. She kept saying it would break him to know more details of their past life than he already did.

Percy pulled his left arm out from under Zosime and reached out, fingers wrapping around the bottle of sleeping pills, contemplating as he turned it over in his fingers. He had a test tomorrow, and he wanted to, needed to do well. Miss Thea had said she believed in him, he couldn’t fail, not when she had given so much of her time for almost as long as he could remember to help him with school when no one else could or would.

A low growl rippled through the room as Zosime shuffled toward him, pushing her head between him and the bottle. As clear as any spoken word Percy could almost hear the sharp “No,” as she pushed against his arm, and the small bottle clattered to the floor.

“I’m tired, Zo-Zo,” he mumbled. “So very tired.”

Zosime shuddered, staring at him with mournful eyes. Immediately, Percy felt guilt curl around his lungs and heart, knowing that his daemon’s burden was so much greater than his. He only had flashes of memory, the knowledge buried so deep that he could not reach it. Zosime, his daemon, his soul—did not have the luxury of forgetting who they were, and what they had been through.

And from what Percy knew, it had been bad, really bad.

[therogueflame]

Through Storm and Silence

Hi my darlings,

I have decided to post my new Cregan x Reader fic a day early because I have started to hate it the more I look at it. I did change it since posting the teaser, so my apologies to everyone that is expecting that beginning. This fic is long, sad, and DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, READER'S DISCRETION IS ADVISED!! (Please let me know if this makes you feel things, my prozac stops me from knowing if this is Actually Sad)

Summary: The loss of your first pregnancy has you shattered in unspeakable ways, and Cregan does his best to comfort his Lady Wife.

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WC: 13.4k

Warnings: Pregnancy loss, depression, fem!reader, isolation, intimate care, just sad fluff (or hurt/comfort if you wanna get technical)

Cregan Stark x Wife!Reader

MDNI!!!

The fire in your chambers had long since burned out, leaving the hearth cold and lifeless. Its ashes, once bright with promise, were now a bleak monument to what had been lost. The flames that had warmed you, like the fragile spark of life that had stirred within you, were extinguished, leaving nothing but emptiness behind. Shadows sprawled across the stone walls, bending and twisting in the faint moonlight that filtered through the frost-covered window. The light was weak, just enough to sharpen the edges of the cold that seeped into the very bones of Winterfell—and into yours.

The chill wasn’t just in the air; it lived in you now, settling deep in your chest, pressing against the raw, hollow ache that had taken root there. This cold wasn’t the familiar bite of winter—it was sharper, crueler, born from the absence of the life you had carried. The fragile hope that had grown inside you, so small yet so powerful, was gone. Its absence left a void so vast it consumed you.

You couldn’t bring yourself to move from the high-backed chair by the window, where you sat motionless, staring into the dark expanse of night. The frost on the glass distorted the view beyond, transforming the swaying trees into ghostly silhouettes, their barren limbs stark against the sky. They reminded you of how you felt—stripped bare, fragile, and exposed to the harsh winds of grief.

The gown you wore clung to your body, its once-delicate fabric now feeling oppressive. Days ago, it had been chosen with care, a garment meant to hold the quiet anticipation of the life you carried. Now, its weight pressed against you like an accusation, its seams digging into your skin, sharp and unforgiving. It didn’t just hang on you—it felt as though it was marking you, reminding you of the absence that had replaced what you once held so dear.

You hadn’t changed out of it. The thought of doing so felt too heavy, too meaningless. To strip it away would be to acknowledge the finality of what had been lost, and you couldn’t face that yet. The woman who had smoothed its fabric with pride, who had worn it with a small but steady joy, was no longer there. All that remained was the crushing weight of who she had become—a shadow wearing the remnants of something she could no longer be.

Your trembling hands rested in your lap, fingers curling into the fabric as if trying to find something to hold on to. A faint breeze stirred from the window, its icy touch brushing against your skin like a cruel reminder of the emptiness inside you. You shivered, but still you remained frozen, the weight of Winterfell pressing down on you, heavy and unyielding.

The world outside went on, its voices and footsteps distant and indifferent. The quiet of the castle was unbearable, the oppressive stillness broken only by the occasional creak of wood or the faintest sigh of wind. It was as if the walls themselves conspired to remind you of your solitude, of the storm raging within you while the world beyond carried on, oblivious.

Tears slid silently down your cheeks, warm against the icy stillness of your skin. You made no effort to stop them, nor could you if you tried. They came endlessly, flowing in a slow, aching rhythm that mirrored the grief clawing at your chest.

You were alone with the memory of what had been—a fragile, fleeting spark of life that had slipped through your fingers. And now, with nothing but the cold to hold you, it felt as though you might never be whole again.

The rhythmic thud of boots against stone drifted faintly from the courtyard below, a distant murmur of life pressing onward. A horse’s whinny cut through the air, joined by the indistinct hum of voices carried on the wind. The world beyond was alive, indifferent, ceaseless. But none of it touched you. It all seemed unreal—muted fragments of a life you could no longer claim, slipping through your fingers like mist. You stood at the edge of it all, a silent shadow, severed from the world that churned on without you.

Time had abandoned you, or perhaps it had conspired against you, trapping you in this endless moment while everything else moved forward. The castle walls, so full of life, seemed oblivious to your sorrow. Their quiet betrayal, their unshaken permanence, was unbearable.

Inside the room, the silence pressed down on you, thick as the weight in your chest. It should have been a comfort, this room. Once it had been. But now its quiet corners and heavy drapes felt suffocating, its walls tightening around you with every passing hour.

You clenched your fists, the delicate fabric crumpling beneath your trembling hands. Tears welled, spilling before you could stop them, tracing hot, aching paths down your cheeks. You couldn’t stem the tide, nor did you try. The gown bore the stain of your despair, but it was nothing compared to the jagged wound that bled unseen within.

The whispers were always there, clinging to the edges of your thoughts no matter how desperately you tried to banish them. They were cruel and unyielding, slipping into every quiet moment, lurking in the shadows of your mind. Their voices were soft but sharp, cutting deeper with every repetition. You should have done more. You should have been stronger. You should have saved him. This is your fault.

They weren’t Cregan’s words, nor the maester’s, nor anyone else’s. They belonged to you, born from the hollow ache in your chest and the guilt that had taken root there. They poured through your mind like a poison, insidious and unrelenting, twisting everything they touched. You could almost hear them in the silence of the room, louder than the crackle of a distant hearth or the sigh of wind through Winterfell’s ancient walls.

No matter how tightly you closed your eyes, no matter how fiercely you tried to silence them, they persisted—a constant, merciless drumbeat. Each word struck like a blow, reverberating through your body, the weight of them pressing down on your chest until you could barely breathe. The air felt thinner with every beat, as though the whispers were siphoning it away, leaving you gasping in the darkness.

You tried to fight them, tried to find some small thread of reason to grasp onto, but they always returned, louder and sharper than before. And the worst part was, some part of you believed them. You clung to the guilt like a lifeline, as though holding yourself accountable might make the loss hurt less. It didn’t. It only sank you deeper into the suffocating pit that you couldn’t seem to climb out of.

They weren’t just whispers. They were chains, binding you to the pain, and no matter how much you struggled, you couldn’t make them let go.

The knock shattered the oppressive silence, a sharp, jarring sound that cut through you like a blade of winter air. For a moment, you froze, the sudden noise startling you out of the haze that had enveloped you for days. The weight in the room, in your chest, had been so heavy, so all-encompassing, that you’d almost forgotten the world outside existed. The knock was a cruel reminder that it did, and that it still demanded something of you.

You stiffened, every muscle tightening as though bracing for an unseen blow. Your breath hitched, thick and shallow, your throat closing as if even the act of breathing might betray you. You didn’t want to answer. You couldn’t. What could you say to him? What could you possibly offer, except more of this broken, hollow shell of yourself?

The knock came again, softer this time, a gentler plea that only seemed to make the silence more suffocating. And then his voice followed, threading through the stillness. The voice you had once found so reassuring, so unshakably warm, now felt like a ghost of itself—steady, deep, but laced with something unfamiliar. Fragility. Desperation.

“It’s me,” Cregan said, his words low, insistent. There was a trembling edge to his tone, a quiet urgency that twisted in your chest. “Please, my love. Let me in.”

The sound of his voice sent a fresh wave of pain coursing through you, tightening around your throat like a vice. You clenched your hands in your lap, your nails pressing into your palms, the sharp sting grounding you in the only way you could manage. The guilt, the grief, the weight of it all threatened to crack you open. If you could just keep still, hold yourself together for one more moment, perhaps the pieces wouldn’t scatter completely.

But the truth was, you didn’t know how to answer him. You didn’t know how to let him in—not into the room, not into the space where your grief lay raw and unguarded. He hadn’t come before. Or maybe he had, and you had been too lost to hear him, too consumed by the darkness to recognize the sound of his voice. You didn’t know which possibility was worse—that he had stayed away, honoring the space you had begged for, or that he had tried and failed to reach you.

Neither was kind. Neither was something you could bear.

His knock had stirred something inside you, but it wasn’t hope. It was the sharp, aching reminder of how much you had pushed him away—and how much you had wanted to. Because if he saw you like this, if he saw how fractured you had become, you weren’t sure you could survive it. And yet, even as you tried to steel yourself against the sound of his voice, it lingered, wrapping around you, pulling at the frayed edges of the wall you had built between you.

“I’ll wait as long as I need to,” Cregan’s voice broke through the silence, quiet yet unyielding, like the steady strength of the man you had once leaned on without hesitation. “I’m not leaving you alone in this.”

His words were meant to soothe, to offer comfort, but they only deepened the ache in your chest. The tenderness in his tone was unbearable, like a hand reaching out to touch a wound too raw to bear. The sting behind your eyes flared, tears threatening to spill over once more. But you refused to let them fall. Not again.

You had cried enough—alone, in the suffocating stillness of the night, when the walls of Winterfell seemed to close in and the weight of your loss crushed you in the darkness. You had let the tears fall in those moments when no one could see, when no one could judge you for the depth of your grief. What good had they done? They had left you feeling even emptier, as though each tear carried away a piece of yourself until there was nothing left.

What would tears accomplish now? They couldn’t undo the pain that had carved itself into your soul. They couldn’t bring back what you had lost, couldn’t fill the gaping void that echoed inside you. They wouldn’t erase the crushing guilt that clung to every breath you took, whispering that you should have been stronger, that you should have done more.

The words you longed to say lodged in your throat, trapped beneath the weight of your grief. Cregan’s steady presence was a balm, but it felt undeserved—a kindness you couldn’t allow yourself to accept. The part of you that ached to let him in warred with the part that wanted to push him away, to protect him from the broken, fractured pieces you had become.

But still, he waited. And still, you remained silent, the battle within you raging on.

The door remained closed, an unyielding barrier between you and Cregan, the space between you stretching into an insurmountable chasm. Your lips stayed pressed tightly together, as if the very act of speaking would shatter the fragile hold you had on yourself. Words felt dangerous, too revealing, too raw. So, you stayed still, frozen in the quiet, every part of you locked in place. You didn’t move. You didn’t breathe. You didn’t respond.

Maybe if you stayed silent, he would leave. Maybe if you sank deep enough into the well of your grief, the guilt would loosen its grip on your chest. Maybe if you let the silence consume you entirely, the pain would finally relent. But even as the thoughts flitted through your mind, you knew they were lies. The grief, the guilt, the unbearable ache in your chest—they weren’t things you could escape. They were woven into you now, so tightly that nothing—not time, not distance, not even silence—could unravel them.

Deep down, you knew nothing would ever be the same again. The fragile thread of hope that had once connected you to the world had snapped, leaving you untethered, adrift. No amount of hiding, no fortress of silence, could change that.

The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating, pressing against you like the cold that had seeped into your very bones. It wrapped itself around you, a crushing weight that left no room for breath or thought. It wasn’t just in the room—it was in you, winding through every broken part of yourself.

Cregan’s steps broke the stillness, each one deliberate, careful, as though he feared his presence might break you further. The sound of his boots against the stone was soft, almost hesitant, but it still felt too loud, too intrusive in the suffocating quiet. He was close now. You could feel his steady presence, warm and grounding, even through the chasm you had built between you.

But still, you didn’t move. You didn’t turn to meet his gaze, didn’t even lift your head. Your heart was too heavy, weighed down by guilt and sorrow so profound it felt like a physical ache. You couldn’t bear the thought of looking at him, of letting him see what you had become—shattered, broken, unrecognizable even to yourself.

You were afraid. Afraid of what he might say. Afraid of the gentleness you might hear in his voice, the love you might see in his eyes, when you felt you deserved neither. Afraid that if he saw you like this, saw the depth of your ruin, he might try to put you back together. And you weren’t sure you could survive being pieced back together only to fall apart again.

He paused, his boots just inside the door, hesitating as though waiting for you to make the decision he couldn’t. As though he wasn’t sure if crossing the distance you had carved between you would help—or only deepen the divide. The silence between you was palpable, stretching wide and unyielding, a vast chasm neither of you knew how to bridge. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though the entire world was holding its breath, caught in this fragile, suspended moment.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, he stepped forward. Just one step, careful and deliberate, the sound soft against the stone floor but carrying a weight that echoed in the quiet. His presence, once a comfort you had never thought to question, now felt too close and yet too far all at once. He moved with a kind of reverence, each step slow and measured, as though approaching something sacred—and fragile.

It was almost unbearable, the way he moved toward you as if you were still the woman he had once known. As if you hadn’t been hollowed out, stripped of the light you had carried, replaced by a grief so consuming it felt like you were drowning. You couldn’t look at him. You didn’t dare. But you felt him, his quiet strength radiating through the cold space, the air between you shifting, growing warmer as he drew closer.

“My love…” His voice was soft, a gentle murmur that carried through the silence like the brush of a hand against frayed fabric. There was a weight to his words, though—something raw and aching, unspoken but undeniable. His concern was threaded through every syllable, tangled with the love he couldn’t seem to put into words. It was the kind of love that refused to be turned away, no matter how fiercely you tried to shut it out.

Still, you didn’t answer. You didn’t even turn toward him. Your eyes stayed fixed on the floor, unblinking, unseeing, your breath shallow and uneven as if even acknowledging him might break the fragile hold you had on yourself.

But his presence pressed gently against the edges of your grief, like a tide brushing against jagged rocks, refusing to retreat. You couldn’t face him, couldn’t let him see the ruin you felt you had become. To turn to him would mean letting him see the cracks, the unbearable weight of your sorrow—and you didn’t know if you could survive his gaze.

Your gaze remained fixed on the frosted window, your eyes tracing the jagged, crystalline patterns of ice etched into the glass. They spread like fractures, distorting the world beyond into blurred shapes and muted shadows. The courtyard below lay buried beneath a thick blanket of snow, its stark silence mirroring the hollow stillness inside you. It looked untouched, serene, as though the world itself had withdrawn, retreating from the weight of your grief. But the chill that gripped you had nothing to do with the winter outside.

This cold was deeper, more insidious. It had rooted itself in your chest, in the fragile places you had once protected. No fire, no warmth, could touch it. It wasn’t a chill of the skin but of the soul, spreading through every part of you, leaving you numb yet unbearably aware of the ache it carried.

Your fingers moved restlessly, pale and trembling as they tugged at the fabric of your gown. The motion was small, unconscious, but relentless. You picked at loose threads and seams, tearing at the delicate material with a quiet desperation. It was all you could do. The stillness of your body demanded an outlet, something to echo the storm raging within you. Each thread pulled free, each tiny rip in the fabric, felt like a hollow attempt to give shape to the suffocating emotions you couldn’t put into words.

You couldn’t stop. You didn’t want to stop. The motion kept the grief from swallowing you whole, even as it frayed the edges of your gown. The tears in the fabric mirrored the fissures in your heart, small and splintering, growing with every passing moment.

Each movement, each tug, was a silent rebellion against the unbearable weight that threatened to crush you. The storm inside you had no outlet, no escape, and the restless motion of your hands was the only way to keep from falling apart completely. Rest felt impossible. Stillness only amplified the ache, the sharp-edged sorrow that had taken over every part of you. Rest would mean surrendering to it, drowning in the pain you weren’t sure you could survive. And so, you tore at the fabric, as though unraveling it might somehow loosen the tight grip of grief around your chest.

But deep down, you knew it wouldn’t. Nothing could.

Cregan didn’t press you, though his silence was as heavy as the grief that hung between you. He didn’t demand answers, didn’t push for words you weren’t ready to give. Instead, he moved closer, his footsteps slow and measured, each one deliberate, as though the air itself might break beneath the weight of his approach. It was as if he were walking through a fragile dream, afraid that one wrong step might shatter it entirely.

Each careful step spoke of his restraint, his quiet struggle to respect the space you had carved out for yourself, even as it tore at him to see you like this. To see the woman he loved, his steadfast, fierce-hearted wife, lost in a pain so profound that even the strength of his presence couldn’t seem to reach her.

He stopped a few paces away, his form solid and steady against the shadows that filled the room. For a moment, he said nothing, the silence stretching again between you, an invisible barrier neither of you knew how to cross. And then, his voice came again, softer this time, carrying a tenderness that wrapped around you like a quiet plea.

“I know you’re in pain,” he murmured, his words low, heavy with the weight of his own helplessness. The emotion in his voice twisted in your chest, each word landing with quiet precision, like drops of water against a stone worn thin. “But I can’t help you if you won’t let me in.”

The pause that followed was almost unbearable, his voice trembling just slightly as he added, “Please, look at me.”

The plea lingered in the air, hanging between you like a fragile bridge you weren’t sure you could cross. His words carried no demand, only a quiet yearning, a love so raw it pressed against the edges of your sorrow, threatening to unravel the fragile defenses you had built around yourself. But you stayed where you were, frozen, your gaze locked on the frost-covered window, as though the jagged patterns of ice could hold you together in a way that his love couldn’t.

You didn’t move. His words reached for you, a lifeline cast across the vast, aching distance between you, but you couldn’t take it. You couldn’t meet his gaze, couldn’t let him see the broken pieces of who you had once been. Not when those fragments felt so sharp, so jagged, that even you couldn’t bear to look at them. The woman who had once stood beside him, who had promised him a future filled with light and hope, was gone. In her place was this hollow shell, weighed down by grief so consuming it left no room for anything else.

Your hands fell still in your lap, the nervous fidgeting replaced by an unnatural rigidity, as though any movement might crack the fragile dam holding everything inside. You stared down at your trembling fingers, clutching at the fabric of your gown not to tear it, but to stop them from betraying you further. The storm within you churned violently, and the stillness felt like the only thing keeping you from falling apart entirely.

The ache in your chest grew sharper, a suffocating pressure that made it hard to breathe, hard to think. It wrapped around you like a vice, pulling you deeper into yourself, away from the voice that tried to reach you.

The air between you felt heavier with each passing second, thick with unspoken words and the weight of all you couldn’t bring yourself to say. It pressed down on you, isolating you further, trapping you in this cocoon of silence where your grief felt too vast to share, too all-encompassing to explain.

You could feel Cregan’s presence, his unwavering patience like a quiet flame, waiting for you to let him in. But that only made the guilt burrow deeper, sharper, as though it might carve you out completely. He was waiting for you to open the door you had closed so tightly, waiting to shoulder the pain you were too afraid to show. But you couldn’t.

You couldn’t let him see you like this—shattered, hollow, and drowning in the sharp edges of your grief. If you turned to him now, if you let him see the raw ruin of what you’d become, you weren’t sure you could survive it. And so, you sat there, silent and unmoving, unable to cross the distance that had grown between you.

Your shoulders trembled, the motion small at first, barely noticeable, before it grew into a tremor that rippled through your entire body. Without warning, your head dropped, your face cradled in your trembling hands. The tears that had lingered just beneath the surface for so long finally broke free, spilling over in a torrent that you couldn’t stop. They came hot and unrelenting, each one carving a path down your cheeks, a relentless reminder of just how much you had lost.

You tried to stifle them, swallowing sobs that clawed their way up your throat, desperate to hold onto some semblance of control. But the tears came anyway, unchecked and unforgiving, a flood that swept away the fragile walls you had tried so hard to build. The warmth of them against your skin felt like a cruel mockery, a vivid contrast to the hollow, icy ache in your chest. You resented them—resented how powerless they made you feel, how impossible it was to push them back, to push any of it away.

You couldn’t. The grief was too deep, too consuming. It wrapped around you like a tide, pulling you under, dragging you further and further away from everything you had once been.

Behind you, Cregan watched, his gaze softening as his heart broke for you in ways he could neither stop nor fully understand. He stood frozen, torn between the overwhelming need to comfort you and the fear that his touch might only deepen the chasm that stretched between you. The sight of your shoulders trembling, of your body folding in on itself as though the weight of your sorrow was too much to bear, left him helpless.

He had always been your shield, your steady foundation, but now he could do nothing but stand there, watching as the woman he loved was consumed by a pain he couldn’t ease. It was a kind of helplessness he hadn’t known before—a sharp, piercing ache that left him stranded on the other side of the distance you had placed between you.

He wanted to reach for you, to do anything to pull you from the storm that raged inside you. But every tear that fell, every breath that shuddered through your frame, seemed to widen the gulf between you both. It felt as vast as an ocean, deep and unbridgeable, leaving him stranded and uncertain, his love for you a light that couldn’t yet pierce the darkness of your grief.

He moved toward you, each step slow and deliberate, as though afraid that even the slightest misstep might shatter the fragile thread tethering you both. The air between you felt heavy, charged with unspoken words and the raw ache of your grief, but he pressed on, his presence steady and unyielding.

When he reached you, he didn’t speak. Words would have felt too small, too inadequate. Instead, he sank to his knees beside the chair, his movements careful, reverent, as though kneeling at an altar. His presence alone was a quiet comfort, a steady flame in the storm of emotions that had consumed you.

His hand reached out, large and calloused, yet impossibly gentle as his fingers brushed against the delicate skin of your trembling hand. His touch was grounding, warm, and steady—a reminder of the life that continued outside the walls of your sorrow. He didn’t force you to respond, didn’t demand anything from you. His hand simply rested over yours, offering a quiet strength that asked for nothing in return.

The restless motions of your hands stilled beneath his touch, the anxious picking at your gown coming to a halt as his warmth seeped into your skin. It wasn’t much—just the smallest of shifts—but it was enough. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the unbearable weight of your grief seemed to loosen, if only by the slightest degree.

It was as though his presence alone could hold some of the pieces of you that had fallen apart, his touch a silent promise that you didn’t have to bear the weight of your sorrow alone. But still, the distance between your heart and his felt vast, the walls of your grief too high to climb. And yet, his quiet persistence, his unwavering love, pressed gently against those walls, searching for a way in.

“Let me be here for you,” Cregan said quietly, his voice a low murmur that carried more weight than the loudest declaration ever could. There was a raw tenderness in his tone, so unguarded and sincere that it pierced straight through you, cutting past the walls you had so carefully constructed around your grief. His words were a balm, gentle against the fractured pieces of your heart, but they also undid you, unraveling the fragile composure you had clung to.

The echo of his voice lingered in the heavy silence, filling the space between you with a quiet plea that wrapped around you, impossible to ignore. Each word was steeped in a love so deep, so unshakable, that it made your chest ache with its enormity. A breath caught in your throat, sharp and jagged, as the storm inside you began to crack open.

Before you could stop it, a sob clawed its way out, raw and ragged, tearing through the stillness. You tried to fight it, to swallow the sound of your brokenness, to hold on to what little control you thought you had left. But it was too much. The weight of it all—the loss, the guilt, the unbearable isolation—pressed down on you with crushing force, and you were helpless against the tide.

Your chest constricted, each breath uneven and shallow as the cry escaped you, desperate and guttural. It shook you to your core, your entire body trembling under the force of the emotion that had been building, unrelenting, inside you. The sobs came like waves, relentless and consuming, each one pulling you deeper into the grief you had tried so hard to bury.

And yet, through it all, Cregan stayed. His presence didn’t waver, his quiet strength anchoring you even as you fell apart. His hand remained steady over yours, grounding you against the tempest within, silently reminding you that you weren’t alone—even when it felt like the weight of the world rested entirely on your shoulders.

“I’m here,” he repeated, his voice a balm against the deep, raw wound carved into your soul. The words were so simple, yet they carried a tenderness that made your heart ache even more. His free hand rose slowly, his fingers brushing the damp strands of hair from your face with the lightest touch. His fingertips grazed your skin like a soft whisper, gentle yet steady, a silent promise in every motion. He wasn’t going anywhere. He would stay, even as you unraveled before him.

“You don’t need to hide from me,” he said softly, his voice unwavering, even as the weight of your sorrow seemed to hang heavy in the air between you.

You didn’t respond. His words settled around you, warm and grounding, but you couldn’t bring yourself to speak. There were no words left, no explanations to give, no answers to offer. Only the tears that fell, unrelenting now, streaking down your face like a flood that had been held back for far too long.

The dam inside you had finally burst, and the grief poured out in waves, racking your frame with sobs so raw they felt as though they were tearing you apart. Each shuddering breath brought fresh pain, the ache you had buried beneath layers of guilt and restraint now laid bare. It was unbearable, and yet, in this moment, you didn’t try to stop it. For the first time, you let yourself feel the full weight of the loss, the overwhelming ache that had been clawing at you from the inside out.

And through it all, Cregan stayed. His presence didn’t falter, didn’t try to pull you from the depths of your grief. He didn’t offer empty reassurances or platitudes meant to fix what couldn’t be repaired. Instead, he stayed steady, his hand a constant anchor against the storm inside you, his touch firm yet gentle. He held you in your brokenness, without expectation, without judgment, simply letting you break.

For the first time, the room didn’t feel suffocating. The walls that had seemed to close in on you, threatening to crush you beneath their weight, now felt less oppressive. The silence wasn’t a void anymore; it was filled with something warm, something alive. His presence was like a steady flame in the cold, a quiet reassurance that you didn’t have to carry this alone—not in this moment, at least.

And for the first time, you felt the faintest flicker of relief. It wasn’t enough to banish the grief, not even close, but it made the unbearable weight just a little easier to carry. For this fleeting moment, you weren’t drowning alone.

Cregan watched you as you wept, his heart breaking with every sob that tore from your chest. Each tremor that shook you felt like a blow to him, a pain he couldn’t bear to see yet refused to turn away from. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t speak. He simply stayed, his presence steady and unwavering, a quiet anchor in the storm of your grief.

His hand remained gently over yours, grounding you without words, offering a silent reassurance that you hadn’t asked for but desperately needed. His touch, so steady and sure, was a lifeline in the chaos of your emotions, speaking the things he didn’t need to say aloud: I’m here. You’re not alone.

As your sobs began to slow, the tears that had flowed so freely now reduced to quiet streams, Cregan shifted slightly. His hand lifted from yours, the motion so soft it felt like a whisper. And yet, there was an undeniable strength in it, a quiet promise that he wasn’t leaving, that he wasn’t going to let you fall alone.

“Come on, love,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, a balm against the raw ache in your chest. The words, though simple, carried a weight of their own—love, patience, and an unshakable tenderness that wrapped around you like a warm embrace.

He didn’t rush you. He didn’t pull you from the chair or try to force you to move before you were ready. Instead, he stayed close, his presence a steady flame against the cold emptiness that had consumed you. Every quiet movement, every gentle word, was filled with care. He was waiting—not for you to be whole, not for the grief to pass, but simply for you to take the next breath, the next small step forward.

Cregan felt it all—the weight of everything you had been carrying, the unbearable burden that had pressed down on you for days. He felt the tremble in your body, the exhaustion etched into every line of your frame, and the grief that seemed to radiate from you like a storm that refused to pass. It was heavy, but he bore it willingly, silently vowing to carry it with you, no matter how long it took, no matter how much of himself it demanded.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he murmured, his voice low and thick with concern, each word carrying the weight of the thousand unspoken emotions he didn’t know how to name. There was no rush in his tone, no expectation—only a gentle insistence, a quiet plea wrapped in love.

His hand stayed firm against your back as he guided you across the room, his movements slow and deliberate, each step careful, as though afraid that anything too sudden might undo the fragile calm that had begun to settle between you. His touch was steady, grounding, a tether to hold onto as the overwhelming weight of your grief threatened to pull you under again.

When you finally reached the bed, he guided you to sit, his movements steady yet hesitant, as though reluctant to step away. His hand brushed lightly over your shoulder, the touch brief but deliberate—a fleeting attempt to offer something words couldn’t convey. But as his eyes lingered on you, seated and so visibly burdened by your grief, something shifted in him. It wasn’t pity—it was a deep ache, an unspoken understanding that settled heavily in his chest.

He forced himself to take a step back, his instincts warring with his restraint. He wanted to stay close, but he knew this moment wasn’t about him. You needed space, even if only enough to draw a breath, to navigate the depths of what weighed on you without intrusion.

“I’ll be right back,” Cregan said softly, his voice low, a quiet murmur that carried more emotion than he could name. His gaze flickered to you, filled with a concern so raw it nearly stopped him in his tracks. “I’ll have a bath prepared. You need to rest—and take care of yourself.”

You didn’t answer. There were no words left, only the faint hum of your breath as you sat still, your hands resting in your lap. As he turned, the smallest movement caught his eye—a barely perceptible nod, as fragile as the first stirrings of a winter thaw.

It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it spoke volumes. It wasn’t permission, nor surrender, but something quieter. A thread of trust, unspoken but present. And though the gesture was small, it was enough for him to continue, his steps quiet but purposeful as he left the room to prepare what was needed.

As Cregan stepped toward the door, the soft click of the handle as it closed behind him seemed to echo through the room, sharp and final. The sound sliced through the oppressive stillness like a cold wind cutting across bare skin. For a fleeting moment, everything seemed to hold its breath. The door’s finality hung in the air, and with it, an even deeper silence settled around you.

The space he left behind felt vast, as though the room itself had stretched in his absence, a yawning chasm you couldn’t cross. You slumped against the headboard, your body sinking further into the mattress, drained of the strength to do anything but exist in the quiet. The exhaustion in your bones was total, a kind of weariness that no amount of sleep could touch.

You had hoped for peace in the quiet, but it wasn’t peace that came. It was weight—heavy, stifling, pressing down on your chest, pinning you to the bed. The room around you seemed to breathe with the creak of old wood beneath you, a low, familiar groan that filled the silence alongside the soft hum of your own breath. And yet, none of it filled the aching void that stretched endlessly inside you.

It wasn’t that you wanted Cregan to return. His presence couldn’t undo what had been broken, couldn’t turn back time or mend the wound that had hollowed you out. But his absence carried its own kind of pain, sharp and relentless, a reminder that life would never return to what it had once been.

Still, you stayed where you were, motionless, surrendering to the stillness that wrapped around you. The weight pulled you deeper, like a tide dragging you under, but you couldn’t summon the energy to fight it. Your body was too tired, your mind too spent, and so you simply let yourself sink into the waiting quiet, waiting for nothing in particular, only the endless passing of time.

Cregan’s footsteps echoed through the stone corridor, quick and determined. The chill of Winterfell’s air was sharp, seeping through the heavy walls, but he barely noticed it. His thoughts were focused elsewhere, running over what needed to be done and how little he could seem to do to ease the storm inside you. Each step carried the weight of his resolve, even as his chest tightened with the ache of seeing you as you were—exhausted, hollow, a shadow of the woman who had once met life with unshakable strength.

He reached the servants’ quarters, his broad frame filling the doorway as his voice broke the relative quiet of the space. “Prepare a bath,” he ordered, his tone low but firm, brooking no hesitation. “And make sure it’s hot. Bring fresh linens, too.” He paused for a moment, his hand pressing briefly against the rough stone wall beside him as he steadied himself. “And food,” he added, glancing between the startled faces of the servants. “Simple, but warm—and enough to sustain her.”

The urgency in his voice was tempered by the restraint he’d forced upon himself. He didn’t bark the commands, but the sharp edges of his words made it clear how quickly he expected them to act. The servants, accustomed to the steady, measured demeanor of their lord, exchanged quick glances before hurrying to carry out his instructions.

Cregan lingered for a moment as the scurry of footsteps and murmured acknowledgments faded down the hall. He stayed still, his hand curling into a loose fist at his side, his breathing measured but heavy. The weight of the past days bore down on him like the snowdrifts against Winterfell’s walls. He could feel the strain of it in his chest, in his shoulders, in the way his jaw ached from holding his emotions in check.

He replayed the image of you sitting on the edge of the bed, your shoulders slumped under a grief that seemed to consume you whole. The tremble in your hands, the distant look in your eyes—it was enough to twist something deep inside him, a pain he couldn’t name and couldn’t shake. But he couldn’t allow himself to falter. Not now.

Straightening, he turned on his heel, his boots striking the floor with purpose as he made his way back through the dimly lit corridors. His thoughts remained focused, calculating what else could be done to make this moment, this night, a little less unbearable for you. He couldn’t take away the grief or the pain, but he could ease the harsh edges of it, if only for a little while.

When he passed another servant, he stopped briefly, his voice softer but no less insistent. “Make sure there’s firewood brought to the hearth. I want the chamber warm.” The servant nodded quickly, moving to comply, and Cregan pressed forward, his steps quickening as the ache in his chest deepened.

As he neared the door to your chambers, his hand brushed the rough stone of the wall beside him, grounding himself in its cool solidity. He paused for the briefest of moments, drawing in a breath to steady the emotions that threatened to spill over. The bath would be ready soon, the food prepared and brought, but none of that felt like enough.

Nothing ever felt like enough.

With one final breath, he opened the door quietly, stepping back into the room where you waited, fragile and silent, the weight of your grief filling the air. He didn’t say a word as he crossed the threshold, his steps careful, his presence steady, bringing with him what little he could offer.

The servants were already hard at work preparing the bath, their quiet movements echoing softly in the background, but none of it mattered to Cregan. His eyes found you the moment he stepped into the room, and the sight of you—the broken posture, your head bowed, shoulders slumped—made his breath hitch in his chest.

You sat so still, as though the grief had hollowed you out and left only a fragile shell in its place. Your movements were barely there, faint and withdrawn, blending into the dim shadows that seemed to wrap around you like a second skin. To him, it felt as though you were slipping further away, piece by piece, retreating into a darkness he couldn’t fully reach.

Cregan didn’t speak right away. He didn’t ask you to move, didn’t press you for words or force you to acknowledge him. The silence in the room was heavy, thick with the weight of everything unsaid, but it was yours. It was the only thing you had chosen in days, and he would respect it, even as it clawed at his chest to see you like this.

But respect didn’t mean standing idly by.

He stepped toward the bed, his movements slow and deliberate, each one measured with a care that spoke of his understanding. Your pain was something fragile, delicate, and he approached as though the wrong move might fracture the brittle calm you had managed to hold onto. When he reached you, he knelt down beside the bed, lowering himself to your level.

His hand extended toward yours, palm up—a quiet offering, an invitation to let him in, to let him share some small part of the burden you carried. His fingers lingered, close enough to touch but not forcing contact, allowing you the choice to accept or reject the gesture.

“Let me help you,” he murmured, his voice low, filled with a quiet but unshakable determination. Each word was gentle but carried the full weight of his resolve. He wasn’t asking for much; he wasn’t asking for words or answers. He was simply offering himself.

“I’m not leaving, love,” he continued, his tone soft but firm, the steadiness of it cutting through the stillness. “Not until you’re taken care of.”

There was no flourish to his words, no attempt to dress them up. He had never been a man of many words, but the ones he chose always carried meaning, each syllable weighted with purpose. He couldn’t fix what had been broken, couldn’t mend the wound that had torn through you, but he could do this. He could stay. He could make sure you were cared for, even if you couldn’t bring yourself to do it alone.

His hand stayed where it was, steady and patient, waiting for you to decide.

His words lingered in the air, their quiet warmth brushing against the edges of your sorrow. Cregan didn’t press you, didn’t rush you to respond. Instead, he simply stayed where he was, his steady presence a quiet assurance that you wouldn’t be left adrift in this moment.

After a few breaths, he gently helped you to your feet, his hand firm at your back as he guided you toward the chair by the hearth. “Let’s sit here for a while,” he murmured, his tone calm and patient, as though the rest of the world could wait.

The flames in the hearth flickered faintly, their light casting soft shadows across the walls. You sank into the chair with a heaviness that seemed to seep into your very bones, your gaze falling to the fire as it crackled softly. The minutes stretched on in silence, broken only by the occasional creak of the old floorboards and the muffled sounds of the servants working quietly in the background.

The faint hum of their activity filtered through the stillness. Logs were added to the hearth, the fire growing brighter and stronger, its warmth beginning to fill the room. The linens on the bed were stripped and replaced with fresh ones, their crisp folds smoothed with precision. The rhythmic sound of water being poured into the bath drifted faintly from the adjoining room, mingling with the scent of lavender as steam curled softly into the air.

Time passed slowly, each moment marked by the subtle changes around you. The room grew warmer, the air lighter, as the servants completed their tasks and slipped out with quiet efficiency. Through it all, Cregan remained close, his movements purposeful but unhurried, his gaze flicking to you every so often to ensure you were still with him, still grounded.

When everything was ready, he returned to your side, crouching down beside you. His hand found yours again, his touch steady and sure as he said, “The bath is ready.”

With deliberate care, he helped you to your feet once more. Each step toward the steaming tub was slow, measured, and supported by his arm at your back, his presence grounding you as you moved forward. The weight of exhaustion still clung to you, but the quiet warmth of the room and the promise of rest seemed just within reach.

The room was a haven of comfort, a stark contrast to the cold, oppressive silence that had held you captive for so long. Flickering candlelight danced across the stone walls, casting soft, shifting shadows that softened the room’s edges. The gentle sound of water filling the bath added a steady rhythm to the quiet, a soothing backdrop that eased the weight pressing against your chest. The warmth of the room wrapped around you like a long-forgotten embrace, the promise of relief so close you could almost feel it seeping into your bones.

But it wasn’t just the room that brought this fragile sense of solace. What truly began to thaw the ice that had settled in your heart was Cregan. His presence, steady and grounding, was a force that anchored you without demand or expectation. His eyes, unwavering and filled with a tenderness you hadn’t thought yourself capable of receiving, never left you as he guided you forward. Every movement he made carried with it a quiet purpose, an unspoken promise that you were not alone in this moment.

When you reached the edge of the bath, Cregan’s hand was firm yet gentle against your back, steadying you as you lowered yourself into the water. He moved with the same deliberate care, as though the slightest misstep might shatter the fragile calm that had begun to form around you. The warmth of the water enveloped you immediately, wrapping around your tired body like a soft, tender embrace. The heat seeped into your aching muscles, melting away the tension that had clung to you for days, while the chill rooted in your skin seemed to dissolve into the bath.

Yet, even as the water soothed you, it was Cregan’s presence that truly began to untangle the knot in your chest. His quiet care, his unwavering devotion, and the unspoken promise in his every action brought with them a peace you hadn’t known in what felt like a lifetime.

As you soaked in the warm water, something deep within you began to shift. The tears you’d been holding at bay for so long finally began to fall again. But this time, they were different. They weren’t the sharp, jagged tears of grief that had torn through you in your solitude. These were softer, quieter—tears of relief, of release. They came hesitantly at first, as though testing the safety of the space around you, before flowing freely in an unbroken stream. It was as if the warmth of the water and the quiet strength of Cregan’s presence had unlocked something within you, giving you permission to let go of the pain you had carried for so long.

Cregan didn’t speak as you cried. He didn’t try to comfort you with words or fill the silence with empty platitudes. Instead, his hand rested gently on your shoulder, his touch warm and steady, an anchor amidst the wave of emotions overtaking you. His silence was filled with understanding, speaking louder than anything he could have said.

Cregan moved with deliberate care, his touch light but steady, as though the very act of tending to you required all the patience and gentleness he could muster. He reached for the soft cloth resting at the edge of the tub, dipping it into the warm water before wringing it out with precise, measured motions. His movements were purposeful, each one imbued with the quiet reverence he reserved for the things that mattered most to him—things that needed protecting, things that needed care. And in this moment, nothing mattered more to him than you.

You sat there, unmoving, as though the water had become an extension of the emptiness within you. It felt as though you had become hollow, a presence without weight, without purpose. Your eyes, distant and unfocused, stared into the space beyond the water, seeing nothing, feeling nothing. The grief had settled so deep within you that it had worn you down to a mere shadow of the woman you once were. The person who used to laugh freely, who found joy in the smallest of moments, felt so far removed from you now. It was as though the agony had stolen her away, leaving only an echo, faint and fragile, drifting somewhere beyond your reach.

Cregan’s movements didn’t falter, even as he watched the faint tremble in your hands, the distant look in your eyes. He began at your shoulders, the warm cloth brushing over your skin in soft, soothing strokes. His hand followed the curve of your neck, careful and unhurried, as though afraid that anything more abrupt might fracture the fragile calm around you. The heat of the water and the rhythm of his touch seemed to melt some of the tension in your body, loosening the weight that clung to you, though you still felt adrift.

The silence between you remained unbroken, filled only with the faint crackle of the fire and the soft ripple of water. It wasn’t oppressive; it was gentle, a quiet space where words weren’t needed. Cregan’s hands, rough from years of work yet impossibly tender now, moved down your arm, washing away not just the remnants of the day but the faint traces of neglect that marked your solitude.

When he reached your hands, he paused, his fingers brushing over the places where anxious picking had left their mark. His thumb lingered on those faint lines, his touch featherlight, as if trying to soothe both the physical signs of your grief and the deeper wounds that lay unseen.

He continued with the same deliberate attention, his focus unbroken. The cloth moved down your back, across your legs, each motion slow and purposeful, as though he understood that rushing would rob this moment of its meaning. This wasn’t just about cleansing your body—it was about showing you, without words, that you were still cared for, still seen, even in your most broken state.

As he finished, he set the cloth aside, his hand lingering at the edge of the tub for a moment. His gaze softened as he looked at you, his expression full of unspoken tenderness. “Take your time,” he said quietly, his voice low and steady, a quiet reminder that there was no need to rush, no expectation beyond this moment.

And as the warmth of the water embraced you and the quiet intimacy of his care settled around you, the faintest flicker of something stirred within. It wasn’t enough to mend the hollow ache or restore the woman you once were, but it was a start. For the first time in what felt like forever, the weight of your grief wasn’t all-consuming. In the stillness, in the warmth of the water and the strength of Cregan’s presence, you felt a fragile sense of being held—not by words, but by the simple, steadfast care of someone who refused to let you drift away.

You opened your mouth, desperate to speak, to give voice to the storm tearing through you. But the words wouldn’t come. They caught in your throat, heavy and sharp, refusing to escape no matter how much you willed them to. Every syllable you might have spoken was swallowed by the weight of everything you carried inside—the guilt, the loss, the crushing sense that you had failed not just yourself, but everyone who had ever cared for you.

Your chest tightened, the pressure rising until it felt as though you might shatter under it. Your lips closed again, trembling as the turmoil inside you deepened, the ache in your heart becoming more unbearable with every passing second. The silence stretched on, not a reprieve, but an oppressive reminder of how the words remained out of reach, leaving you trapped, drowning in the depths of your own sorrow.

Cregan, kneeling beside you, felt the subtle shift in your body—the faint tremble of your shoulders, the way your breaths grew shallow and uneven, as though your grief threatened to tear you apart from the inside out. He paused, his hands still resting gently on your back, not pressing, not rushing, but simply waiting. He gave you the space to feel, to process the rawness of the emotions tearing through you, even if you couldn’t find the words to name them.

The room was still, save for the faint crackle of the fire and the soft rhythm of your breathing. The quiet wasn’t empty; it was filled with the weight of your sorrow, heavy and palpable in the air between you. Cregan’s gaze stayed fixed on you, his dark eyes steady and filled with a resolve that didn’t waver.

It was as though, in that silence, he was speaking to you without words, telling you that it was okay to feel this, okay to break. His presence didn’t demand anything of you—there was no impatience, no expectation. Only the quiet assurance that no matter how many tears you shed, no matter how fractured you felt, he would stay.

His hands, roughened from years of labor but impossibly gentle now, remained steady on your back, offering a constant, grounding support. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He simply stayed, his warmth a quiet contrast to the storm raging within you.

Without a word, Cregan reached for the towel resting beside the tub. His movements were deliberate, his hands steady as he prepared to help you. He extended his hand, firm but careful, guiding you to stand. The water rippled softly as you rose, the warmth slipping away as cool air wrapped around you. Without hesitation, Cregan wrapped the towel around your shoulders, covering you fully before helping you step onto the soft rug beside the tub.

He led you to the nearby stool, lowering you gently into the seat. The towel stayed draped around you as he knelt and began drying you, his hands purposeful and precise. Starting at your shoulders, the soft cloth moved over your skin in slow, even strokes, absorbing the water that clung to you.

He worked silently, dabbing at your arms, your back, your legs, each movement unhurried. When he reached your hands, his touch was impossibly light, the towel brushing carefully over the faint marks left behind by your anxious picking. He dried your feet last, the warmth of the towel a small barrier against the cool air around you.

Once he finished, Cregan reached for the folded nightclothes he had set aside. He unfolded the soft fabric, his hands moving with the same deliberation as he slipped the robe from your shoulders. He held the nightgown open, guiding your arms into the sleeves with gentle care. The fabric fell over you, light and soft against your skin, as he carefully smoothed it into place.

Leaning closer, he adjusted the ties at the neckline, his fingers working deftly but without haste. He paused briefly, ensuring the gown fit comfortably, before retrieving the thicker robe that lay nearby. He draped it over your shoulders, its weight heavier and warmer, securing the belt loosely at your waist.

The room was silent save for the faint crackle of the fire and the rustling of fabric. His hands lingered briefly at the edges of the robe, tucking it into place, before he stepped back. He didn’t speak, his focus solely on ensuring you were fully dressed and shielded from the cold.

You sat still, your gaze fixed downward, the weight in your chest as heavy as ever. A tear slid down your cheek, but you didn’t move to wipe it away. Another followed, your breath hitching as the sobs that had been building broke free once more, shaking your frame.

Cregan knelt again, his hands steady as he adjusted the robe around you, the simple action wordless but full of purpose. When he was done, he rose quietly, leaving the space untouched by words, as if to respect the unspoken weight of the moment. The room held only the sounds of your breathing, uneven and raw, and the faint crackle of the fire as the night stretched on.

As Cregan helped you to the bed, his movements were slow and deliberate. One hand stayed steady at your back, the other guiding you by the arm, each gesture careful, as though ensuring you wouldn’t falter. When you were finally seated, he lingered, his hand resting against you for a moment longer than necessary. His gaze flickered briefly to your face, searching for something—perhaps assurance that you were steady, perhaps something unspoken. He didn’t rise, didn’t retreat. Instead, he knelt before you, his broad frame folding quietly to the floor, his presence grounding without intrusion.

His hands reached for yours, large and warm as they wrapped gently around your trembling fingers. His touch was firm but cautious, like cradling something that had already been cracked too many times. His thumb traced over your knuckles, the slow, deliberate rhythm neither asking nor expecting anything. It was a touch that seemed to say everything he didn’t—an offering without pressure, a steadiness that didn’t waver.

The silence between you was dense, weighted by everything that had been left unsaid, yet it didn’t press for answers. The faint crackle of the fire filled the air, mingling with the sound of your uneven breaths, each inhale and exhale catching on the edge of a sob. Your hands trembled beneath his, the effort of holding yourself together visible in every small movement, threatening to break apart at any moment.

When Cregan finally released your hands, it wasn’t to leave you. He moved quietly, rising to retrieve the small plate of food that had been left on the table beside the bed. Without a word, he brought it closer, setting it gently on the mattress within your reach. His movements were careful, unhurried, as though even this simple act demanded the same precision and attention as everything else he did.

Your gaze fell to the plate, and for a long moment, you simply stared at it. Its simplicity felt almost cruel, a stark contrast to the enormity of what weighed on you. Your hands trembled in your lap, the act of reaching for the plate feeling like an impossible task. When you finally lifted your hand, it hovered uncertainly, your fingers stiff and unfamiliar as they wrapped around the fork with halting movements.

The food sat heavy on your tongue, its taste muted and distant. The mechanical act of chewing felt disconnected, each motion foreign and wrong. When you swallowed, a sharp twist gripped your chest, the weight of the action pressing against you with suffocating force. It wasn’t just the food—it was the reminder that you were still here, still breathing, still alive, when everything inside you felt hollow and undone.

A sob tore from your throat, sudden and raw, breaking the fragile quiet of the room. It came without warning, jagged and unrestrained, and with it came the tears—hot and relentless, spilling down your cheeks in an unending torrent. Each one dragged something deeper, more painful, to the surface, leaving you trembling in their wake.

The plate sat untouched as your body folded in on itself, your hands gripping the edge of the bed as though it might keep you tethered to the ground. The sobs wracked through you, your breaths coming in uneven, shallow gasps, and then the words came—soft, broken, slipping from your lips before you could stop them.

“I failed him…”

The words lingered in the air, cutting and bitter. They twisted in your chest like a blade, the weight of them sharper now that they had been spoken aloud. Saying them didn’t ease the ache—it only made it heavier, more real. The truth of them pressed against you, unrelenting, as though it might suffocate you entirely.

Cregan knelt again, his movements measured as his hands returned to yours. His fingers curled around them, their warmth a quiet counterpoint to the trembling in your own. His grip was steady, firm without being constraining, and his thumb resumed its slow, deliberate strokes across your knuckles. The rhythm was calm, offering no pressure, no demand—only an unspoken reassurance that he wasn’t going anywhere.

“You didn’t fail him,” he said softly, his voice low and even, the words carrying the weight of his certainty. “You loved him. That’s all anyone could ask. And I will love you through this, no matter how long it takes.”

The words hung between you, unshaken and sure. But as they reached you, they didn’t sink into the places they needed to. They echoed faintly in your mind, the edges of them dulled by the roar of guilt that refused to be silenced.

Your gaze lifted to his, and his eyes reflected nothing but tenderness, a love that was steady and unflinching. But in their reflection, all you could see was your own brokenness, your own failings laid bare. The ache in your chest twisted sharper, the weight of your perceived failure pressing harder with every breath.

And in that moment, as your heart shattered once more beneath the unbearable weight of everything you had lost, it felt as though the grief might crush you entirely. It pressed against your chest, unrelenting, a force that hollowed you out further with every passing second. The ache seemed endless, a constant presence that had carved itself so deeply into you that it felt inseparable from who you had become.

But even within the depths of that pain, there was something else—something faint yet immovable. It wasn’t hope, not exactly, nor was it solace. It was Cregan. His hands on yours, his steady presence, the quiet certainty of his care—it didn’t lessen the weight of your sorrow, but it didn’t waver either. It was simply there, an unspoken truth that remained even as the grief threatened to consume you.

It didn’t ease the ache in your chest or silence the voice in your mind that told you you’d failed. But in the pit of your broken heart, you knew his love was unyielding, something that had existed long before this moment and would remain long after. It wasn’t a cure for the grief, but it was steady, something that wouldn’t falter, no matter how deep the sorrow ran. And though you couldn’t yet bear to hold it fully, it lingered, waiting in the quiet.

Cregan sensed the shift in you before you could fully grasp it yourself. His gaze softened, the faintest flicker of understanding reflected in his eyes. He didn’t push, didn’t demand anything from you. His hands remained steady, his touch gentle as his fingers brushed along the curve of your cheek in slow, deliberate strokes. The motion was rhythmic, unhurried, an unspoken promise that he would stay—not to fix you, not to pull you from the depths, but simply to be there, however long it took for the storm inside you to rage.

The plate of food sat nearly untouched on the bed, a quiet acknowledgment of his respect for what you needed in this moment. He made no move to bring it closer, no effort to coax you into eating before you were ready. Instead, he let it rest there, unobtrusive, as though understanding that the weight of even that small act might be too much to bear.

The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t cold or empty. It was a silence that held no expectations, no pressure. It was gentle, patient—a space that allowed you to exist as you were, unfiltered and raw. In that quiet, there was no demand to explain, no urgency to heal. You could simply be.

And though the grief remained sharp, unyielding in its hold, there was a small comfort in that silence, in his steady presence. It didn’t take away the ache, but it gave you permission to feel it without pretense. To sit in the heaviness of your sorrow without the burden of pretending to carry it differently..

As you sat there, wrapped in the quiet warmth of the room, the rest of the world seemed so far away. Yet the overwhelming weight of everything began to creep back in—a steady, suffocating pressure that settled heavily in your chest. The plate of food that had once felt distant now sat in front of you, an unwelcome reminder of what you had lost, of everything you hadn’t been able to protect. It wasn’t hunger that repelled you—it was what the food represented. The simple act of eating felt trivial, almost offensive, in the face of the emptiness that consumed you. The ache within you was too vast, too deep, to be touched by something so mundane.

Your hand moved almost instinctively, pushing the plate away with a motion so gentle it was barely perceptible. It wasn’t defiance or rejection—it was an admission of what you couldn’t give yourself. You couldn’t force yourself to be whole, couldn’t pretend that eating would fill the void left inside you. The untouched plate sat between you and the world, its presence quietly mocking.

Cregan sat beside the bed, his broad frame still and his posture calm, as though any sudden movement might disturb the fragile balance of the moment. His hands rested lightly on his knees, his thumbs tracing slow circles against the rough fabric of his trousers, his gaze fixed on you. He didn’t try to convince you to eat, didn’t say a word. His silence wasn’t empty—it was full of quiet understanding. There was no expectation in his eyes, no disappointment, only a steady acceptance of what you couldn’t yet bring yourself to do.

He didn’t judge you for it. There was no reproach, no impatience. His gaze, steady and unflinching, carried only a gentle acknowledgment of your pain. In the quiet of that moment, his presence eased the sharp edges of your self-doubt, not by removing them, but by offering a space where you didn’t need to fight against them. He had seen you at your strongest, at your best, and now, as he looked at you, he saw you at your most vulnerable. Even here, raw and fractured, he looked at you with the same certainty, the same unwavering care.

He didn’t reach for you. He didn’t touch you beyond the occasional flicker of his thumb brushing against your hand where it rested near your knee. Yet even without words or gestures, his presence spoke volumes. It wasn’t a love that sought to fix you or erase the weight of your sorrow. It was a love that existed without expectation, without conditions—a love that offered itself freely, regardless of how broken or fragile you felt.

Cregan’s gaze didn’t falter, even as you pushed the plate away, even as your breaths grew uneven under the weight of it all. He sat beside you, offering nothing more than the certainty of his presence, the quiet assurance that you didn’t need to be anything other than what you were. In that silence, his love wrapped around you—not as a solution, but as a quiet anchor, holding you steady when everything else felt like it might slip away.

The tears that had once flowed relentlessly began to slow, though the ache in your chest remained—a constant, gnawing presence. It wasn’t something that could be banished or fixed with time or words. It felt woven into the very fabric of your being, an ache that refused to be soothed.

Cregan rose from his seat beside the bed, his movements deliberate as he reached for the plate that sat untouched. He lifted it gently, carrying it away and placing it back on the small table with care, as though even this small act deserved respect. When he returned, his attention shifted to you. He stood quietly for a moment, his gaze steady and unhurried, silently asking for permission as he helped you lie back against the bed.

He lingered as he pulled the blanket up over you, tucking it lightly against your shoulders before stepping back. Without a word, he began to undress, his movements slow and deliberate, as if the weight of the moment demanded nothing less. Once ready, he slipped beneath the covers beside you, the mattress dipping slightly as he settled into place.

At first, Cregan didn’t reach for you. He allowed the space between you to remain, as though giving you time to decide how close you wanted him to be. When you shifted toward him, seeking his warmth, he responded without hesitation. His arm wrapped carefully around your waist, drawing you closer with quiet purpose. His chest pressed against your back, solid and steady, a barrier between you and the cold emptiness that lingered at the edges of the night.

Though the ache in your chest didn’t fade, with him beside you, it felt a little less suffocating. His presence didn’t erase the grief that had hollowed you out, but it steadied you in a way you hadn’t expected. Slowly, you began to let yourself rest, the weight of his arm and the quiet rhythm of his breath coaxing you into a fragile kind of calm.

Your forehead came to rest gently against his chest, the steady thrum of his heartbeat grounding you. The rise and fall of his breathing guided your own, slowing the uneven rhythm that grief had imposed. His warmth surrounded you, cocooning you against the chill of sorrow that still lingered in your heart.

Cregan’s arm tightened slightly, his hand resting against your back as though shielding you from the weight of your pain. He didn’t speak or try to fill the silence with empty reassurances. He simply held you, his presence unshaken, offering quiet strength without demand or expectation.

He could feel the tension in your body, the stiffness that came from holding too much inside. The way you tensed against him spoke of the struggle to keep your grief contained, as though letting it spill out would unravel you completely. He wished he could take that weight from you, even for a moment, but he didn’t ask you to let it go. Instead, he held you tighter, his warmth enveloping you, a silent shield against the sorrow that pressed so heavily upon you.

After a long stretch of stillness, Cregan’s voice broke through the quiet. It was soft and low, almost as if he were speaking to himself. His words carried a thoughtfulness, the weight of a memory he had been holding close, now offered to you in the stillness of the night.

“I remember a time when I was a boy,” he began, his voice low and tinged with nostalgia. “It was a winter, much like this one. We were up in the mountains with my father. The cold was so sharp, so bitter, that even the wolves sought shelter in the trees.” He paused, his fingers gently tracing a slow, absent rhythm on your arm, as if anchoring himself in the memory. “We were hunting, tracking a stag, but my father—he always taught me that you don’t chase after something just because it’s there. You have to be patient. You wait for the right moment.”

His words hung in the air, deliberate and weighted, as though each one carried more than just a memory. It wasn’t about the hunt, or the bitter cold—it was about something deeper. About waiting. About endurance. About knowing that some things take time, even when the waiting feels unbearable, even when the pain seems endless.

You kept your gaze on him, watching as the memory unfolded in his eyes. It wasn’t just the words he spoke—it was the way he offered them, the quiet conviction in his tone. A simple story, yet it carried the quiet strength of patience and resilience, a lesson that reached beyond the moment. It wasn’t about fixing what was broken. It was about surviving. Enduring. And as you listened, you began to understand that this was a truth he had carried with him for a long time—a truth he was now sharing with you.

Cregan’s voice softened even further as he paused, the weight of his words settling into the quiet around you. His hand rested lightly against your back, steady and warm, as though trying to shield you from the storm of your thoughts. His gaze met yours for a moment, unflinching, before drifting away again as he spoke.

“I didn’t get it then, not fully,” he murmured, his tone thoughtful, each word carefully chosen. “But now… now, I think I do.” He exhaled softly, his breath brushing gently against your face, the realization in his words carrying the weight of years. “There are moments in life that feel like they’ll break us. Moments where we feel like we’re lost, as though nothing we do will ever be enough. And in those moments, it’s not what we do to fix it that matters most. It’s how we endure. How we wait through the pain, knowing that, eventually, it will pass. It’s about having the patience to let the hurt come—and the patience to let it leave when it’s ready.”

Cregan’s next words came slowly, each one deliberate, heavy with the weight of his love and the quiet strength he offered. It was as though he were trying to bridge the chasm between your pain and his desire to hold you together, even in the brokenness that surrounded you.

“I won’t pretend to understand the full depth of your sorrow, or the weight that rests in your heart,” he said, his voice low and steady, thick with meaning. The tenderness in his tone was undeniable, each word chosen with care. “But I do know this—you are not carrying it alone.”

He paused, letting the words settle between you. They hung in the air like a fragile thread, something so delicate yet so vital, connecting the raw edges of your grief to the steadfastness of his presence. His gaze remained fixed on yours, unwavering, as though willing you to believe him.

“We are here together,” he continued, his voice softer now but no less certain. “And I’ll stay beside you through it all—no matter how long it takes, no matter how much time you need.”

As he spoke, his arm tightened around you, just enough to make his promise tangible, to emphasize the truth of his words. It wasn’t a solution, wasn’t meant to erase the pain that clung to you so fiercely. But it was constant, unyielding—his presence a silent vow to remain with you, no matter the weight of the sorrow that bound you both to this moment.

You could feel the steadiness in his voice, the raw honesty behind each word. It wasn’t just a story he told—it was a promise, woven into the quiet strength of his presence. It was a reminder that grief, with all its weight and anguish, was not something you had to face alone. And though the journey through it would be long—perhaps longer than you could imagine right now—he would wait with you. Just as he had waited patiently that day in the mountains, not rushing the hunt but trusting that, in time, the right moment would come. Cregan understood the power of patience, the way it shaped everything, even in the darkest of times.

The warmth of his body and the quiet strength of his words began to settle in your chest, providing a fragile comfort amidst the storm of your grief. The ache didn’t vanish—it gnawed at you still, sharp and relentless, pulling at the edges of your heart. But his presence offered something more, something small yet significant: a sense that you didn’t have to face this alone. You were still broken, still lost in the enormity of everything you had endured, but in his arms, there was a flicker of solace. Not hope—not yet. But the smallest inkling that, with time, the pieces might begin to mend.

Cregan wouldn’t ask you to hurry through this pain. He wouldn’t demand anything you couldn’t give. He would wait beside you, steady and unwavering, until the day came when the ache didn’t feel so suffocating. He would wait for you to heal, not by rushing you forward but by standing with you through every difficult step.

For the first time in what felt like forever, you let yourself rest. You loosened the tight grip you’d kept on your grief, just enough to lean into him, to let his arms hold the weight you no longer could. In this moment, with him, you didn’t have to be strong. You didn’t have to understand what came next. You only had to exist, to breathe, and to trust that in the silence between you, the promise of healing was waiting, just like the moment Cregan had waited for in the mountains.

[darkdarknights]

[romerona]

The Swan Princess; Westeros Version.

The Targaryen Princess is the younger sister of Rhaenyra and the second daughter of King Viserys and the late Queen Aemma x Lord Cregan Stark in a dynamic inspired by The Swan Princess.

Viserys and Rickon Stark arrange for the princess and Cregan to be wed once she comes of age. To build familiarity, they reunite them every few years, however, from a young age, they absolutely despise each other.

Young fem Targ reader x young Cregan Stark.

Parts: 1-2-3-4

Warnings: Reader glazing, like to the max, PINNING CREGAN STARK, JEALOUS CREGAN STARK.

He should not have let his father drag him again to the south.

Everything was too warm, too perfumed, too full of unnecessary talk. The men dressed like peacocks, the wine was too sweet, and the courtiers never stopped smiling. Smiling when they didn’t mean it, smiling when they lied, smiling like their faces were carved from ivory and wax instead of blood and bone.

Cregan didn’t trust it, not any of it, never had.

Give him wind and stone, snow underfoot and steel that spoke plain. He had no need for this—this spectacle.

He shifted where he stood beneath the shadowed arches of Harrenhal’s gallery, arms crossed, gaze scanning the great hall like a wolf watching sheep. The lords drank, the ladies laughed, silk rustled, and gold gleamed and... and then his eyes found you.

Across the room, cast in the honeyed glow of candlelight and surrounded by laughter that always seemed too loud for the time of day, there you were.

Your gown was pale red again, soft and fine, a whisper of rose, like embroidered petals spun into silk. The gown flowed about your form like mist curling over morning frost, near translucent at the hem, and gods damned him, it suited you far too well. Your hair, silver, as any dragonlord’s, had been wound in coils and braids, small pearls glinting in the strands like stars scattered across snow.

And you were moving, as ever, never still, turning, leaning, laughing with that lilting, careless charm you wielded like a blade dulled just enough to disarm.

There were men about you. Mostly men. Young and old lords puffed up with pride, squireborn heirs from the Reach and the Riverlands, even a Tyrell or two—circling, vying for your eye like moths to a flame. Gods, the way they tripped over their own tongues just to hear you speak their name. Fools, the lot of them.

Cregan’s jaw ticked.

You played the court as one might a harp, every note carefully plucked. The touch of your hand on a forearm, the tilt of your head, the smile just wide enough to promise something you’d never give. And your laughter, it rang bright, a touch too bright, like you wanted the whole damned hall to hear it.

But your eyes… those lilac eyes ruined the act, because he knew the truth of them. Keen and cool, always watching, always weighing. A fox, or rather a dragon, in a den of pups, waiting to pounce.

He’d known it from the moment you first looked at him all those years ago, when you were still more shadow than flame yet still as bothersome as ever, way before the court had taught you how to smile with your teeth.

His thoughts dragged him back, against his will, to mornings past. A day when the rain had fallen heavily that night, and the earth was still thick with it, all muck and soft churned clay. He’d been riding toward the tiltyard when he saw you—standing close to that Dornish whelp, Prince Qyle, all honeyed words and idle hands. You’d been twirling a wilted flower between your fingers like it were nothing, just another prop in your never-ending play.

Cregan knew he ought to have taken the longer path around. Could have dismounted, even shown courtesy, as was expected in such company. But when the Dornish prince caught sight of him astride his black stallion, and bent to whisper something low against your ear, something that made your lips curl in a quiet chuckle as you cast your gaze his way—well, that was that.

He tightened the reins and nudged his stallion forward with the heel of his boot.

He let the stallion trot straight through the narrow lane, hooves striking hard against the wet cobbles. The animal tossed its head and snorted, restless from the morning chill, and just as it passed the pair of you, one deliberate step, one well-placed clatter, the horse kicked back.

A great splash of muck arced through the air, thick and heavy, and landed true. Brown water and black earth struck the lower half of your gown, marring the pale silk like spilled ink. The prince's robe caught the edge of it too—less so, but enough to draw a hiss between his teeth.

You gasped, he heard it loud and clear.

The Dornishman's hand froze mid-gesture, fingers still half-curled where they'd been tracing lazy shapes in the air, likely some tale meant to dazzle you.

Cregan pulled the reins, reining the stallion to a halt just a few strides ahead. The echo of hooves faded into the damp air, but he let the moment stretch, hanging between them like a drawn bowstring. Then, slow as ice melting on stone, he turned in the saddle, just enough to glance back over his shoulder.

Your eyes were fire, narrowed and unflinching, the sort of look meant to scorch. But he’d grown up in the cold, fire didn’t frighten him—it only drew him closer.

His face, though, betrayed nothing. No smirk, no spark of satisfaction. Just the still, stony countenance of a Stark—carved in the likeness of winter itself. “My deepest apologies, Princess, the horse is northern-bred. Skittish around snakes.”

And with that, he nudged the reins and rode on, leaving the silence behind him thick as snowclouds.

He should’ve known better than to think you’d let the insult lie. No, retaliation, for you, was as inevitable as winter, and perhaps more cunning. He knew that from experience.

So when the morning of the next tilting day dawned warm and light, with banners fluttering like lazy birds over the tourney grounds and the scent of trampled grass thick in the air, Cregan should have known.

Per his father’s request—always his father’s request—he made his way toward the benches set aside for those of noble blood not riding that round. A place to sit in half-bored judgment, to sip watered wine and pretend to enjoy the strutting of hedge knights and second sons in gilded armor. He scarcely offered a nod to the Lord of Raventree seated beside him, all sharp jaw and crow-black cloak, before easing down into the chair provided.

He should’ve known.

Should’ve noticed the way your gaze lingered when he passed by, half-lidded and amused, as if waiting for something to happen. The subtle curl of your lips, wicked and knowing, as you leaned close to whisper into the ear of that puffed-up Lady of Oldtown draped beside you in lace and perfume. Whatever you said made the woman titter behind her hand, though her eyes darted toward him with poorly-hidden glee.

It was all there, plain as the rising sun and yet, like some green boy fresh from the Wolfswood and too slow to read a room, he’d missed it.

So he sat, and at once, he knew something was amiss.

The chair was off, just the slightest wrongness to it, a barely-there wobble, as though one of its legs had been wedged into soft earth or poorly crafted from the start. It shifted beneath his weight, subtle as a breath, but enough to raise the hairs on his neck.

But before he could rise, before he could so much as glance beneath the carved wooden frame, or even shift his weight—

Crack.

The sound rang sharp through the tiltyard, clean and sudden as a snapped bowstring. In one humiliating instant, the leg beneath him gave out with a dry, splintering groan, aged wood shattering like a rotted branch in winter. The entire bench tilted, and there was no time to catch himself.

Cregan Stark—heir of Winterfell, son of the North, blood of the first man, six feet and more of hardened muscle and quiet menace, toppled backwards like a felled pine. His shoulders struck the packed earth with a deep thud, and a cloud of dust billowed up around him, startling the nearby horses and silencing the surrounding chatter for the briefest of beats.

It began with a single, stifled snort, likely from some hedge knight who thought himself clever and then others joined in, a ripple of laughter, low and rising, lords and ladies craning their necks to glimpse what had befallen the proud Stark. Highborn men with goblets halfway to their lips turned in their seats, and silk-clad maidens leaned forward for a better view, hands fluttering to their mouths with exaggerated gasps that barely masked their amusement.

Through it all, Cregan lay there, unmoving.

Dust clung to his shoulders, to the wool and leather of his tunic, but Cregan Stark did not move. He stared skyward, jaw clenched, fury simmering just beneath the surface, contained, but not tamed. The blood in his veins beat hot and heavy, each thrum a reminder that he'd been made a spectacle. A fool.

A young Stark knight, one of his father’s men, rushed toward him from the edge of the list, eyes wide with concern. Another followed, hand half-outstretched, stammering something about aid.

Cregan rose before they reached him.

In a single motion, fluid and unyielding, he pushed himself upright with the force of a man who would not be helped, not here, not like this. He stood tall amidst the cloud of settling dust, and with deliberate care, brushed the earth from his sleeves, his chest, the backs of his legs. He did not wince nor he glare. His face remained a mask of wintered stone.

Toward the noble pavilion, toward the place where you sat among your dragon-laced kin, posture flawless as ever, chin high like you hadn’t just orchestrated his fall.

Your hand covered your mouth, delicate as a snow-lily, your eyes wide and glistening with well-feigned concern.

But your shoulders… your shoulders were trembling—barely—with restrained laughter, the kind only a seasoned court player could mask so sweetly. Not so your brother, seated just beside you, who was guffawing without shame, shoulders shaking as he doubled over in mirth, utterly ignoring the sharp, chastening glance his mother—mother-the Queen-cast his way from beneath her veil.

Cregan knew you had done it.

Gods knew how, whether through coin, charm, or whispered command. Perhaps you hadn’t dirtied your hands at all—but the deed bore your touch. He could see it in your eyes, even now. That flicker of triumph behind the veil of false concern. That wicked gleam, hidden beneath a princess’s poise.

And his honor be damned, he would answer it.

By the fifth day of the tournament, the game was no longer a game, it was war, quiet and glittering and dressed in silk.

A war waged beneath the notice of every lord and lady at Harrenhal, veiled behind manners and pageantry, but no less brutal for its subtlety.

The morning of the archery competition, your prized mare, a gift from the king, your father, soft as snowdrift, white as fresh snow, and pampered beyond sense, was found soaked to the haunches in pond muck. Some stablehand, well-bribed and firmly warned to keep his tongue behind his teeth, had somehow forgotten to latch her stall. A mistake, of course. Entirely accidental.

The beast was unharmed, save for the humiliation, but your temper was another matter. You’d arrived to the mid-morning procession late, skirts lifted above your ankles, a flush to your cheeks and a pin half-loosened in your hair. And when your eyes met his across the feast table later that evening, you smiled, a slow, syrup-sweet thing that might’ve fooled any man unfamiliar with your ways.

Then, his boots were mysteriously gone, not misplaced. Gone.

He had searched everything thirce over, paced the floor, flung open trunks, snapped at his attending squire with ice in his tone—but they were nowhere to be found. And with the melee drawing near, he’d been left with no choice but to wear his soft riding shoes, the ones meant for long walks and diplomatic strolls, not blood and dirt.

He had looked ridiculous.

The soles slipped with every turn in the yard, his footing unreliable in the churned soil. Ser Vardis Egen observed with mild concern, offering the occasional half-hearted comment, while Ser Tyland Lannister sat nearby with a goblet in hand and a smile twitching beneath his beard. And Prince Qyle of Dorne, the absolute cunt, laughed outright, loud and unrestrained, his delight echoing across the yard like a challenge.

Cregan bore it in silence, jaw tight as drawn steel.

It wasn’t until dusk that he found them: his boots, stuffed full of lavender sachets and tucked neatly into the velvet cradle of the Queen’s favorite marble swan in the garden and the damn bird pecked him when he tried to retrieve them.

The next joust, he struck back.

Your parasol—delicate, dove-grey, and trimmed in Myrish lace—had been ever your shield against the sun. But that morning, it was just slightly off. Same color, same trim but not quite the same make, the ribs of the frame were looser, less tempered. Weakened just enough to give at the slightest strain.

One of his father’s men had arranged the exchange, quiet as snowfall, slipping it in place while your handmaid was fetching sugared wine.

You hadn’t noticed, not until the breeze picked up.

The first gust caught the parasol like a sail, turning it in your grip with a violent snap. It twisted, wild and graceless, tugging your braid loose and whipping across your cheek. The lace slapped Lady Blackwood full across the face with such force that it knocked her down, drawing a very unladylike yelp.

You smiled through your teeth, composed and controlled as you helped the lady, but he saw the embarrassment and fury in your eyes.

And across the field, seated beneath his House’s banner with the ease of a man entirely unbothered, Cregan lifted his cup of northern wine, took a slow sip, and did not look away from you.

Not once.

Days later, you struck again.

This time, it was the saddle soap or rather, the lack of it.

Cregan had only realized something was wrong once he’d mounted his stallion. The reins, polished and gleaming, looked well-kept—but they slid through his fingers like oiled silk. Too smooth, too slick and when the beast felt the uncertainty in his grip, it reared.

Not gently, not a simple jolt, a full buck, sharp and sudden.

He hit the hay with all the grace of a dropped shield, shoulder-first into the straw with a dull thud that knocked the breath from his lungs. His squire looked one breath away from coughing up a lung with laughter as he tried to help.

Cregan rose slow, straw clinging to his hair, jaw set so tight it could’ve cracked. He did not speak, merely turned his head, just so and looked up.

From across the yard, shaded beneath a silken canopy with the kind of grace only royalty dared to wear like armor, you lifted one dainty hand and offered him a polite little wave.

A picture of composure and a portrait in mockery.

By now, it was no longer about besting one another—not truly. No winner would be named, no tally kept. The game had become something sharper.

It was about breaking first.

About who would falter beneath the weight of silence, who would let their smile slip just enough to reveal the strain beneath. Who would crack beneath the delicate tension they’d spun between them, thread by thread, day by day, until it stretched tight as a bowstring across the halls of Harrenhal.

Not a soul around them seemed to notice.

And the worst part, the part that made his hands curl at his sides, that gnawed at him even when sleep would not come, was that you enjoyed it, and gods help him, so did he.

More than he would ever be willing to admit. More than honour would allow. There was something addictive about it—the dance, the dares, the constant tilt of balance between them. The way you always smiled was like a secret you wouldn't tell him.

He was ashamed to admit, even to himself, that he craved it more than he loathed it.

His thoughts drifted back to that morning, the final day of the tourney.

The victor, Ser Gwayne Hightower, all polished silver and smug ceremony, had ridden like a man possessed. Every tilt he charged down like it were holy ground, unseating each and every challenger without hesitation, even that arrogant peacock Qyle of Dorne. The crowd had roared with delight, lords and ladies, hedge knights and handmaidens alike, caught up in the spectacle of it all. Songs would be written, no doubt. A hundred ballads for his damnable form and flawless seat.

And when the dust had settled, when the banners hung still and the crowd quieted in breathless anticipation, it came time to name his Queen of Love and Beauty.

Of course, he chose you.

He’d barely paused before riding to the center of the yard, lifting a circlet of woven wildflowers high above his head as if the gods themselves had guided his hand. And you stood tall amidst it all, in a pale violet silk that clung and fluttered like the wings. The sunlight caught in your hair, you looked every bit the royal prize, and yet untouched by it.

You had the audacity to look surprised.

To blink sweetly, mouth parted just so, before offering that graceful little dip of the head, accepting the woven crown as though you hadn’t seen it coming, as though you hadn’t known that every fool in Westeros would crawl through ash and blood to place it upon you.

The crowd had roared as Ser Gwayne Hightower placed the garland of summer roses upon your brow, each petal bright and soft and utterly unworthy of the thorns you kept hidden beneath. Cheers echoed like thunder across the tiltyard, lords and ladies rising to their feet, banners fluttering as minstrels struck up some syrupy tune fit for a tale told in silk.

Cregan clapped, yes—but only out of obligation, politeness, duty. The way one might bow before a king they did not serve.

Then, cease his clapping when Gwayne bowed low and pressed his lips to your hand, all chivalry and gleaming armour. He did not flinch when the crowd howled their approval in his ear, he tried not to roll his eyes when your silks caught the wind just so and half the court sighed like they'd seen a vision from the Seven themselves.

And he certainly did not move when your gaze swept the stands searching, perhaps, and passed him by without pause then back at the knight...

And why should you look at Cregan?

He had no place in such pageantry. No part in flower crowns and silken smiles, in knights who stank of rosewater and spoke in verse like singers on a stage. No taste for polished helms or banners stitched by noble ladies with trembling hands. Songs written before supper, hearts offered like coin—it was all foolishness. Southern folly dressed in gold.

He was a bloody Northman.

He wore wool, not lace; he fought to survive, not to win the favour of an annoying princess. All of this, this jousting, this crowning of beauties, this endless parade of flattery and farce, was stupid.

Silly.

Unnecessary.

Utterly idiotic.

Gods, he thought, jaw tight as he watched the crowd fawn over Gwayne and his silver-draped triumph, why does my father always insist on dragging us into this nonsense?

Later that day, just before dusk and the feast, he’d wandered along the riverside—quiet, shaded, far from the noise of feast tents and banners.

Cregan spotted you just past the bend in the river, with a glower on you face and alone, a rare thing.

At first, he thought it must be someone else—some servant girl or highborn cousin wandering off after the day’s madness. But then you turned your head just enough, and that braid of silver hair caught the fading light, and he knew.

The Queen of Love and Beauty, crowned just hours ago by that tool of Gwayne Hightower, now skirts hiked slightly in one hand, barefoot and skulking through river mud like a fisher’s daughter.

Cregan watched from the treeline, arms crossed, one brow ticking ever so slightly upward.

“Careful, Princess,” he drawled, stepping into view, voice low and iron-edged. “The river’s known to pull fools under.”

You flinched—barely, just a twitch in the shoulders, a pause in breath, but enough to satisfy something petty in him. Then you straightened, turning to face him with your chin high and your expression cool as shaded wine.

“Then perhaps it will take us both,” you said, voice light as if you were commenting on the weather. You lifted your silks a touch higher, water trailing from your toes as you stepped back onto the dry grass. “Though I do imagine you’d sink faster.”

Cregan’s mouth twitched, almost but not quite, into a smile. “Mayhaps, though I’ve heard northern blood runs thick. Takes longer to drown.”

You rolled your eyes, sharp as cut glass.

“What’s thick is your skull, Stark,” you said, brushing a strand of wind-tossed hair from your cheek with all the elegance of royalty and the ire of a dragon about to strike. “And if I weren’t presently engaged in something far more important, I’d be more than happy to test that theory.”

Cregan tilted his head, stepping down the bank toward you, boots sinking just slightly into the soft earth.

“Important, is it?” he asked, gaze narrowing. “Must be something dire, to bring the Queen of Love and Beauty sneaking barefoot through river muck like a common poacher."

You lifted your chin, refusing to cede even a sliver of ground. “Some things are worth muddy feet.”

Cregan huffed, low and amused, the sound almost a laugh. “Aye? And what would those be, Princess?”

You scoffed, turning away with a shake of your head, skirts swaying.

“None of your bloody business,” you muttered, bending to the damp earth to pick up a small stone, though it served no purpose but to be flung aside with force, more gesture than action.

He watched you in silence, then his eyes drifted downward.

Near your discarded slipper, half-buried in the soft earth, sat a small, smooth stone, different from the others, lighter, polished. He stepped forward without thinking, nudged it loose with the toe of his boot, then bent at the waist, fingers brushing the mud to lift it.

You saw it and lunged, skirts tangling at your ankles as your hand shot out. “Don’t you—!”

But it was too late. Cregan had already straightened, turning the stone over in his hand. It was smooth and flat, its edges worn gentle by time and water, pale in hue, and vaguely heart-shaped.

He looked at it, then at you, and snorted.

“This?” he said, voice laced with disbelief, the faintest edge of amusement curling beneath. “All this fuss for a pebble?”

Your glare could have withered crops, and lunged again, faster this time, a flash of silk and bare feet through the mud but he was quicker.

Cregan lifted the stone just above her reach, his arm high and out of range with practised ease. You made a sound, a frustrated, breathless huff and swiped at his wrist anyway, though it did little more than ruffle his sleeve.

“You oaf,” you hissed, eyes narrowed as you stepped closer, “give it back.”

He arched a brow, holding the little thing aloft as though weighing its worth.

“You mean this bit of river rock?” he said, voice low, deliberately slow, the stone turning between his fingers.

“It’s not just a rock,” you said, reaching for it again, when he didn’t give it back, you groan in exasperation and shoved him.

He staggered, more surprised than moved. “Gods, woman—”

This time, you were closer—close enough that he caught the scent of lilac and something wilder beneath it. Your hand brushed his forearm as you reached, and his pulse kicked, traitorous and unwanted.

Gods, but you were stubborn.

“It’s mine,” you added, voice quieter now, as if you hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Cregan looked at you then, really looked, the crown of wildflowers from earlier still rested crooked on your head, strands of wind-tangled silver caught in your lashes, mud on your feet, a fury in your eyes.

He should have let you have it... but he didn’t. “What makes it worth all this, then?”

"None of your business," You reached again suddenly, without warning and this time, you came too close.

Your fingers grazed his forearm, and your body leaned into his space, the silken brush of your skirts whispering against his boots, mud and river reeds forgotten entirely. You looked up at him, eyes bright with defiance and something else, something unspoken and sharper than your words had ever been. Cregan froze. The stone was still in his hand, but for a moment he couldn’t remember what it was or why they were even standing here, soaked and half-snarling in the shallows like fools.

The world stilled. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

Your brow was furrowed, lips parted slightly from the effort of keeping them still, and your breath fanned lightly against the hollow of his throat. He could feel the heat rising between them, his grip on the stone tightened slightly, the pulse in his wrist betraying the stillness of his face.

His gaze drifted, just slightly, just once, to your plump-looking lips and wonder how would they feel like…

Just for a heartbeat, just long enough to curse himself for thinking that and for glancing at your lips. It wasn’t intentional, but it happened all the same, and when he looked back up, he saw that you had noticed. Your gaze narrowed, your breath hitched just slightly, and something shifted between them, not enough to name, but enough to feel.

But before either of them could move, before anything could slip loose between pride and impulse, there came a sound—a rustle in the nearby brush, too heavy for wind. It was followed by the distant murmur of voices, perhaps a pair of squires or a drunken knight circling back toward the tourney fields. Whatever it was, it broke the moment like a snapped branch underfoot.

They both stepped back at once, as if the river itself had surged between them.

Your were the first to recover, of course. You folded your arms across your chest and lifted your chin high, wrapping yourself back in that princess’s poise as easily as donning a cloak. Your expression was unreadable again, the bare hint of vulnerability vanished like dew in daylight. If your hands trembled slightly at your sleeves, you made no sign of it.

Cregan said nothing, but an unwanted, newfound feeling in his chest had appeared before being squeezed down.

Without a word, and with something far gentler than mockery, he lowered the stone into your waiting palm.

You didn’t close your fingers around it at first. You just stared down at it, quiet and unmoving, the curve of your thumb running slowly across its pale surface, as if trying to memorize its shape by feel alone. The wind pulled at the ends of your hair, the water lapping faintly behind them, but you stood still, as though made of glass.

When you spoke, it was barely above a whisper—just enough for him to hear and no one else. “It was my mother’s.”

Your voice was steady, but there was something underneath it—a thread of rawness he hadn’t heard before. It wasn't the stone that was yours, not truly. Not some keepsake passed down from hand to hand, tied with ribbon and laid in a velvet-lined box. But it was yours all the same.

“The Septa told me she would pocket smooth stones and line them up on the windowsill. This is the only one I’ve ever found,” you added after a pause, your gaze still fixed on the stone in your palm,

Cregan didn’t answer right away.

How could he? What was there to say to that? His teasing, the game, the smirks across feast tables—all of it seemed to fall away under the weight of that one truth. That this slip of river stone, smooth and pale and faintly shaped like a heart, was the closest thing you had to a woman you had never known, and would never be able to.

You lifted your chin then, defiant once more, but the fire behind your eyes had shifted—no longer anger, not entirely. “I know it’s foolish, but it’s mine.”

The feeling in his chest deepened—not from guilt, not exactly, but from something like understanding. Not pity, not really, he knew what it meant to carry a legacy one barely remembered, his own lady mother had died when he was young too but at least he had some memories, he knows what is like to hold tight to some sliver of a ghost and pretend it was enough to fill the hollow it left behind.

And looking at you now, barefoot in the mud, hair pulled loose, fingers curled around something that mattered more than anyone else could ever guess…. he felt like a brute.

“It’s not foolish,” he said, voice rougher than he intended.

Something had shifted, just slightly but enough that he felt it.

You cleared your throat, a soft and subtle sound that might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone else, but not him.

Then, without another glance, you bent to retrieve your shoes from the mud, slipping them on with practiced ease, one after the other, as if nothing at all had been said. As if you hadn’t nearly tripped into his arms, as if he hadn’t, for half a breath, felt like you were the only thing that still moved beneath the sun.

Your back to him now, chin lifted, voice light as summer wine—but with the bite of frost beneath it. “I hope you get eaten by a bear out here, Stark.”

Cregan exhaled through his nose, slow, steady.

He didn’t offer some sharp retort, didn’t rise to the bait you dangled so expertly with every word, he only stood there, boots planted firm in the riverbank mud, watching as you walked away—head held high, skirts damp, fingers still curled around that gods-damned river stone like it was a relic. A crown not worn on your head, but carried on your spine.

A part of him almost wished the bear would find him—if only to shake this feeling loose from his ribs and put something simpler in its place.

He continued to stare at you from across the great hall, jaw tight, arms folded, doing his best to feign interest in whatever dull accounting Lord Beesbury was droning into his cup. Something about tariffs or barley or Gods knew what else. Cregan hadn’t heard a word in several minutes.

His attention was elsewhere.

You, seated two long tables away, bathed in firelight and surrounded, as always, by eager company. Your laugh rang out again, bright and easy, tossed like a ribbon toward the bloody Prince of Dorne who was speaking with animated hands, eyes fixed on you.

You laughed at something the Dornishman said, tilting your head, fingers brushing your mouth, as if he’d said the cleverest thing ever spoken. The prince, all polished bronze and desert silk, leaned in closer as if your amusement were a prize to be won, as if he were the only man clever enough to earn it.

Cregan, for the life of him, could not fathom what was so godsdamned pleasant about the man.

He truly couldn’t.

The prince had attention wherever he went, nearly as much as you, though not quite. And why? What did he offer, truly? The man was hollow as a polished shell, pretty enough to look at, perhaps, but there was no weight to him. No spine. No depth. Just the glint of arrogance beneath all that cultivated charm, the soft pride of a man too used to being admired and never once questioned.

An empty fool wrapped in silk and ceremony.

And yet, there you stood, letting him speak to you like the two of you were written into some bard’s song, tilting your head, lashes low, smiling like you hadn’t already heard better from half the court.

Cregan’s gaze didn’t waver. He’d seen that smile before. He’d earned it, once or twice when you weren’t sharpening your wits on him like a blade on stone.

If Cregan didn’t know better—if he didn’t know you better—he might have thought the two of you were a match crafted by song and scroll. Both beautiful, both sharp, courtly fire and southern sun, dancing hand-in-hand for the poets to weep over.

But he did know you, or he liked to think so.

Cregan had known you for years now. Not well, perhaps, not in the way soft-tongued courtiers whispered in parlours or lovers spoke of in candlelit poems but long enough to notice things. The details others missed between the blooms of your gowns, the weight of your title, and your lilac eyes.

The way your fingers drummed softly against your goblet when you were bored out of your mind. The way you offered a smile with your lips but not your eyes when you were lying through your teeth. He knew that you bit the inside of your cheek when you were holding back words sharper than the court could bear. How you hated being underestimated, but loathed being fully known even more.

You carried your charm like a blade, sharp, balanced, and always within reach, but there were cracks in the steel. He’d seen them. Once or twice.

He remembered how you twisted your rings when you were restless, seen you braid your hair when you were angry, seen your silence grow colder than any wind north of the Neck when you’d been wounded, though you’d never admit it aloud.

And he wasn’t sure when he started noticing these things. Maybe it was at a feast three summers past, when you’d laughed at a jest just a moment too late or at someone's name day years before that, and Cregan, despite it all, had watched, not always willingly, but often enough.

And the prince, for all his polish and poetry, didn’t know it.

Would never know it.

He wouldn’t know what to do with you—not truly. Not when your temper burned hot as dragonflame, fierce and sudden and near-impossible to smother. Not when your silences stretched long and deep, the kind that could drown a man more thoroughly than any tide. Not when your words, always sweet, always measured, carried blades tucked neatly beneath the honey, sharper than most steel.

No, this—this performance was court-born. A game, a dance for the galleries and the ladies perched high above with lace fans and narrowed eyes. Cregan saw that plainly, saw you.

And he knew that the true heart of you was something rarer. Sharper, more complicated, a thing with teeth and grace and an obstinate will. Proud, yes, far too proud for your own good, but not cruel, not false. There was a goodness in you, buried somewhere beneath the silks and smirks and carefully arranged smiles.

And that part, the part the prince would never think to look for, would never sit neatly in the arms of a man like him. A prince of warm coasts and easy charm. You’d twist too sharp, you’d bend too little, you’d outpace him before the first frost.

The match was beautiful, there was no denying it, striking in the way painted things often were —lovely to behold, to admire, to sight at, but utterly hollow in the holding.

You needed someone who could match your fire, truly match it.

Not just bask in its warmth, not tame it or twist it into something quieter or fold beneath it in worship. Not a soft-mouthed poet who called it beautiful and stepped back when it roared too loud.

No, you needed someone who could burn with you and not falter. Someone who wouldn’t look away when the heat rose, who wouldn’t crumble when your pride flared sharp and your words came like knives, someone who wouldn’t mistake your fury for madness or your silence for softness.

You needed someone who could take the scorch and keep standing, someone who would not try to possess or tame or twist you into something smaller, prettier, easier to carry.

You would gnaw through those leashes before you ever bowed your head.

Not... that it was his place to think any of this. He reminded himself of that as he downed the last of his wine in one long pull, the taste sharp and heavy on his tongue. His gaze remained fixed across the hall, watching as your laughter curled around the prince’s shoulders like smoke.

He told himself it didn’t matter, that you would not be his to consider, not his to dwell upon, not his to study like some half-read book he couldn’t put down.

And the gods knew he’d tried.

Cregan Stark was not a man given to folly, he didn’t chase after courtly fancies or whisper dreams into goblets like the soft-mouthed knights from the Reach or the north. He kept his thoughts where they belonged—silent, steady, guarded.

But this one? You?

You had a way of turning everything he knew sideways. Always had. Gods, he hated it—how easily you unsettled things, how quickly you slipped beneath his skin. He hated how you made the world tilt ever so slightly, just enough to feel it.

And damn it all, he hated how easy it had become to see you, Even when he didn’t want to.... Especially when he didn’t mean to.

These thoughts refused to be kept. They did not listen to reason, or discipline, or the cold logic the North had bred into his bones. They pushed past all of it, quiet and insistent.

He would never speak them aloud, not to himself, not to anyone else, not even in prayer beneath the heart tree—where he had laid darker things before, heavier griefs, deeper oaths.

But still, the thought of you curled at the edges of his mind like smoke from a fire he couldn’t remember starting and with each breath, it burned a little deeper.

A/N:

Hellooooooooo!!!?????

How are you all doing? How is lifee? Hope all is well and happy!!

I just want to say that one of my favourite tropes in literature has been and will always be the ' they fell first and harder', honestly, I think this is the only way a relationship could work, either irl or fiction. The LI has to be a little obsessed with the reader since the start or like them more than the reader likes them, and I'm only human so...

They are getting to the age of marriage, so probably for the next part, it will be dedicated to that.

Thank you for all the support, for the reblogs, comments, and hearts. It helps a lot with motivation. <3<3<3

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[silverspotted]

arrows of fate —

“ to be made of flesh was humiliation ”

the rains of castamere; 03.09

robb stark - “the young wolf”

martyrdom of saint sebastian; 1525

il sodoma

[shroudedmoon]

do people even care about daemon aus anymore anyways!!! i should just be 'the animal au' guy now smh i need new interests

[strike-em-down]

Grimm's got a big game coming up, and Belmont's putting a lot of his trust on two particular team members...

FIRST TIME DOING A SCREENSHOT EDIT RARGHGHHG IM SUPER HAPPY WITH HOW THIS TURNED OUT! Here's a version of the screenshot without the text, and Anubis and Sloan on their own!

[daemonsblackbird]

And she never looked back.

[marshmellowjay]

Valentine's day ideas go!

Character reacts to you getting them flowers

Character reacts to you wearing a ball gown

What flower character would get you

What would character do to celebrate Valentine's day

Character x reader Valentine's day smut 👀

Character eats aphrodisiac chocolate 👀

Character reacts to reader drinking a love potion that intensifys readers crush into obsession(or reverse it)

Character reacts to reader kissing them all over their face leaving lipstick marks

Character x reader who switches genders (or once again reverse it to character switching genders)

Proposal type one shot

For murderous cannibal characters, they react to reader gifting them a heart, idk that seems like something Hannibal would enjoy

(USE THESE AND TAG ME PLEASE 😭 IM SO LONELY. ALSO HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY MY LOVES ❤️. IF YOU DONT HAVE A VALENTINE NOW YOU DO CUS I WILL BE YOUR VALENTINE🥰)

[wolfpants]

some fics I have been enjoying recently - wolf's reading list: june favourites 📚

As June draws to a close, I'm thrilled to say that both my reading and writing have picked up significantly after nearly a year of poor focus and general scatterbrained chaos. Hurrah! It's been a joy to ease back into the fandom, especially with so many wonderful fics to explore. Here are some I've devoured over the past month or so!

9 to 5 📆

E, HP, Drarry, 2.5k | @oknowkiss

Draco Malfoy hates Mondays.

“The Ministry will be breached. You’ll be caught in the crossfire.” Potter smiles crookedly. “Wrong place, wrong time. Funnily enough.” Draco swallows. “Hilarious.” “I’m keeping you here. For now.” Potter says. “Alive.”

-

Crush 🌶️

E, HP, Drarry, 8.2k | @citrusses

Harry Potter has a secret admirer. Harry's pretty sure that if this person figures out what an idiot he's capable of making of himself, they'll lose interest. So he turns to Draco Malfoy, reformed nemesis and stylish lawyer, for guidance.

“Malfoy,” Harry says. “Kiss me.” Malfoy winces. “Stop calling me that.” “Oh,” Harry says. “Sorry. Kiss me… Daddy?” “You absolute, clinically hopeless, fucking moron.”

-

Find New Ways 🫧

M, HP, Drarry, 3.6k | @skeptiquewrites

First comes marriage.

"We're married.” Draco trailed fingertips in the water, watching the little eddies in their wake. Harry's fingers curved around his ribcage. “We are.” The feeling in Draco's chest was too weighty for words, but he tried. “You’ll make a good husband.” The question of whether Draco would was outstanding.

-

Know Your Enemy 🗡️

E, HOTD, Daemon/Aemond, 2.4k | memequeen1127

Daemon follows Aemond after he storms out of the feast.

It is quite enjoyable, Aemond showing how unaffected he is by his nephew’s attempts to hurt him. He feels a thrill from emulating his uncle’s easy power. It’s the best outlet for his desire he’s found today. If Aemond can’t fuck him, then at least he can be him.

-

like some small animal that only comes out at night 🚾

E, HP, Drarry, 943 | @maesterchill

Unspeakable Malfoy and Auror Potter hook up in the bathroom at a Ministry charity event.

“Meet me in the gents,” Potter instructs, his whisper barely audible over the bustle around us, but so authoritative and unambiguous that it’s all I can do not break into a run.

-

Twenty-Two Cards 🃏

(Series) E, HP, Drarry, 108k | peu_a_peu

Aurors Potter and Malfoy crack the case. (plus more!)

"Only one bed," Harry observed. "Guess you're on the floor, then," Malfoy said, throwing his cloak on it. "You're not even going to offer to share?" "Fuck off," Malfoy said, and then proceeded to use all the hot water for his shower. Harry resigned himself.

-

your braids like a pattern 🌳

E, HP, Drarry, 31.1k | @hoko-onchi-writes

Harry runs a camp. Malfoy is the new counsellor, and he's driving Harry to the brink of insanity.

“Why do you keep bothering me? Coming back and talking to me? I’ve been nothing but an arsehole to you. And you—you keep coming back.” Harry doesn’t mention that Malfoy is eye-fucking him on a regular basis because he doesn’t need to open that Pandora’s box. Not right now. “Oh, you are an arsehole. But I’m mercilessly fucked up, and I find it so endearing.”

-

That's all folks! I'll try and make this a regular thing at the end of every month. What should I read next? Recs always welcome! 💖

[pzyii]

daemon au doodles closeups under cut

[therogueflame]

Hellooo!! I love your writing, and ask for thou to spare a mere lowborn a moment (this is somewhat long Cregan x reader ask, so I apologize in advance 😭)

So you know the Jon Snow story? Lyanna dies and Ned pretends Jon’s his bastard but he’s actually a Targaryen? That whole thing? Yeah, that, but instead it’s reader! You can play this out however you want, but like I’m thinking that the backstory goes like this (ish)

The Crewyn family’s vibing, maybe the sister of Lord Crewyn runs off with a Targaryen Prince. A war breaks out for some reason, maybe because of the scandalous Targ/Cerw-marrige. It puts the Crewyn sister in danger, Lord Crewyn travels to save her but she’s already injured. She tells Crewyn to take care of baby-reader and he does

Now! Maybe everyone knows reader’s a Targaryen, or maybe Lord Cerwyn goes the Ned Stark-path. Either way, reader kinda gets the reverse Strong-boys-problem. Reader gets the Targaryen features and hates them. The northern houses don’t accept her because of her appearance, so maybe she develops a medieval body-dysmorphia

She’s raised alongside Cregan’s bestie (bro lost his name privileges in the book, but imma call him Clay 💀). Clay and reader are raised in the Cerwyn castle, hunting, fighting, vibing. Cregan and Clay become bff’s, time goes on and reader becomes a formidable fighter to make up for her appearance, she catches Cregan’s attention, he tries to win her hand, though she doesn’t believe him and thinks Clay and him are playing a trick on her

(If this too complicated or confusing, then you can just ignore it, luv u and ur mind 😚❤️)

hi precious anon!

thank you so much for this request, i did follow most of it, but i changed a couple of things - no war, and no second person. i did try second person, but third person just made it so much more dramatic imo. thank you again!

The Ghost of the North

Very little dialogue, I am so sorry

✨ My Masterlist ✨

🖊️My AO3 🖊️

📝 My WIP List 📝

❄️ My ASOIAF/GOT/HOTD Discord Server 🔥

Summary: Born in the shadow of legacy and power, only to be shaped by the land of ice and wolves.

Warnings: angst, parental death, emotional neglect (kinda?), ostracization, idk this is my first one in a while that i didnt prewrite pls be nice ilysm

WC: 9.3k

Cregan Stark x Bastard!Targaryen

MDNI!!!

The Wolfswood swallowed the light, the skeletal branches of the trees clawing at the sky. The wind whistled through the pines, biting against Edwyn Cerwyn’s face as he rode, the breath of his horse curling in the freezing air. The ground was hard beneath the hooves, the leaves brittle with frost, crunching under the weight of his men’s approach. It was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that turned a man’s stomach, that pressed against the back of his neck like the cold edge of a blade.

A wolf howled. A long, drawn-out cry that sent something sharp running down Edwyn’s spine. Then another. Then another. The sound echoed through the trees, coming from somewhere ahead, too close, too many. A pack had gathered, but for what? A fresh kill? A wounded stag? His hand went to the hilt of his sword, but the unease crawling through him was not the kind a blade could quell. The air itself felt wrong.

His sister had always been drawn to danger. She was born in a storm, her first cry swallowed by the howling winds that rattled the stones of Cerwyn Keep. Their mother had died in the birthing bed before dawn, leaving behind a bloodied babe with pale blue eyes and soft brown curls, a girl who never should have been born but fought to live all the same. Their father had never looked at her without a shadow passing behind his eyes, as if he resented her for surviving where his wife had not. Edwyn had been eight at the time, old enough to remember how their father barely touched the girl, how he had all but given her over to the wet nurse and the maids, how he had remarried before the year was out, siring two more sons on his new wife.

But she had been his sister. His first charge. She had followed him like a shadow, chasing after his heels, refusing to be left behind even when he told her she was too small, too slow, too weak. She had climbed the ramparts when she was five, slipping through the cracks in the stone like a wisp of wind. She had stolen his sword at eight, dragging it behind her like a child with a doll. She had bested her septa in an argument before she could read, lied through her teeth with a smile sweet enough to fool even their father, laughed louder than anyone in the hall, bold and brash and reckless.

And then she had fallen in love. It had not been love at first, not truly, just curiosity. A girl too young to understand the weight of a name, drawn in by something strange and new and forbidden. She had not spoken of him for a long time, had kept the letters pressed between the pages of the book beneath her pillow, had pretended the stolen glances were nothing at all. But Edwyn had known. Had seen the way she had changed, the way she had become restless, the way she had waited for something she would not speak of.

Then one day, she had vanished. She had left only a note, ink smudged in her haste, a mess of words that said everything and nothing at once. She was sorry. She had to go. She loved them. She would write. Their father had burned the letter in the hearth without a word.

For a year, there had been nothing. No news. No word. Only rumors that whispered through the halls, speculation that festered in the minds of their kin. She had taken up with a man. She had given herself to him. She had thrown away her name and her home and her honor for love, and for what? A fool’s dream. A man who would never truly be hers.

Then, months later, a raven came. She was with child. Edwyn had taken the letter to his father, had seen the way his face darkened, how he had clenched his fists and stood so still, so silent, the flames of the hearth casting deep shadows across his face. That was when Edwyn had realized—his father had known. He had always known. He had suspected from the moment she left, but now, with her words in ink before him, with proof, with shame, with certainty, he could not ignore it.

Another child born into this world without a name.

Edwyn had been the one to send the next raven.

Come home.

She never responded.

And now, he had found her at last, beneath the weirwood, drenched in blood, her body torn and broken, her breaths shallow.

His stomach twisted. He did not think. Did not breathe. He was already off his horse before he realized he had moved, his boots hitting the ground with a dull thud. The earth was wet beneath him, thick with fresh blood, seeping into the fallen leaves. He barely noticed the others dismounting behind him, barely heard them as they called after him. He was already kneeling, already reaching, pressing his hands against the torn and bloodied flesh of the woman in the dirt.

She was so small. So still. Her dark riding cloak was ripped open, her hands slack at her sides, her dress clinging to her like a second skin where the blood had soaked through. Her chest barely moved. Her breath came in weak, stuttering gasps, lips parted as though she wanted to speak but could not find the strength.

He knew that face. He had known it since she was born. Since she had clung to his hand as a child. Since she had laughed at the dinner table, since she had run through the halls of their father’s keep, since she had looked at him with wide, frightened eyes the day she had fled. His sister. Seventeen years old. Dying.

She exhaled, a shuddering breath that barely reached the air. Her lips trembled, eyes glassy, unfocused, staring past him, past the trees, past the sky.

“Protect her.”

His breath caught in his throat. Then her body went still. The wind whistled through the trees.

And then, a cry. High. Thin. Fragile.

His head snapped up. The sound came from beyond the tree line, from the underbrush just beyond the weirwood’s twisted roots. His men shifted behind him, uncertain. He barely heard them. His body moved on instinct, staggering to his feet, boots slipping against the bloodied leaves. The crying grew louder as he walked toward the sound.

The hollow of a fallen tree lay just beyond the clearing, hidden beneath frost-covered branches. A bundle of wool lay nestled inside, shifting, writhing, a small, desperate hand reaching up toward the cold air. The child was crying, face red with the effort, mouth open in a furious wail. Her limbs flailed, fists curling, voice breaking the silence that had settled over the clearing.

His stomach clenched. She was untouched. No scratches. No bite marks. No signs that the wolves had so much as looked at her. She was clean, warm, safe. As if something had kept them away.

“Gods,” someone breathed behind him.

Slowly, he reached down, lifting the bundle into his arms. She was so small. Lighter than he expected. Her tiny hands clutched at the fabric of his cloak, her face still scrunched in distress. He exhaled, his own breath shaking. Then her eyes opened.

Pale. Lighter than lilac. Almost silver.

Something twisted in his chest, something deep and nameless. He turned, glancing back at the weirwood, at the body slumped against its roots, at the blood staining the snow-covered ground. The words echoed in his head, the last thing his sister had spoken.

Protect her.

His throat tightened. He knew what people would say. He knew what they would whisper when he rode home with a silver-haired babe in his arms. The Targaryen blood runs hot. She was doomed from the start.

His men were still staring, waiting, uneasy. He forced his voice to steady.

“Take my sister.”

No one argued.

He turned toward his horse, toward home, toward the life that would come next. The babe still cried in his arms, breath fogging in the cold air, louder than the wolves, louder than the wind.

The walls of Cerwyn Keep rose like a shadow against the dim morning light, its grey stone touched with frost, the banners above the gate unmoving in the still air. The ride had been long, cold, and silent. His men were tired, the weight of their journey pressing down on them, but none spoke as they passed through the gates. The body of his sister was wrapped tightly, tied to the back of a horse, the fabric dark with frozen blood. The child in his arms barely stirred, though every so often, she let out a small breath, the sound barely audible beneath the creak of saddles and the heavy tread of hooves.

The keep was stirring. The stable boys rushed forward, their hands fumbling with the reins, eyes darting between the bundle in his arms and the body draped over the horse. A hush followed them as they passed, whispers trailing in their wake. They did not ask. They did not need to. They would know soon enough.

Inside the courtyard, the servants had gathered, drawn from their morning duties by the sight of their lord’s unexpected return. The kitchen girls lingered near the door, their hands still dusted with flour. The steward stood stiff-backed near the steps, mouth pressed in a tight line. The wet nurse, holding Cley in her arms, clutched the child a little tighter as she caught sight of them. His son blinked at him, sleepy, his small fingers curling in the fabric of the woman’s dress.

He should have gone to his wife first. He should have gone to her chambers, woken her gently, told her what had happened before the keep had time to start whispering. But it was too late for that now.

A few of the servants stepped forward hesitantly. One of the older maids reached out her arms, clearly expecting to take the babe, but Edwyn did not relinquish her. "Find the wet nurse," he said instead. "She needs to be fed."

The girl hesitated, looking between him and the child, but after a quick glance toward the steward, she gave a stiff nod and hurried off.

Cley wriggled in the nurse’s grip, reaching out a hand toward him. "Father?"

Edwyn let out a slow breath, shifting the babe against his chest before reaching out to ruffle his son’s dark curls. "I am home, little one."

The boy’s gaze flickered to the bundle in his arms, his face scrunching up in confusion. "Baby?"

"Yes," Edwyn murmured.

Cley frowned, then turned his face into the wet nurse’s shoulder, looking thoughtful in the way that only children could. He did not ask more, did not cry or protest. He simply accepted it as fact, as children often did.

The steward finally spoke, his voice careful. "And… the lady?"

Edwyn looked at him, expression unreadable. "See to it that my sister is given a proper burial. She will be laid in the crypts."

The steward’s brow furrowed for a fraction of a second, just long enough for Edwyn to catch it before the man bowed his head in understanding. His sister had abandoned her home, had thrown herself into a life that was not meant for her, had borne a child in secret and died alone beneath the weirwood. She should not have been granted the honor of a place in the family crypt. But Edwyn was Lord Cerwyn. His word was final.

The man gave a short bow and turned away, barking orders to the men near the gate.

The babe stirred against his chest, shifting slightly, but did not wake.

"Take her to the west wing," Edwyn said. "Keep her warm."

The wet nurse hesitated, but after another quick glance toward the steward, she nodded. "Aye, my lord." She turned and walked swiftly toward the keep, her steps purposeful. The babe disappeared with her, swallowed into the halls of Cerwyn.

The air was still heavy, the weight of the morning pressing down on the gathering. The servants lingered, shifting uneasily, waiting for him to say something more, to give another order, another command. But he was tired.

Without another word, he turned on his heel and made his way toward his chambers, knowing his wife would be waiting.

The halls of Cerwyn Keep were still, the hush of early morning settling heavy over the stone. His men had gone to their chambers, the servants had scattered, and the babe had been taken to be fed. Cley had barely stirred when placed in his bed, exhausted from the excitement of seeing his father return, his small hands still gripping the blanket as he slept.

Edwyn moved through the corridors without a word, the exhaustion of the day dragging at his limbs. He had not yet taken off his cloak, the scent of pine and blood still clinging to the fabric. His boots were damp with half-melted snow, his fingers numb from gripping the reins for hours, but none of it mattered now. The weight in his chest was heavier than all of it.

His wife was waiting for him.

She stood near the hearth, the fire casting long shadows across her face, her hands folded neatly in front of her. Her dark hair was pulled back, her shoulders drawn, but her eyes, sharp and knowing, had already seen too much. She had not spoken when he entered. She had only waited.

She did not have to ask what had happened.

She had known from the moment she saw him ride through the gates, the shrouded form strapped to the back of a horse, the bundle in his arms held too carefully to be anything but a child.

The door clicked shut behind him, the sound final in the quiet.

"You should have told me," she said.

Edwyn let out a slow breath, pressing a hand against the back of the chair nearest to him. "I did what I had to do."

She let out a soft breath, something close to a scoff, shaking her head. "And what did you have to do, exactly? Ride home with a babe in your arms and expect me to act as though nothing had changed?"

He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them, fixing his gaze on her. "My sister is dead."

The words hung in the air, settling between them like dust. She did not move, did not blink, but the firelight flickered across her face, illuminating the way her lips pressed into a thin line.

"And the child?" she asked.

"The babe is hers." He did not hesitate. "She was alone. She would not have survived."

His wife inhaled slowly, carefully. She turned slightly, her fingers brushing the edge of the mantel, as if grounding herself. "So you brought her here. To our home."

"She had no one else," Edwyn said.

Her hands curled into fists, her nails pressing into her palms. "You claimed her as your own."

"It was the only way," he said, voice steady.

Her eyes flickered, the fire casting a faint sheen over them, something dark and unreadable lurking behind them.

"They will think she is yours," she said, quieter this time. "They will think you have shamed me, that I have been cast aside. That I was not enough."

Edwyn pushed himself away from the chair, stepping closer. "I do not care what they think."

"You might not, but I will be the one they whisper about." Her voice did not rise, but there was something sharp beneath it, something that cut deeper than any raised tone could have. "I will be the one they pity. The one they speak of in hushed voices. The one who could not keep her husband’s attention." She turned her head slightly, her gaze locking onto his. "And what of Cley? What will they say of him, when you have brought a ghost into this house?"

Edwyn swallowed. He had known this would come. Had known it would not be as simple as carrying the babe through the gates and expecting his wife to understand. He had thought of every consequence, every rumor, every burden he had placed upon her shoulders without her consent. And yet, even with all of it, he had made his choice.

"I do not ask you to love her," he said, his voice quieter now. "I do not ask you to take her as your own. But I ask you to understand. My sister died alone in the snow, bleeding beneath a weirwood tree. The babe survived. I do not know why. I do not know if it was the gods or mere chance, but I swore I would protect her, and I will not break that oath."

His wife turned her head slightly, eyes flicking toward him, but she did not speak.

He let out a slow breath. "I know what I have done. I know the burden I have placed upon you, the whispers you will have to endure. If there were another way, I would have taken it. But there was not."

The silence between them stretched. He could hear the faint crackle of the fire, the distant murmur of the keep beyond the thick stone walls.

Then, finally, she straightened, tilting her chin up slightly as she looked at him fully.

"The child will have a wet nurse and be given what she needs," she said, voice measured, controlled. "But she will not call me mother. I will not raise her as mine."

He nodded. "I do not ask you to."

She studied him for another moment, something unreadable flickering across her face before she turned toward the door. Without another word, she left the room, her steps steady, her back straight.

Edwyn did not move.

He stared at the empty space where she had stood, the fire casting flickering light across the chamber. The weight of the night pressed against his shoulders, settling deep in his bones.

He had told himself that time would ease things. That the whispers would die down, that the tension in his wife’s voice would fade, that one day, the child would simply be another part of their household, no more questioned than any other.

But even as he stood there, watching the flames, he could not quite bring himself to believe it.

The first memories she had were of winter, of frost clinging to the stone walls of Cerwyn Keep, turning the grey stone white in the early morning light. Snowdrifts rose high enough to swallow the courtyard, untouched and perfect until she and Cley ran through them, kicking up flurries with each step. The air was always sharp with cold, biting at her cheeks, slipping beneath the heavy wool of her cloak. It burned her lungs when she ran, but she never stopped. Cley’s laughter trailed behind her, loud and bright, as he tried and failed to catch her.

Winter was the only thing she had ever known. It was in the way the trees groaned under the weight of ice, their branches stretched thin and fragile against the sky, snapping when the wind blew too hard. It was in the way the river froze over so thick that even the horses could cross it without fear, the ice so smooth it looked like glass. It was in the way her breath curled before her lips, vanishing into the air, dissolving as though it had never been there at all.

There were days when the snow fell in thick sheets, piling high against the walls, blanketing the world in white. Those were the days she loved most, when the whole keep felt muffled, swallowed by the storm. She and Cley would press their faces to the windowpanes, watching as the flakes drifted down, catching in the torches by the gate. Sometimes they would sneak outside when no one was watching, their boots sinking deep into the drifts as they tried to outrun each other through the storm.

Other times, when the wind howled and the snow fell so fast it was impossible to see more than a few feet ahead, they were kept inside, left to entertain themselves within the stone halls. Cley always found ways to make the time pass—stealing pastries from the kitchens, challenging her to races up the winding stairwells, pestering the guards until they reluctantly agreed to let him hold a sword. She would follow after him, always close behind, always listening, always watching. She was quieter than him, more patient. She watched the way the men moved in the yard, memorized the way their hands fit around their weapons, the way their feet shifted in the snow. She watched the way the stable hands calmed the horses when the storms rattled the doors of the stables, the way the kitchen girls kept their voices low as they worked, their hands moving fast and sure.

She watched the way people looked at her when they thought she wasn’t paying attention.

The keep had always been home, but even as a child, she had known that something about her did not quite belong. The servants would pause when she passed, their eyes flicking toward her before darting away, their voices falling to quiet murmurs. The kitchen girls hushed each other when she entered, their hands still dusted with flour, their gazes lingering for a beat too long before returning to their work. The stable hands spoke with careful voices when they saddled her horse, looking anywhere but at her, their hands working fast, as if eager to be rid of the task.

The other children were different, too. They played in the mud, their hands grubby, their braids loose, their clothes torn at the knees from climbing trees they were not supposed to. They ran through the halls, leaving footprints behind on the stone, careless and laughing and full of life. They looked like the North, like the land itself had shaped them, like the mountains had made them strong, like the cold had toughened their bones. She was not like them.

Her hair was pale as fresh snowfall, fine and weightless, never holding a braid for long no matter how tightly it was woven. It fell loose against her shoulders, stark against the grey walls of the keep. Her skin, pale as morning light, never browned in the sun the way Cley’s did in the summers, never grew ruddy from the cold the way the other children’s did in winter. Her eyes, pale and strange, caught the torchlight in ways she did not understand. She looked nothing like Lord Cerwyn’s son. Nothing like his wife. Nothing like anyone in the North.

But Lord Cerwyn was her father.

She had always known it, because he had always made it so. When she was small, he lifted her onto his horse and let her hold the reins, his voice steady as he guided her hands, never letting her fall. He carried her in his arms when she was too tired to walk, his furs warm against her cheek, his steady breath rising and falling beneath her small hands. He placed her before him at the high table, sitting her beside Cley, making sure her cup was filled when no one else thought to. When she woke from dreams she could not remember, trembling in the dark, his voice was the first thing she reached for.

She called him father before she even knew what the word meant. His wife was different.

She was never cruel, never raised a hand against her, never looked at her with the same quiet disdain as the others. But she was not warm. She never called her daughter. Never reached for her hand. Never smoothed her hair the way she did with Cley. She was not unkind, but she was not kind either.

The first time she called her mother, it was an accident. She had fallen in the yard, her knees scraped raw against the cold stone, her hands trembling as she pushed herself up. The wind had knocked the breath from her lungs, left her blinking against the sharp sting of cold. Lord Cerwyn’s wife had been standing nearby, her skirts trailing against the dirt, her lips pressed into a thin line as she waited for the child to rise on her own.

She had looked up at her, small hands curled into fists, her breath still hitching in her throat.

"Mother."

The woman’s face did not change.

She did not scold her, did not frown, did not step forward to take her by the hand. She only watched her for a long moment, her expression unreadable, the firelight flickering in her dark eyes.

"Get up," was all she said.

So she did.

She never called her mother again after that. Not intentionally, at least. But sometimes it slipped.

It slipped when she was tired, when sleep pulled heavy at her limbs, her mind too sluggish to remember that she was supposed to keep the word behind her teeth. It slipped when she was sick, when fever blurred the edges of her vision, when the only voice she recognized was hers. It slipped when she was small, when she forgot herself.

And Lord Cerwyn’s wife never corrected her. Never turned her away. Never looked at her with anger the way she had feared. But she never answered either.

So she learned to stop saying it.

It was Lord Cerwyn who made it so that she never felt the weight of it pressing too heavily on her shoulders. He never wavered in his treatment of her, never let her think she was anything but his child. He spoke her name without hesitation, stood her beside him at feasts, placed a hand on her shoulder when she stood too stiffly in a hall full of people who barely hid their unease. He taught her how to ride, setting her atop a pony before she could walk on her own, guiding her hands as she clutched the reins, steadying her when she threatened to slip. He let her sit in the crook of his arm in the evenings, letting her drowse against his furs, speaking to her in a voice that rumbled low and steady like distant thunder. When she fell, he picked her up. When she failed, he told her to try again. When she asked him if she truly belonged, he did not answer with words, only with the unwavering presence of a father who had already decided long ago that she did.

But the North did not love her as he did. They called her the Ghost in the North.

The name was first spoken in the whispers of servants, in the murmurs of men who gathered too close to the fire, in the wary tones of visiting bannermen who looked at her and did not know what to make of her. The words spread from the mouths of cooks and stable hands, slipped past the lips of knights and guards, reached the ears of the highborn sons and daughters who had never known anything beyond the lands of their fathers. The name took root before she was old enough to truly understand it, but she felt it all the same.

She was too pale, too quiet, too unnatural in the way she moved. Her hair was white as untouched snow, fine as silk, loose and weightless in the cold northern air. Her skin never flushed in the cold, never took on the healthy red of the other children’s faces, never tanned under the summer sun. Her eyes were a color that did not belong here, something too light, too strange, something that caught the torchlight in ways that made men glance away. She moved like she was not meant to be seen, slipping between the trees like mist, running through the snow without leaving footprints, vanishing into the woods only to reappear hours later without a word. She never meant to move like a shadow, but she did.

She was faster than the others. She could climb higher, run farther, disappear into the hills before anyone knew she was gone. The first time she took a bow into her hands, it felt as though it had always been there. Her arrows flew true even before she understood how to aim, her hands steady, her breath never wavering even when her target moved. She was quick on a horse, learned to read its movements, to let it carry her as though they were one. She rode harder than the others, pushed herself faster, made sure no one could say she was unworthy. If she was not like them, she would be better than them. If they would not accept her, they would respect her.

Cley never cared for the whispers. He never heard them the way she did, never let them worm their way beneath his skin. He had never known a world without her in it. To him, she was his sister, no more, no less. He dragged her along behind him without question, called for her when the halls felt too empty, looped an arm around her shoulders as if daring the world to tell him she was not his blood. He did not fight her battles for her, did not step in when the whispers grew too sharp, because he knew she did not need him to. But he was always beside her. Always steady. Always there. It was through Cley that she met Cregan Stark.

Winterfell’s heir was little more than a boy when his father died, just thirteen years old when he took the seat of his ancestors. He was young, but not soft. He was quiet, but not weak. He carried his grief and his duty in equal measure, his shoulders squared beneath a weight that would have broken lesser men. He was steady like the roots of the Weirwood, sharp like the edge of an axe, cold like the winds that rolled over the frozen rivers at night. He was the North in a way that few men were.He and Cley were close. Best friends, as close as brothers. They spoke in ways that did not need words, understood each other without pretense.

She was not close with Cregan in the beginning. She had no claim to his attention, no reason to think he would look at her as anything but an oddity, something strange and unnatural lurking at the edges of his home. But he never treated her as the others did. He did not whisper, did not glance away when she caught his eye, did not speak her name like it was something fragile. He let her be. He did not push her to speak, did not challenge her silence, did not pretend not to notice when she slipped away from the halls to disappear into the woods. It was the first time she had met someone who did not look at her and expect her to be something other than what she was.

Cregan Stark had always known marriage was a part of his duty, an obligation that loomed steadily closer with every passing winter, but it had never been something that held his interest. He had watched other lords wed for alliances, for land, for bloodlines and politics, but none of that held meaning for him beyond the stark, simple truth that it was necessary. He had endured his council's gentle insistence that the North needed a Lady Stark, that Winterfell required heirs, that stability came through marriage and children, but he had never considered any woman with true intention. That was, until the day he truly saw her for the first time, until the day the Ghost in the North stepped fully into his path and altered everything he thought he knew about what he wanted.

He had known her nearly all his life, known her as Cley Cerwyn’s quiet, shadowy sister who rode like a storm and moved through the woods like a wolf. She had always been there at the edges of his vision, present but distant, a pale figure who seemed to haunt the periphery of every gathering without ever quite being part of it. She was different from the women who paraded themselves before him at every feast, their eyes hopeful, their smiles carefully arranged. They laughed softly, whispered promises and veiled flattery, but he had never felt compelled to listen. She was different because she did none of those things. She did not care to flatter or impress him, did not soften herself to gain his attention. Instead, she challenged him. She argued with him openly, meeting his eyes without hesitation, asking questions that left him searching for answers he’d never considered. She made him uncertain, made him pause, made him think.

And then he began watching her. He noticed how she rode, fluid and effortless, leaning low against her horse’s neck, her hair flying behind her like white fire as she cut through the fields faster than any man. He noticed how she held a bow, how she loosed her arrows with practiced ease, her aim sharp and deadly accurate, each shaft finding its target without fail. He noticed how she stood straight-backed and proud despite the whispers, despite the veiled glances, despite the way others spoke her name in quiet voices as if she were something forbidden. He saw her clearly for perhaps the first time, and he realized then how unlike anyone else she truly was.

At first, he told himself he was merely curious. He found himself lingering longer in the Cerwyn courtyard, inventing reasons to speak with her after training or during hunts. He made subtle gestures, offers to ride alongside her, to shoot together at targets in the yard. She treated each offer with wary suspicion, her eyes narrowed slightly as if expecting some hidden cruelty behind his invitation. Yet still, he persisted, driven by a need he couldn't quite name.

It was not until one day, when he caught her alone at the archery range, that he finally spoke openly. He had been watching from the edge of the courtyard as she loosed arrows in rapid succession, each one hitting the center with unerring precision. She paid him no mind, continuing until the quiver was empty, then moved to retrieve the arrows from the target. He crossed the yard and stopped just short of her, watching as she pulled the arrows free.

“You shoot truer than most of my men,” Cregan remarked, forcing ease into his voice, though his pulse quickened at the sight of her.

She glanced over her shoulder, pale eyes guarded, fingers tightening briefly around the arrows she held. “Only most?”

The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. “Perhaps all.”

She turned fully to face him then, standing straight-backed and wary, gaze unflinching beneath the pale sweep of her hair. “Why have you come, Lord Stark?”

He hesitated only briefly before stepping closer. “To speak with you.”

She raised an eyebrow, watching him carefully, suspicion flickering beneath her steady gaze. “You’ve never lacked words before. Why is today any different?”

Cregan met her eyes steadily, drawing a breath to steel himself. “Because I am considering marriage.”

She laughed once, the sound short and sharp, edged with bitterness. Turning her back to him, she placed the arrows carefully into the quiver. “Then you ought to seek out my brother. Cley knows half a dozen Northern ladies who would gladly bear your heirs.”

“That isn’t my meaning,” he said quietly, his voice calm yet firm.

She stilled instantly, her hand freezing over the quiver before she slowly turned back, eyes narrowed sharply in wary disbelief. “Then speak plainly, my lord. What do you mean?”

He moved a step closer, his voice measured and steady. “I mean that I am considering you.”

She stared at him, expression unreadable as silence stretched long between them. Finally, she shook her head slightly, her voice low and cautious, tinged with suspicion. “Is this my brother’s notion, or your own?”

“It is mine,” he said firmly, holding her gaze. “Mine alone.”

She shook her head again, stepping back as though his words might sting her. “Why do you torment me with this? Is it some game, a jest for your amusement? I thought better of you, Cregan Stark.”

Frustration tightened his jaw as he stepped toward her, unwilling to let her withdraw further. “There is no jest here. Why would you doubt my honesty?”

Her gaze sharpened, her voice rising, edged now with hurt and anger. “Because no lord in his right mind would wed the Ghost. Do you think me blind or deaf? I hear every whisper, every lie spoken behind my back. They say I am no Northerner, that I will betray these lands one day and flee south to claim some birthright that is not mine. Even if you do not think it, your bannermen do. They would never accept this.”

Cregan shook his head slowly, voice steady, unwavering despite the anger that burned quietly in her eyes. “I care nothing for what they say.”

She let out a bitter breath, eyes glinting sharply. “You should. They will never let you forget it.”

He stepped closer still, carefully grasping her wrist, gentle yet insistent. “Look at me,” he commanded softly, waiting until she met his gaze. “Do you truly think I care what they whisper? I have watched you for years. I have seen you stand stronger than men twice your age. I have watched you hunt and ride with skill unmatched by any knight sworn to me. You bow to no one, you fear no whispers. You challenge me in ways no one else ever could. Why would I seek another to stand by my side when you are here before me?”

She stared at him, her breathing shallow, lips parted slightly, uncertain and hesitant. When she finally spoke, her voice was barely audible, fragile and tentative as never before. “I do not believe you. I cannot.”

His grip on her wrist loosened slightly, though he did not let go. “Then let me prove my words,” he murmured, holding her gaze steadily, stepping closer so that his voice was little more than a breath. “Allow me the chance to show you the truth of them.”

She hesitated, eyes desperately searching his face for any hint of deceit, for cruelty or mockery, yet finding none. Her voice broke softly on a single word. “Why?”

Cregan leaned closer, voice quiet, certain and unwavering. “Because now that I have seen you clearly, I can see no one else.”

She pulled back then, breaking the contact as though burned, still uncertain, still afraid, yet the doubt in her eyes had softened into something else, something hopeful but guarded. She said nothing more, merely turned and walked quickly away, leaving Cregan standing alone in the yard, watching her retreating figure and knowing, deep in his bones, that he had chosen rightly. He would prove himself to her, no matter how long it took.

Cregan did not court her in the way of noblemen. He did not send her songs or write poetry, did not lay delicate gifts of silk or jewels before her. Instead, he rode with her through the deep woods beyond Winterfell, keeping pace beside her in silence, the thunder of hooves their only conversation. He hunted with her, watching as she tracked deer through snow so thick it muffled every sound, her pale figure a blur between the trees. He learned from her, watched how she moved like a shadow, mimicking her steps, imitating the way she lowered herself into a crouch, bow drawn and ready, silent and still as stone. He did not try to impress her, did not boast of his own skill, but watched her closely, quietly impressed by the certainty with which she moved, the ease with which she read the land and the sky. They spoke rarely on these journeys, exchanging few words beyond what was needed, but he learned more about her in those quiet moments than he ever had before.

When they sparred, he did not hold back, did not treat her as if she were made of glass. He faced her in the yard with a blunt sword in hand, pushing her harder than any other opponent would have dared. He struck with measured blows, testing her defenses, forcing her to move swiftly, to think ahead. He never made it easy for her, never allowed her to win merely to please her, because he knew she would resent it. Instead, he challenged her, drove her to become sharper, faster, stronger. And each time he knocked her down, he extended a hand and pulled her back to her feet, never saying more than a simple command to try again. He was patient, relentless, persistent, a quiet force always at her side, never demanding her attention, but never wavering from her either. She did not understand why he kept returning, why he chose to spend his days trailing after her through the woods or sparring beneath the grey sky until the sun sank low. She could not comprehend why he, a lord who could choose any noble lady in the North, would choose her. She suspected cruelty behind his quiet words, expected betrayal in his lingering gaze, waited for the moment when he would laugh and tell her that it had all been a cruel jest after all. Each time he appeared at her side, she was cautious, wary, questioning every motive, every gesture, every quiet offer of companionship.

“Why do you insist on wasting your time?” she asked finally, breathing hard from the sparring, hair tangled and damp from exertion as she lifted her chin, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. “Surely there is some lady waiting patiently at Winterfell, someone more suitable to be Lady Stark than a ghost who can barely stand your presence.”

Cregan considered her carefully, a quiet gentleness flickering in his grey eyes, the edge of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Perhaps I do not wish for someone who merely tolerates me,” he replied evenly. “Perhaps what I seek is someone who meets my gaze without fear, who refuses to yield simply because I command it. Someone who challenges me rather than obeys me without question. A woman who walks at my side, not behind me. There is none more fitting than you.”

She let out a short, bitter breath, eyes narrowing sharply with suspicion. “Pretty words come easily, Cregan Stark. I have heard whispers all my life—I know what your bannermen say about me. How can I trust that you are different? How can I believe you do not share their opinion, that you do not see me as something strange and unnatural?”

He stepped closer to her, unyielding, voice low and firm. “Because I have never hidden behind whispers. Every word I speak, I say openly, plainly. You know this as well as anyone.”

She hesitated, something unreadable flickering in her eyes, her fingers tightening briefly around the grip of her sword before she turned abruptly, walking toward her horse without another word. He watched her go, unwilling to follow, unwilling to push further, knowing it would only make her retreat further. He would let her consider what he had said. He knew he had not yet convinced her, but he had patience enough to wait. He would not give up so easily.

He would ride with her again tomorrow, and the day after, and every day after that until she understood that he was not playing a game. Until she saw clearly that he meant to have her by his side, no matter what it took or how long he had to wait.

It was in the heart of winter when she finally saw the truth clearly. The snows had come early, blanketing the North beneath thick layers of ice and frost, turning the Wolfswood into a place of shadow and silence, the air frozen into something sharp enough to cut flesh. She and Cley had been out hunting in the deeper woods, riding hard as they always did, pushing further than was wise or safe in pursuit of the stag they had glimpsed between the trees. Cregan had ridden with them as always, quiet and steady at her side, his grey eyes watchful beneath the dark fur of his hood. They had followed the tracks further than they had intended, deeper into the Wolfswood than even she knew well, where the trees pressed close and the daylight grew thin and grey.

 It was then that the storm came, sudden and fierce, rolling in from nowhere to wrap the woods in blinding snow. Visibility vanished in moments, the trees swallowed whole by swirling white flakes, the ground beneath their horses’ hooves becoming treacherous and uncertain. Cley shouted something lost beneath the howl of the wind, the horses shifting nervously as they struggled to see beyond the wall of snow. She urged her mount forward, trying to find their path back, but the snow fell so thickly it felt impossible to tell one direction from another. Her horse stumbled suddenly, sliding sharply sideways, pitching her from the saddle and sending her tumbling into the drifts. She hit the ground hard, the air knocked from her chest, snow stinging her face and hands as she struggled back to her feet. She called for Cley, for Cregan, but the wind stole the words from her mouth, leaving her alone in a storm that felt like it could tear her apart. She moved blindly, stumbling through snowdrifts that rose above her knees, her cloak heavy and wet with ice, her breath ragged and harsh against the cold. She could not see anything, could barely breathe, her throat burning as panic rose sharply in her chest, tightening around her heart. 

Then she heard him call her name, clear and strong, breaking through the storm with a voice that carried like steel, steady and unwavering, guiding her toward him. She moved toward the sound, desperate and half-blind, following the faint shape of him through the storm until she finally reached his side. His hand found hers immediately, fingers tightening securely, reassuringly warm even through the thick leather of their gloves. He pulled her close, his body shielding hers from the worst of the wind, guiding her toward shelter. They found the hollow beneath an ancient tree, deep enough to keep out the worst of the storm. Inside, the wind was quieter, though still fierce enough to shake the branches overhead. Cley was not with them. Her heart twisted sharply at the realization, panic flickering briefly across her face as she tried to pull free, intent on returning into the storm. But Cregan did not let go. 

"Stay," he shouted above the howl of the wind, his voice fierce with command, his grip unyielding. "Cley knows these woods better than anyone. He'll have found shelter. I won't lose you trying to find him." 

She wanted to argue, wanted to fight him, to tear herself away and rush back into the storm, but something in his face stopped her, something deep and powerful and desperate. She had never seen him afraid before, had never seen him so openly worried. The realization struck her with a force greater than the storm itself, shaking something loose in her chest, something she had been holding tight for far too long. He was afraid of losing her. Not because of duty or honor or pride, but because he could not bear it, because the thought of her lost in the storm frightened him more than anything he had faced before. She stared up at him, breathing heavily, her heart pounding painfully in her chest. 

"Why are you doing this?" she asked finally, her voice nearly swallowed by the wind. "Why do you care so much?" He moved closer, tilting her chin up gently, forcing her to meet his eyes fully. 

"Because I love you," he said, his voice steady, quiet but carrying clearly through the storm. "Because the thought of losing you scares me in ways I never knew possible."

She blinked snow from her lashes, searching his face desperately for the lie she had always expected to find there, for some hidden cruelty or jest, but there was nothing but honesty, stark and clear in his eyes, unmasked by the storm. She had always thought the truth would break her, yet now it only left her standing strangely whole. Her throat tightened, words impossible, so she nodded slowly instead, fingers curling tighter around his. He squeezed her hand once, pulling her closer, holding her firmly against him until the worst of the wind passed, until the snow finally began to ease, until they could hear Cley's distant voice calling their names, guiding them home through the slowly fading storm.

After that night, the world around her shifted quietly, subtly, like snow settling after a storm. The whispers did not cease entirely, but they softened, became less frequent, less sharp at the edges. Cregan’s presence at her side became constant, certain, a quiet, steady force that she no longer questioned. He did not ask for more than she could give, did not rush her toward decisions she was not ready to make, but he was there, a silent reminder that he would not falter, would not turn away, would not abandon her as she had always feared someone might. Over the weeks that followed, he rode with her, hunted with her, matched his steps to hers without hesitation, proving time and again that his promise was true. Gradually, she began to trust him, began to believe the quiet sincerity that shone steadily in his eyes each time he looked at her. Her heart still beat faster when he drew close, uncertainty still lingered at the edges of her thoughts, but now she found herself willing to face it, willing to believe he meant what he said.

When the day finally came, it was quiet, without fanfare, without elaborate ceremony or flourish. They wed beneath the pale branches of the weirwood, deep within the godswood of Winterfell, surrounded by nothing but snow and silence, and the quiet circle of those they trusted most. There were no great banners, no trumpets or feasts to mark their union. There was only the whisper of winter wind through the branches, the gentle creak of ice-laden limbs shifting overhead, and the soft crunch of snow beneath their feet. She stood before Cregan, her cloak pale and heavy around her shoulders, her silver hair cascading loose and unbound like moonlit frost, her breath rising steadily into the cold air. Her pale eyes were steady as she gazed into his, unafraid and unwavering, knowing with a quiet certainty that he meant every vow he spoke.

He had chosen her despite everything the world whispered. Yet here she stood, heart steady despite the chill in the air, pulse calm even though everything had changed around her. She did not tremble, she did not flinch, even as the wind bit at her skin, even as snow settled gently in her hair. She had never felt so certain, so unshakably calm. Beside her, Cregan stood strong and unwavering, shoulders squared, his cloak dark and thick against the snow, his grey eyes fixed entirely on her. She saw nothing but warmth in his gaze, steady as the mountains, gentle as the wind through the pines, his voice quiet yet sure as he spoke the vows. He did not falter when he named her his wife, did not hesitate to join his life with hers, though he knew as well as she did that the choice was not an easy one. His voice echoed softly in the godswood, clear and steady, never wavering, never uncertain. He chose her fully, knowing what it meant, knowing how fiercely the North might resist it, but never looking away.

When the vows had been said and the ceremony ended, there was no applause, no celebration, no cheering or shouting or laughter ringing through the halls. There was only the silence of snow falling softly, steadily, blanketing the ground around them, covering their tracks as though nothing else existed but that moment beneath the watchful gaze of the old gods. Lord Cerwyn stood quietly to the side, watching her with pride and quiet relief, something like sorrow and acceptance mingled in his eyes. Beside him stood Cley, his expression a mix of fierce loyalty and joy, unmasked and open in ways that spoke louder than any words he might have said. But it was Cregan she held onto, his hands clasped tightly around hers, his warmth seeping into her skin, the weight of his promise anchoring her to the earth. He looked at her openly, unafraid, accepting her as she was, claiming her not as the ghost, not as an outsider, but as his wife, the one woman he had freely chosen above all others.

 When they turned to face the few who had gathered, she felt the shift immediately. The eyes watching her were not those of curiosity or wariness but of quiet acceptance. They did not whisper, did not glance aside, did not hide their faces behind raised hands. They saw her clearly now, perhaps for the first time, not as something unnatural, not as something other, but as Lady Stark, the woman who would stand beside their lord and hold Winterfell with him. No one spoke as the ceremony ended, no cheers rang out through the godswood, no songs were sung, but the silence felt different now. It was peaceful rather than uncertain, accepting rather than hesitant. 

The North would never again see her as simply the Ghost who haunted Cerwyn’s halls, as something strange and foreign. They would see her as the woman who stood beside Cregan Stark, who bore his cloak, who had pledged herself beneath the weirwood, who was now bound to Winterfell in ways no whispers could undo. As the small gathering dispersed, leaving her standing beside her husband beneath the watchful eyes of the gods, she realized fully for the first time what it meant. She had not only chosen him; he had chosen her in return. She belonged now, not because she had finally changed, not because she had proven herself worthy through skill with a bow or strength in the saddle, but simply because he had decided she was his equal, his match. She had spent her entire life running from whispers, struggling against suspicion and doubt, fighting to prove she was enough. Now she felt nothing but a quiet, deep-rooted certainty that none of that mattered anymore. 

The North had no choice but to accept her because the Wolf of Winterfell had taken her as his own. She was not merely tolerated or begrudgingly permitted; she was the Lady of Winterfell, the woman who would stand beside the Wolf when winter storms battered their gates. The weight of that understanding settled deep inside her, lifting burdens she had carried silently all her life. As they stood alone beneath the pale branches of the weirwood after the others had drifted quietly away, she felt a strange, deep-rooted peace for the first time. Cregan reached out, taking her hand in his, their fingers intertwining tightly, silently sealing the promise between them. 

"Do you regret it?" he asked softly, his voice barely louder than the whisper of snow against branches. 

She met his gaze, felt warmth blossom deep within her chest as she shook her head slowly. "Never," she whispered, her voice steady, certain in a way she had never known possible before this moment. "I never will."

[queerandcrocheter]

Stiles daemon would be a racoon.

[heartagram-ff]

Cregan Stark moodboard

[silverspotted]

“ you think i’m fighting this war so they’ll sing songs about me? „

“ i want to go home. „

[ponypickle]

is it bad that as soon as I hear about a character in a tv show that is psychotic or close to a sociopath/psychopath in any way, I am immediately there claiming that character as my favourite.

this happens everywhere, in every single tv show and movie possible i swear: kol mikaelson in the vampire diaries and later the originals, kai parker in the vampire diaries, campbell eliot in the society, daemon targaryen in hotd, billy loomis, stu macher, mickey altieri, roman bridger, jill roberts, charlie walker, richie kirsch, amber freeman, ethan landry and quinn bailey in the scream movies, corey cunningham in halloween ends, benjamin pointdexter in daredevil season 3, frank castle (who isn't exactly a sociopath but is quite violent) in daredevil and the punisher, peter hale and deucalion in teen wolf, etc. (probably would find a lot more if I took time to think about but these are either from long time fixations or things I have watched recently)