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lv7867 · 27 days ago

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I Might Hold You With My Hands Tied (Show You I'm the Right Guy to Figure You Out)

Cregan Stark x Bolton!Reader

Tags: angst with a happy ending, friends to lovers and enemies to lovers, smut, oral sex and fingering (fem. receiving), p. in v. sex

When your brother, the Lord of the Dreadfort and House Bolton, betrays Lord Cregan Stark and the North, there must be consequences. Your fate hangs in the balance - a fate tied to Cregan himself.

You stare out of a window of the Dreadfort: the ancestral seat of your family, House Bolton. The earth surrounding the fortress is covered in a muddy blanket of snow, smeared into a slippery mess by the boots of men and the hooves of horses. But an unmistakable red blotch catches your eye, just along the eastern bank of the Weeping Waters, for it’s still bright against the dirty snow. It’s the blood of your brother, Wilhem, Lord of the Dreadfort and House Bolton, from when Lord Cregan Stark, his liege lord and the Warden of the North, took his head. You watched the whole proceeding from this very window. Watched, as a man you’ve known your whole life beheaded the only son of your late-father for inciting a rebellion against House Stark and the North.

You had tried to convince Wilhem not to rebel, no matter his grievances against Cregan Stark. House Stark, you had implored, is too powerful with too much of the North fiercely loyal to it, as was demonstrated by the amount of men who stood behind the Stark banners, bearing the head of a snarling direwolf. And you tried to remind Wilhem of the love he and Cregan shared as brothers in arms for so long. Wilhem had shrugged you off, and you’re sure now that he had been betrayed by his own men, but you suppose that will be confirmed soon enough. You know that the two uneven sides understood that a battle would have been over quickly, and so your brother and five other men were rounded up and thrown at Lord Stark’s feet. Those five men were ordered to take the black and would be sent to the Wall, but your brother was beheaded with Cregan’s Valyrian steel blade, Ice. You’re sure that Cregan knew what you did too: that the rebellion was Wilhem’s idea, and his alone.

And now here you stand, the last Bolton in the North, your family destroyed, and the honor of your house deeply tarnished. You watch melting snow drip down the window pane, and you feel nothing other than exhaustion and emptiness, for not even the death of your foolish brother seems to bring you to tears. Because of Wilhem’s recklessness, your life is now in the hands of a man you’ve known and cared for all of your life, but have no clue of his intentions for you now: to be killed, tortured for more information, to be sold off, who knows. You’re nothing more than a prisoner in your own home, to be easily discarded or made a pawn for some other use. You swallow thickly, and your eyes focus once more on the gash of red, willing even just one tear to fall and slip down your cheek – like the melting snow on the window – for the state of your misfortunes.

But before you can even manage to blink, you hear a key rattle in the door, unlocking it. You don’t bother to turn around. You know who has come.

“Lord Cregan Stark for you, my lady,” Jonas says quietly – an elderly servant who has served your family for your entire life. You don’t acknowledge his announcement, nor turn to face Cregan. You simply stare at the crimson snow, and the rushing river beyond it.

Your quiet is further disturbed by the sound of heavy footsteps carrying Cregan further into the room, no doubt weighed down by his leather-coated armor. The door shuts behind him with a soft click, and you wait to hear your sentence.

He clears his throat, likely hoping you’ll turn to face him and make this easier for him. You will not.

“I’m sorry to be here under such circumstances, my lady,” he says softly, his deep voice cutting through the silence of the room. Such formality carried by his familiar voice twists in you like a knife. He’s never been this guarded with you. “It’s my understanding that you had nothing to do with this.”

You take a deep breath before speaking, still keeping your back to him. So this is how it’s going to be then? “I’m your prisoner, my lord. What does that matter?”

He’s silent for a moment. He must be choosing his next words with care, you think with rancor, as a man of his ilk ought to. If he wishes to be the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North with you, and not the man you’ve always known, so be it.

“It matters a great deal to me that you were not a part of your brother’s rebellion,” he states gently, and you can hear him shift his weight, leaning from one foot to the other, his armor creaking as he does. He and Wilhem had been so close, assuming their lordships at the same time. But none of that matters any more. “And you’re not my prisoner.”

Your jaw clenches sharply, and you finally spin around. “Then what am I?” You snarl. He visibly recoils from your sudden harshness, strands of his brown tresses sweeping along his cheeks as he jerks his head back, but then he quickly tries to smooth his expression. You feel your insides twist even more with anger, and perhaps a hint of grief, to see his fur cloak and armor still faintly splattered with red. He must have hastily wiped away Wilhem’s blood before coming to your chambers, but he did a poor job of it.

“That’s up to you,” he replies calmly, steeling his expression and folding his hands over the pommel of the secondary sword at his hip. Despite Cregan’s towering height, the longsword that killed your brother is strung across his back, too long to carry at his waist.

You clasp your hands at your front, wringing them together in irritation. “Up to me?” You ask, trying to keep your voice steadier this time.

Cregan nods, his familiar gray eyes – two storms swirling around pools of black – never leaving yours. “You’re a noblewoman, and one who has done nothing wrong. I wouldn’t judge a sister by the sins of her brother,” he explains, taking a hesitant step closer to you. You automatically tense up and shrink back, pressing against the window. He watches you do this, his jaw flexing as he clenches his teeth, but doesn’t make an attempt to move any closer. “And so I offer you a choice: work with me to repair the reputation of House Bolton and bring peace to our realm, or leave the North and all of this all behind forever.”

You breathe hard, and cross your arms at your front, as you take in his words. But you want clarification. You want him to say what he means. “Work with you? What does that mean?”

He swallows thickly and tilts his head to the side as his eyes search your face. “I’m offering you my hand in marriage so that we might heal the North together,” he says quietly. He glances at his feet then, almost as if he’s nervous. It’s then that you remember that he’s only four and twenty, just three years older than you – his youth and inexperience are showing; his ignorance to what he’s just done to you. And it infuriates you.

“Marry you?” You ask, your tone thick with incredulity. You take your own step closer to him now, having regained a shred of confidence through your anger. “I just watched you behead my brother from this window, my house and family are destroyed, and you think, my lord, that I would want to marry you?”

His eyes find yours once more and you watch his lips part slowly, for he appears even more unsure of himself now, but he also finds his nerve to speak again. “I can’t undo what I’ve done, just like I can’t undo what Wilhem tried to do to me and the North. But I can ask for your forgiveness, and the chance to prove–”

“I want to leave,” you cut him off sharply, taking another step towards him. “I want to leave, and I hope to never see your face again.” In contrast to your lack of emotions earlier, your voice breaks on the last bit.

You can tell your words sting him, for though he’s a lord seasoned in masking his emotions and nerves, you know it’s not always an easy thing to do. His shoulders sag a bit, now doubt under the weight of his armor and his decisions. His jaw clenches again and he swallows slowly, his gaze holding yours. A tense moment passes between you before he speaks again.

“I shall have four of my guards escort you south to White Harbor at first light, and I will send you with coin to board a ship. To where is up to you,” he explains quietly, his thumb rubbing over the pommel of his sword, clearly for something to do in his moment of discomfort. “I wish you good fortune, my lady.” He inclines his head before looking up to meet your eyes once more. You can see what looks like sadness in them – undoubtedly from what he’s had to face and do today. Though you’ve known him a long time, he appears like a stranger before you now, and his plight can’t get through your own rage and grief. You feel no pity for him. Your life is the one that’s destroyed, not his. You lift your chin in defiance.

His sadness seems to intensify as he takes one last sweeping look over you, and then turns to leave, rolling his broad shoulders a bit under his thick armor, and exits the room without another word.

The icy wind whips fiercely, biting your cheeks more harshly than you’ve ever felt as a daughter of the North. You and your escorts of House Stark are caught in a violent winter storm – one you had sensed was coming from the change in the air pressure last night, but had ignored due to your overwhelming desire to leave the Dreadfort. You didn’t care what you faced, so long as you could put all of this behind you.

But the head guard stops his horse abruptly, interrupting your thoughts and making your own mount nearly bump into his before it halts too. He turns to look at you.

“My lady, we must turn back,” he shouts over the wind.

“We can’t go back to the Dreadfort,” you yell back, panic rising in your chest. You can’t go back. You absolutely can’t.

“We’ll go to Winterfell,” he explains, raising an arm to shield his face from some of the wind and snow. “Our orders were to bring you safely to White Harbor, or to Winterfell if we can’t do that. We have no other choice, my lady. This storm is coming from the South. We can’t continue on.”

Your stomach drops and you can feel your heart ice over even more. Going to Winterfell seems worse than returning to the Dreadfort, but you know you really have no choice now. These men are loyal to Cregan, and they will heed his commands only, not yours.

You nod your head, the battle lost, and you turn your horse to follow the guards. Even through the swirling, blinding snow, you know they’re leading you up the Sheepshead Hills, then down towards a stone bridge that crosses the White Knife, and into the territory of Winterfell and House Stark.

Despite your heavy cloak, your limbs are frozen as they cling to your horse. You’re hungry too, and exhausted, having slept very little the night before. Sleep evaded you as your mind was plagued with a sense of guilt for abandoning the North and the chance to redeem your house, which has stood faithfully with House Stark for generations. But how could you ever sleep at night knowing you’ve given yourself to the man who executed your brother and left House Bolton without a lord or heir? What would your parents have thought? Your grandparents? And on, and on, back in your family line? Would they see you as a traitor to your own kin, unworthy of the Bolton name? The thought makes your empty stomach churn painfully as you steer your horse over the rocky terrain of the hills, desperate now for some reprieve of the wind the downslope might offer. Your hope is all for naught, for the storm whips fiercely on the western side of the hills too. But the White Knife is now in sight, as well as the bridge you’re meant to cross.

Eventually, you and the four guards make it to the bridge, the horses treading cautiously. The water rushes swiftly beneath the stone, for the current is strong here as the river narrows before its two branches collide further south.

Safely over the water, you urge your horse on and follow the men along a path to Winterfell. You try to quiet your mind and fight back the tears that threaten to leak from your eyes. They’ll only freeze on your raw cheeks.

After what seems like an eternity, the castle comes into view – sprawling and made out of gray granite stone, as formidable as you remember. But the only thing welcome about the sight before you is the thought of sitting by a warm fire to thaw out your weary bones. You resign that you must wait out the storm, but you will bid the men to take you south once more to White Harbor as soon as possible, for you’re determined not to stay at Winterfell a moment longer than necessary.

Upon approaching the East Gate, you find your sense of dread snaking even tighter around your throat, for servants hurrying around the courtyard slow their steps and then stop to stare as you enter Winterfell, surrounded by four guards. You know they know who you are.

You try not to look at them, and slowly dismount your horse, your frozen toes prickling painfully as you land on the ground.

“Lady Bolton,” calls a weathered voice. You look up and see an old man approaching, a heavy set of chains bumping against his torso. Oryn, the maester of House Stark. “Welcome back to Winterfell, my lady.”

You don’t respond, for your teeth are chattering violently from the cold, though some of the wind is blocked by the high stone walls of the castle. You simply look at the old man, letting him decide your fate.

He seems to understand. “If you’ll follow me, my lady.”

You wrap your cloak tighter around your body, and follow him down a stone path and then through a passageway of the castle, before coming out of the other side. You have been to Winterfell many times, and you know the way to the Guest House well, but follow the old many anyway. Despite having always found your accommodations at this castle to be welcoming and comfortable, you’re sure you won’t feel the same on this occasion.

Grateful to finally be out of the wind, you follow the maester up a set of stairs and into a spacious guestroom. A fire is already burning in the hearth, as if he knew you were coming. He slowly stoops down to set another log on the grate, as if giving you a moment to collect yourself too.

He finally straightens up, his chains rattling as he moves. “If there is anything I can do for you while you’re here, please call upon me, my lady. I will have food brought to your rooms and a maid will draw you a bath.”

You nod your head again and then find the nerve to meet his eye. “Is he here?” You hate how your voice quivers, but you’re still chilled to the bone, and upset to be in this castle.

The maester gives you a sad smile. “No, my lady. Lord Stark has traveled to the Wall,” he explains gently, and you understand what he’s trying to tell you. That Cregan has accompanied the men that are traitors, like your brother, to the Wall to see their sentences through. “He shall return within the week.”

You nod again, worrying your teeth over your lower lip, and look down at your chest to unbuckle your cloak with stiff fingers.

“I will leave you now. Please know that, by the orders of Lord Stark, you’re welcome here, my lady. No one will treat you as anything other than an honored guest.” The maester takes a step towards the door.

“Did he really say that?” You ask quietly. The old man pauses his wrinkled hand on the doorknob before his green eyes find yours again.

“He did,” he replies with a nod. “I expect that he had a hunch that you would find yourself here.” He gives you another sad smile, and then turns once more, leaving you alone with your thoughts and despair.

The days turn from one to the next at Winterfell, each much the same as the last. The storm subsided the night before, but left snow in thick, windswept banks, which only get deeper the further south one travels. You know it would be foolish to try to go to White Harbor now, meaning you’ll have to wait an indefinite amount of time before leaving. You take a steadying breath as you look around the library, neat shelves of leather-bound books tucked snugly against the curved stone walls. You’ve learned that it’s a place you’re unlikely to be disturbed, for it seems that you and Maester Oryn are the only ones who seek out books at Winterfell. You find you really don’t have an interest in reading any of them too closely today, but it’s a small comfort to change your scenery from the guest chambers you’ve been staying in. You absentmindedly flip to the next page of the book in your lap – one you’ve been reading for a few days now – letting your thoughts wander instead to where you might head once you depart White Harbor. Volantis, perhaps? Or Lys? You might be able to find work as a healer or midwife, for you’ve always favored the art of medicine.

You’re pulled from your thoughts as the oak door on the far side of the room opens gently, and you expect to see Maester Oryn walk through, his heavy chains clinking with his stiff movements.

He does not.

Instead, it’s the one person you were hoping not to see while you’re here. The person you told you hoped you’d never lay eyes on again.

He’s wearing a different cloak now than the last time you saw him, gray fur sweeping over his broad shoulders. He looks weary from the road, half of his brown, shoulder-length hair pulled back loosely, with strands having come free to frame his face. His cheeks are red too, as if he got off his horse and came in from the cold, straight here. Perhaps he did.

You eye him from where you sit, feeling sheepish. You’ve no idea what to say to him, having spoken so harshly to him the last time he stood before you. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that you remain bitter with him, and with your situation.

He clears his throat gently. “Maester Oryn said I’d find you up here. I wanted to see that you’re alright,” he explains, his voice carrying softly through the stillness of the library. “That you have everything you need while you’re here.”

“I do,” you say, just as quietly. “Thank you,” you add as well before you can stop yourself, for years of learned-politeness for a noblewoman don’t fade overnight.

He nods, and looks at the ground for a moment, and then back up at you, as if he’s trying to decide something. He takes a deep breath.

“I also came to say that I made a grievous error the last time we spoke,” he states, a little more loudly, as if he wants to make sure that both of you hear his words. “You’re your father’s trueborn daughter, and nothing but tradition says a woman can’t rule in her own right in the North. Should you wish, I would name you the Lady of the Dreadfort and of House Bolton, and escort you back across the Sheepshead Hills as soon as the roads are passable.”

You breathe slowly, taking in his words and offer, and simply look at him for a moment. For years, you’ve stolen lingering glances at his face, which turned from the softness of youth to the hardness of manhood. It’s odd for you, now, to look at him and have his full attention. As you stare, his throat bobs as he swallows thickly, likely unsure with how to proceed. Waiting for your reply. He’s never been shy with you, but perhaps he thinks he might have offended you once again. Perhaps the two of you don’t really know each other anymore.

“Have you ever read this book?” You ask softly, looking down at the open pages in your lap, and then back up at him.

His expression shifts from one of discomfort to one of confusion by your change in subject, and lack of acknowledgment of his revised offer. He shifts on his feet.

“Which book is it?” He asks, clasping his hands together at his front. He’s always done that when he’s trying to keep his composure.

“The Great Northern Houses by Maester Elwic Bryson,” you state, gently shutting the book and showing him the cover.

He nods slowly. “I have.” You can see questions in his eyes now.

“I didn’t know that House Bolton had rebelled against House Stark so many times in the past,” you explain, your fingers curling gently against the book’s worn leather binding.

A faint sadness comes back to his expression – the one you saw briefly the last time. “Aye.”

You nod slowly. “And each time, the Stark’s forgave the Bolton’s.”

He nods, taking a deep breath as he does. “We have.”

You suck in a shaky inhale too. “Why?”

He takes a hesitant step closer to you, his eyes holding yours. “Because stability and peace among the northern houses means more than the pride of one king, or one lord.” His words are careful, but they acknowledge how far back your family’s treason stretches – back to the days when the Starks ruled as Kings in the North.

You let out the breath you’ve been holding, and look down at the book, feeling the emotions you’ve tamped down suddenly bubble up to the surface.

“I won’t force my presence on you any further, my lady, as you made your preferences clear the last time we spoke. But should you need anything, or if you would like to discuss my offer, please don’t hesitate to call upon me,” he says quietly, and you can hear the faint pain in his voice. My lady, again, not your name. You’ve truly hurt him, you think, as he’s hurt you. He turns to leave.

“Cregan,” you call softly, your chest rattling as you try to hold back the tears that threaten to flow.

He turns in the doorway, and seems to find the courage to meet your gaze once more.

So do you. “Thank you,” you whisper.

He looks at you for a moment, a faint softness falling across his features. He dips his head in acknowledgement and then vanishes through the doorway, the deafening silence left behind him echoing around the library.

You stare into the fireplace, watching the flames dance around the blistering wood.

“Cassandra,” you murmur, getting the attention of the lady’s maid that has been assigned to you. You’ve found that she’s a kind woman, and just a few years younger than you.

“My lady?” She asks, finishing folding one of your shifts and placing it in the wardrobe on the other side of your chambers, before walking over to where you sit by the hearth.

You take a steading breath. “Will Lord Stark be dining alone tonight?”

Cassandra pauses for a moment before answering. “Aye, he will.”

You nod, catching her eye. You force yourself to be confident. You’ll never get what you want if you aren’t. “Do you think he would prefer it that way?”

Cassandra smooths the folds of her dress before looking back up at you. “It’s hard to know the mind of Lord Stark, my lady, but I think he might welcome some company.”

You nod once more. “I think I’ll put my best dress on then,” you say quietly. She nods too, a faint smile tugging at her lips, and goes to retrieve a fur-lined dress from the wardrobe. It’s a deep blue, lined with simmering gray fur. She brings over a matching shawl too – made from the same gray fur – which will drape over your shoulders for warmth, and elegance.

You stand, and she helps you dress, lacing you up comfortably and smoothing the fur over your shoulders. Only the front strands of your long hair are pulled and tied behind your head, leaving the rest of your tresses to cascade down your back.

Cassandra finishes fussing with your hair and outfit, and then steps back to admire you with a gentle smile. “You look lovely, my lady.”

You feel the ice that has had a firm grip around your heart thaw just a little bit more from her kindness. “Thank you, Cassandra.”

She gives you a small curtsy, and then opens the door and ushers you through.

You steadily walk the long, winding corridors through Winterfell, past the armory and the Great Keep, to find your way to the Great Hall, grateful for your familiarity with these areas of the castle. It gives you some time to think about how you’d like to approach your thoughts with Cregan, and how to make him understand your perspective.

You take a deep breath as you approach the massive doors of the Great Hall. The guards nod to you in deference, and then one announces your presence. “Lady Bolton, my lord.”

As you enter the hall, your eyes land on the long dining table in the center, polished wood gleaming in the light of the flickering torches and the roaring hearth behind the lord’s chair at the head of the table. Your gaze comes to rest on him as he pauses the bite he was about to take, seemingly shocked for a moment that you’re here, in the Great Hall, standing before him. He lowers his fork before standing, his chair scraping against the stone floor.

“Are you alright, my lady?” You can hear the concern in his voice, and his eyes sweep over your body, as if searching for something wrong.

“My lord,” you greet him with a small curtsy. “Aye, I’m fine… I just wished to speak with you.” You’re pleased that your voice has remained steady despite your nerves. You’re just as unsure about standing before him as he’s clearly surprised that you’re suddenly in his Great Hall.

He nods, swallowing slowly. “Would you like to join me?” He asks quietly, gesturing a hand to the seat to his right.

“That would be welcome, thank you,” you reply softly, walking over to the seat, your dress swishing around your legs. A servant beats you to the chair though, tugging it out to assist you with sitting. You give the servant a polite smile, but he doesn’t catch it before he hurries away, likely to get another place setting for you, since Cregan was, as Cassandra predicted, dining alone.

Cregan settles back down into his chair, glancing at you from the corner of his eye. You know you should speak first, and put him at ease. You’ve both done enough to make the other uncomfortable every time you’ve been in each other’s presence.

“I wished to discuss with you the offer you made to me earlier.” You fold your hands in your lap, and find the nerve to meet his gaze fully. There is a softness in his gray eyes, but the rest of his expression is unreadable as he takes in your words. It reminds you of your father. “Of your offer to support my role as the Lady of the Dreadfort.”

He nods once, but then his eyes flick to the servant returning with a place setting for you. The servant pours wine into your glass as well, and then disappears once more into the shadows.

“Please help yourself,” Cregan says, gesturing to platters in front of you, filled with steaming meat, vegetables, and bread.

You do, filling your plate, and then look up at him once more.

“I take it you’d like to accept my offer, and become the Lady of the Dreadfort?” His tone is calm as he glances at you before resuming eating his own dinner.

You take a bite yourself, savoring the comforting taste of roast duck. It’s a common dish in the North, one both of you have grown up eating.

“I would not,” you say after finishing your bite, and reaching for your wine glass.

He takes a sip of ale, his brows tugging together. “Why not?” There is an edge to his voice, one you’ve rarely heard in the past.

You take another sip of your wine before answering. “Because I’m a woman, my lord. It’s unlikely that the men who were loyal to my house would respect me as their liege lord… Especially not after what happened,” you finish quietly, holding his gaze.

He inhales roughly as he processes your words, as if he’s bothered by them. “I would order them to respect you as they would any other lord. I promise you that.”

You shake your head. “As honorable as your intentions are, I don’t know if that would be enough. Northmen might forgive, but they never forget.”

He lets out a low laugh that has nothing to do with amusement. “You’d still like to leave then?”

“Aye,” you confirm, skewering a roasted potato with your fork. “But I would ask you for something else.”

He eyes you for a moment, the muscle in his jaw feathering, but then nods for you to continue.

“Should I marry, I would ask that one of my sons be granted the Dreadfort, its lands, and the title of Lord Bolton, when he comes of age.” You hope it came out more confident than you feel.

You watch Cregan slow in cutting his meat before he meets your gaze once more. “I will agree to your request, so long as you agree that he’s raised here, as my ward, to learn the ways of the North.” He takes a slow sip of his ale, watching you take in his words now.

You feel your blood begin to simmer as you stare at him. “You’d ask me to give up my son, from a young age, to be raised by you?” You try hard to keep your voice steady – to mask your rising anger – but you’re not sure you succeed. You remember that he too knows you well.

He lifts his chin a bit and shifts slightly in his chair, making the black wolf fur on his cloak ripple in the firelight – a not so subtle reminder of who he is. “You plan to leave the North, and I would need to guarantee that your son would be prepared to lead in the North. He won’t be able to do that from wherever you plan to go.” His tone is a little sharper now, though you can see he’s trying to keep his frustration in check, just like you.

But he’s better at it then you are. “You’re impossible,” you hiss, standing quickly, your chair scraping harshly against the stone floor.

He does the same, following you as you march from the hall. “What would you have me do?”

You don’t look at him as you hurry down the hall, not having any idea of where you’re heading to in this part of the castle, but wanting desperately to get away from him. “You would let me raise my son as I see fit because I’m a Bolton, and you’re not.” You seethe, attempting to length your strides, but his long legs allow him to keep pace with you.

You turn a corner, following a more narrow corridor, your breath coming hard.

“I’m the Warden of the North, and I could teach him the ways of all northern houses,” he grits out, trying to catch your eye as you refuse to look at him.

“You know nothing about being a Bolton–”

But before you can take one more step, he shoves open a door, grabs your wrist and tugs you through. What little strength you have is no match for his, and you find yourself being pulled into some kind of study. You can’t take it all in quick enough before he slams the door shut and backs you up against it, caging you in with his bulk. You look up at his face, both of you breathing hard. His nostrils flare as he stares down at you, his familiar gray eyes boring into yours. You’ve clearly struck a nerve with him.

But so has he with you. “You don’t know anything about being a Bolton, and I do. He should be raised by me,” you snap, tilting your chin up in defiance now. “Or do you wish to make me suffer more?”

“I’m trying to help you. Why must you refuse me at every turn?” He growls, baring his teeth as he leans in closer, like the wolves of his house.

But you won’t back down, snarling back at him. “You’re not trying to help me–”

“I am–”

But his words are cut off and replaced by the loud sound of your palm colliding with his cheek, ringing clearly through the quiet room. You breathe hard, watching his skin redden from where you’ve just slapped him. He breathes hard too, his exhales fanning across your own reddening cheeks. He looks furious.

Something twists inside you – hatred morphing into something different – as you hold his incensed gaze. He’s so warm against you from where he’s caged you in against the door, his body pressed up against yours. His scent fills the air around you too, and you breath him in with every shuddering breath that you take: pine, woodsmoke, and leather.

“You don’t understand what it’s like–” you start, your voice wobbling with emotion.

“I don’t understand what it’s like to be ripped from my home because of another’s mistake?” He cuts you off harshly, leaning even closer to you; so close your noses could brush. You can hear the disbelief in his voice. As if you could forget how his uncle tried to thwart his inheritance and titles, seizing them for his own.

“And have you forgotten that mine own father fought beside you? And died so that you might rule these lands?” You demand, eyes frantically searching his face. How could he forget?

He exhales roughly. “I could never forget the sacrifice your father made for me and for this realm.”

“Then why are you torturing his only daughter like this?” You ask, your voice breaking. You feel the hot tears you’ve been trying so hard to hold back finally begin to slip.

You watch his face crumble a bit, and he tilts his head. “Because I don’t want you to leave,” he breathes.

Tears roll swiftly down your cheeks as you take in his words, momentarily stunned into silence.

“You’re your father’s daughter, and you belong in the North. You should raise your son in the North,” he continues, and you can hear the pain in his voice. Pain both of you have caused.

But you push your hands roughly against his chest, which surprises him enough to step back, allowing you to slip from his grasp and walk into the middle of the room, hugging your arms around yourself. You try to steady your breaths and blink your tears away.

You hear him slowly follow you, and then sit in a chair near the desk you’re now bracing your hands against.

“What does that mean, Cregan?” Your arms shake as your tears drip onto the wood surface.

You wait, but he’s silent behind you. It’s only until you turn to face him once more, that you see it in his expression – something you’ve forbidden yourself from ever hoping for, even after he voiced his original offer to you. At the time, you had assumed he was only offering what was right, not what he truly wanted.

“Do you really not know? After all this time?” His voice is ragged, his eyes flickering over your face with disbelief.

You shake your head, leaning your weight back against the desk.

His head tilts to the side as he swallows painfully. “I love you. I’ve always loved you,” he breathes.

Your own breath catches in your throat.

“I had planned to offer you my hand, but my plans were cut short when Wilhem rebelled. It’s why I was able to get to the Dreadfort so quickly – I was preparing to go there anyway. To you.” His words come out shakily, making your body shake as well as you process his words. He was going to come to propose. He loves you.

Your lower lip trembles. “Cregan–”

“I should have told you. But you were so angry with me, with what happened. I didn’t think you’d believe me.” He leans back in his chair, looking up at you. You can truly see the weight now of everything he carries – all of the hard choices, all of the things he must keep to himself no matter how much it pains him.

You finally find your voice. “But you let me go – let me try leave the North, forever.”

His expression softens even more, his sadness rippling over his body in waves. “I thought you’d never forgive me, and I so I wouldn’t yolk you to me, no matter how much I love you. I wanted you to have a choice.”

You push off the table and cross the few steps separating you from where he sits, his eyes tracking your movements. His left knee brushes against your dress when you stop before him.

“And what about now?” You whisper, holding his gaze as your fingers curl into the velvet fabric of your dress to stop them from shaking.

He takes a shuddering breath before slowly lifting his own hands to lightly curl around the backs of your thighs. You feel the warmth of his massive hands through your clothes, his thumbs gently caressing you, before slowly tugging you forward so you straddle his thigh. Your dress bunches up against his leg, and despite your frustration with him, your body heats with the desire to have your dress, and his clothes, removed entirely.

You slowly settle on his thigh as his hands slide up the sides of your thighs and hips to lightly encircle your waist. Your own hands come up to rest against his chest. You can feel his rapid heartbeat beneath your palm, matching the force of your own thumbing against your ribcage. His ragged breath fans across the exposed skin of your face, neck, and chest, making you shiver in his hold.

“Your second child – boy or girl – would be named the ruler of the Dreadfort…” He takes a steading breath. “And your first would be the heir to Winterfell, if you’ll have me.”

Your heart leaps at his words, his honesty – what he’s always wanted is laid before you, and what he wants now is reflected with what you want. Your hands slip up the planes of his chest, bumping over the quilted fabric of his gambeson, and up the sides of his neck before framing his stubbled cheeks. He’s so warm beneath your palms, especially the cheek that you slapped mere minutes ago. Shame sweeps through you at how vicious you’ve been with him, at how you’ve assumed the worst of him. In your anger and grief, you’d forgotten about who he is, how deeply he cares, and how sometimes he’s forced to make impossible decisions.

You lean forward and press your lips gently against his. His lips are soft and plush despite the rough exterior of him as a hardened, rugged warrior. His lips move tentatively against yours at first, as if he still can’t believe you’re kissing him, but then his hands pull you closer, your core sliding against his thigh.

You gasp softly against his lips from the delicious friction of slipping against his sturdy leg, and he sighs against you too. You know deep in your bones that he understands how you feel. Years worth of desire, affection, and familiarity between the two of you comes rushing to the surface.

His tongue gently swipes against your bottom lip, as if he can’t help but taste you. You part for him with a sigh of your own as his tongue sweeps in to taste you fully, and you follow his lead.

Your fingers curl against his cheeks as you taste him, a shiver rushing up and down your spine. It’s better than you’ve ever imagined, ever dreamed. A sweetness like nothing you’ve ever experienced, an essence that is his alone. His hands sweep gently along the lines of your hips and back, clearly marveling at having you in his lap, in his arms. And you know he’s holding back as he licks into you and touches you.

You break the kiss. “I accept,” you breathe against his lips. “I want you. And I want our children to be raised here, to rule the North.”

A shudder rattles through his chest as he opens his eyes, his gaze meeting yours. The warmth you have always known in him fills his features.

“I’ve always loved you too,” you add, your nose brushing gently against his.

A noise escapes his throat that sounds like a mix of relief and desire, and it shoots right through you, turning your core molten as affection swirls through your veins too.

He crushes his lips to yours again, licking deeply and you do the same. No longer just to taste, but to savor.

His hands slip down your back to cup your ass, hauling you even closer to his chest. Your hands move too, sliding down to curl against his chest, fingers toying at the laces of his gambeson. You’re so close to him now that you feel the outline of him pressed against your thigh that is wedged between his legs. He lets out a soft groan as you roll your hips slowly, chasing the feeling of his muscular thigh rubbing against your core, and wanting him to feel a similar pleasure as your thigh brushes against his manhood.

His fingers dig deliciously into your ass, gripping you tighter as he helps guide your hips against him, both of you lost in the feeling. But you want more – you’ve always wanted everything from him.

You break the kiss once more but he chases your mouth, evidently not wanting to give you up for a single second.

“Will you touch me?” You breathe, shocked that you can even speak, let alone those words, for the need coursing through you has clouded your brain. Everything about him has flooded your senses – the way he smells, so like the lands that you love so much. The way he tastes, more delicious than anything you’ve ever sampled. The way he sounds, with ragged breaths and a rumbling desire in his chest that become the things you want to hear the most for the rest of your life. The way he feels against your body, warm and solid, making you feel hot all over. But you want to feel all of him. You always have.

His tongue traces the curve of your lower lip while his hands continue to move you on his thigh, your sensitive core starting to soak the layers of your dress.

When he speaks, his voice is more gravelly and deeper than you’ve ever heard it. “When I touch you – really touch you, you beautiful woman – I want you to be my wife… And I want you spread out, naked on our bed, so I can show you just how much I love you.”

Your fingers dig into his chest, and a whimper escapes your lips, as you squeeze your thighs tighter around his own. You didn’t even know he knew words like that, and they wrap around your heart, starting to fill the cracks that have formed there, all while he sets fire coursing through your veins. You feel a frenzied desperation to let this fire burn out of control, for him to give you what you long for. To feel the depths of his desire too.

But you nod your head, knowing he’s right. Knowing that straddling his thigh like this, kissing him like you have been, letting your thoughts run wild, is well beyond the bounds of propriety. And once again, you’re reminded that he always strives to do what’s right, even when it’s hard.

To your surprise though, he doesn’t stop moving your hips as he leans in to mold his lips against yours once more. In fact, one of his hands continues to rock you against him as the other slips around to trail down your thigh, gathering a fistful of your dress in his massive hand. He slowly tugs on the fabric, and you lift your hips just the slightest, instantly missing the contact, but allow him to gather the front of your dress against his hips. Then he settles you back against his thigh – the thin layer of your lace underwear now the only thing separating your dripping, sensitive core from his leather trousers and solid muscle beneath.

As you roll your body against his, tilting your hips forward, the friction is maddening. You moan into his mouth as his tongue delves deeper, sweeping against the roof of your mouth, the back of your teeth.

“Cregan,” you manage to whimper, the taut leather over his thigh becoming a slippery mess as you move and move.

“I’ve got you,” he breathes against your lips, his voice thick with desire, as his hand snakes back around your hip to grip your ass. “Let go for me.”

You clench even tighter around his thigh, and around the emptiness in your core too. But even as you do, he tilts your hips forward even more so the tight bundle of nerves at the apex of your thighs brush against his. It sends pleasure coursing through your body, making you moan far too loudly.

He doesn’t seem to care as a growl looses from his throat, vibrating against your lips, while he slides your hips up and down the length of his thigh, again and again. Faster, and faster, his trousers becoming truly soaked from your wetness, but he doesn’t seem phased by that either. All he seems concerned with is making you feel good, knowing exactly what to do in this moment – showing you, you realize, just a glimpse of how deep his love and desire runs for you.

The thought and the way his hands glide you over him is enough to send your peak crashing over you, washing you in bliss you’ve never felt before. You cry out against him, and he swallows your moans with a deep kiss. You shake against his sturdy frame, feeling his hands grip you even tighter as he continues to roll your hips, seemingly drawing out your pleasure for as long as he can.

Your hands slide back up his chest to cup the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in his hair as he finally stills your hips. You gasp against his lips and feel his warm breath fan over your cheeks, his chest heaving to catch his breath. He gently tugs your bottom lip with his teeth, making you whimper again. How is it that your desire still burns brightly in your body, and that you’re still so close to begging him for everything he can give you?

He tugs you flush against his chest, and you feel him hot and hard against your thigh wedged between his legs, trapped in what you imagine are now painfully tight trousers.

You open your mouth to beg, but he speaks before you do.

“Will you meet me in the Godswood in thirty minutes?”

You settle back against the furs draped over Cregan’s large bed – your bed now too – and watch as Cregan leans forward from where he stands at the foot of the bed to place kisses on your ankles.

It’s been a whirlwind of a day – waking up still angry with him, the conversation in the library and at dinner, the events in the study. You’ve now come to learn that it’s his private study, where he spends long hours answering correspondence and pouring over account books. It’s as if your feet knew exactly where to take you to have those intimate moments with him – to confess what you’ve both been keeping tucked away in your hearts for so long. And then the quiet ceremony in the Godswood, proceeded over by Maester Oryn and witnessed by some household staff, Cassandra included. She had tears in her eyes at the end of it. Cregan swore before all and the Old Gods to honor and cherish you, to protect you for all nights to come. You vowed the same, and you’ve never seen him smile brighter. Then he draped a frosted blue cloak decorated with direwolves over your shoulders, officially bringing you under his protection. He sealed that promise with a kiss, breaking away eventually and whispering “Lady Stark” against your lips.

He insisted on carrying you from the Godswood to his chambers, in the way that husbands do with their new brides, all while you laughed with a lightness you haven’t felt in ages and stole as many kisses as possible without distracting him from climbing the stairs.

As he entered the chambers – now marital chambers for both of you – he sat you down gently in a chair by the roaring fire in the hearth and knelt before you, taking your hands in his. “I asked Maester Oryn to write to the lords of the North, inviting them to attend a banquet in a fortnight in honor of our marriage. I trust you with my life, and so they should too. I wish for them to bend the knee to you, and to vow to support our children too, when they someday lead from Winterfell and the Dreadfort,” he’d said softly, his eyes searching yours. “I know I can’t change the past, my love, but I can set us on the right path for the future. I want to heal the North, and you.”

Tears came forth, and spilled gently down your cheeks. You know now that he’s truly loved you for so long, and he means what he says. You felt what little ice that still clung to your heart melt away completely, knowing he will do everything in his power to mend what has been broken.

You took a deep breath, and held his hands tightly as you said, “I forgive you, Cregan. And I love you.”

Tears pricked at his eyes too, and he leaned down to kiss your hands in his, before standing once more and pulling you up into his chest. For a long while he simply held you against him, kissing your forehead with such tenderness that it made you ache.

Your hands had slowly slid up his chest between you, your fingers pulling at the laces of his gambeson, this time not willing to stop. One of his strong, calloused hands had lifted to cup your cheek, tilting your chin up so he could kiss you. It was a slow, lingering kiss – nothing like the desperate, wild kisses from earlier. A shiver rushed down your spine as you realized he meant to savor every moment tonight with you, his wife.

It was with the utmost care that he unlaced your dress, never breaking your kiss as he let it fall to the floor and pool at your feet. He did eventually part from you, only to kneel before you again to peel off your underwear, long socks, and remove your shoes, leaving you naked before him, still clad in his own clothing and cloak. He’d softly kissed your hips and belly before standing again. You felt your nerves start to get the better of you – though it’s him, losing your maidenhood is not something you expected to happen today.

He leaned down to kiss you softly. Clearly sensing your apprehension, he said, “We don’t have to tonight. It’s alright.”

You shook your head. “No, I want to. I want to, Cregan. I just…I don’t know what to do.”

He kissed your forehead again before he bent his knees and reached down to lift you into his arms, his forearms wrapped securely under your thighs. Your chest brushed against his clothing, the fur of his cloak caressing your nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure through your body.

“Let me show you,” he murmured, lips brushing against yours as he carried you to the bed.

And now you’re watching him remove his last layer of clothing, smiling softly at each other until he’s completely naked before you. Your eyes travel along the sharp angle of his jaw, down the column of his throat and across the broad planes of his chest, before following the light trail of hair leading down his stomach. Your eyes sweep over the v of his hips, before landing on the considerable length of him hanging between his sturdy thighs. Despite your nerves, your mouth waters at the sight of his cock, a bead of moisture glistening at the tip. Your eyes flick back up to catch a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips to see you admire him like this. He moves to climb onto the bed, crawling over you and caging you in with his knees and hands as he slowly kisses his way up your body. Your shins and knees, your inner thighs and hips, your belly and the valley between your breasts. As he does so, you reach out tentatively to touch him, fingertips trailing over his warm skin and tracing the faint scars on his forearms and shoulders – the marks of a seasoned warrior.

“I love feeling you touch me,” he whispers against your skin, the tip of his nose brushing along the curve of your breast.

“It feels nice when you touch me too,” you agree breathlessly. “I love the way you kiss me.”

His lips skim higher, brushing lightly over your nipple. “Do you?” He asks, and you can hear the playfulness in his tone. His eyes flick up to meet yours as his lips close over the taut peak and swirls his tongue, making you gasp and arch up into him. It’s as if a bolt of lightning shoots right through your body from where he’s touching you, striking straight in your core. You grip his forearms where his hands are braced on the bed, framing your ribs. He swirls his tongue again, and then sucks in earnest.

You writhe beneath him in pleasure, your hips lifting to meet his. It makes his cock rub against your hips and belly, leaving a wet trail in its wake.

He moans against the friction and the sound reverberates through your body, making you even more wet for him.

“Does that feel good?” He murmurs, moving over to your other breast and repeating his movements.

“Cregan,” you breathe, squeezing your thighs together from the pleasure rushing through you. Your hands sweep up to tangle your fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck as his mouth works over you.

He hums in response, kissing, licking and sucking, until his mouth travels up your neck, his tongue laving over your thrumming pulse. He pauses to kiss the soft spot behind your ear before finding your lips again, your heart hammering in your chest.

You kiss him deeply, needing to taste every bit of him, as he lowers himself so his chest and hips cover yours. He still braces his weight on his forearms, so as not to crush you, but you can feel every muscle clench and ripple against you as writhe beneath him, lost in the feeling of being enveloped by him.

His own fingers card through your hair, and the way the pads of his fingers skim over your skin sends shivers down your spine. “Can I touch you?” He husks in between kisses.

The question makes your shivers turn into a moan, and you nod, lips still brushing against his. You feel him smile against you, and your own smile spreads to mirror his.

Before he makes his way down your body, he grabs a pillow and pulls it with him, setting it next to your hips. Then he kisses his way down, pausing again to flick his tongue over one of your nipples, before leaving a wet trail down your belly and hips. Carefully, he shifts your legs to kneel between them, and then lifts your hips to place the pillow beneath you, with very little effort. His strength is something to marvel at, and you know you’ll always see him differently after tonight. Muscles coiled with desire, ready at any moment to lift you and tug you to him, before lavishing you with pleasure and affection. Your husband. You still can’t believe it – it’s real, he’s real, in your arms.

His eyes meet yours as he settles back down on his stomach, his head so close to your core that you can feel his warm breath tickle your skin. His eyes are glossy, only slivers of gray can be seen now. It steals your breath to be looked at like this – to be gazed upon with such hunger by him.

Slowly turning his head to kiss your inner thigh, he lifts your legs to drape them over his shoulders, before settling down to touch you, as you know you’ve both wanted for so long.

He kisses around your core, as if he wants to make you just as hungry for his touch – as if you aren’t already starving. You feel him smile against your skin as you shift your hips, a small whimper escaping your lips, and then you feel your world shift entirely.

Nothing, nothing, could prepare you for the feeling of his tongue dragging up and down through the wetness of your folds, making you even more drenched for him. You let out a breathy moan, your hands finding his hair again, desperate for something to hold onto as he licks you open.

“You taste even better than I ever dreamed,” he groans against your core, making pleasure throb so deeply inside you, you’re sure the spot could never be reached by either of you. You gasp, your thighs squeezing around his head for a moment before letting go, not wishing to hurt him.

In response, his eyes meet yours with a playful smile while he shifts up to swirl his tongue over your pearl, with wet, quick flicks.

“Oh gods, Cregan,” you moan softly, trying not to be too loud. Your fingers tighten in his hair as you try to ground yourself, but you can’t help but grind your hips against his mouth too. The pleasure is like nothing you’ve ever experienced, filling every fiber of your being more and more with every swipe of his tongue.

“Let me hear you, my love,” he encourages you before sucking on your pearl, drawing a loud gasp from you. “That’s it, my beautiful wife,” he says, his voice dripping with desire and affection. “I love the sounds you make.” As he speaks, you feel one of his fingertips drag through your wetness, and then swirl around the entrance of your core.

Suddenly you’ve never needed anything more than to feel him push inside you, fill you up.

“Cregan, please,” you plead, pressing your hips down against his digit. He flicks his tongue over your pearl once more as he obliges you, sliding his finger in slowly. You clench around him, marveling at how big just one of his fingers feels inside you. You have no idea how his cock might fit inside you, but you’re desperate to try.

Slowly, sliding in just a bit more, and then sliding back to your entrance, he helps you adjust with each thrust in and out, all while his tongue continues to work over your pearl. It all feels so incredible, making you moan over and over again.

Finally, down to the last knuckle, he curls his finger inside you, brushing over a spot that you didn’t know existed.

You gasp, spine arching off the bed. He tilts his head to kiss your inner thighs while he continues to sweep his fingertip over that spot inside you, as if he wants you to feel just that pleasure alone. It’s overwhelming in the best way, but you whimper when you feel him draw his finger backwards, away from that pleasure, only to arch again off the bed when he presses in again, but with a second finger next to the first. The stretch is pleasure that borders pain, making you gasp.

“You’re doing so well, my love,” he praises you, kissing your hip. “Just breathe for me.”

You do that as he works his fingers inside of you, any pain subsiding almost immediately as he finds that bundle of nerves again, both fingers curling to brush against it. And as he does, his tongue resumes playing with your pearl, sending your pleasure coursing through your body in waves that quickly rise to peak.

You cry out his name as his fingers and tongue move to draw out your orgasm for as long as possible – just like he did earlier in his study. As if he wants nothing more than for you to feel this blissful, this weightless, forever. And when he does finally slow, finally stills, your fingers slide down to brush tenderly against his jaw while he rests his head against your thigh, gaze meeting yours.

“Gods, I want to make you come again and again, everyday, for the rest of my life,” he husks, and turns his head to kiss the center of your palm.

You let out a light laugh and feel him chuckle against your hand.

“I’d like that too,” you agree breathlessly. “Will you…will you teach me how to make you come?” You ask, a little nervously. You want to make him feel the same pleasure you’ve felt – want to be everything he needs and more.

He kisses your palm again before shifting his body, crawling up to kneel between your thighs before dropping down to his elbows once more. Your legs lift instinctively to frame his hips, the pillow still nestled beneath you, and you feel the heft of his cock, hard, hot, and leaking against the apex of your thighs, brushing against your sensitive peal.

“Aye,” he agrees softly, kissing you with such tenderness that you’re sure your heart might burst. “But if you’ve had enough for tonight, we can always continue tomorrow or whenever you feel ready.” He lifts his head to look down at you, and you can see the depths of his love in his eyes. He clearly doesn’t want to overwhelm you, knowing you have the rest of your lives to learn how to make each other’s bodies and hearts sing. How is it possible to love him even more?

Your hands find his cheeks again as your thighs slide slowly along his hips. “I want you,” you breathe, fingers brushing softly against his skin. “I need to feel you inside me. I want to make you feel so good too, Cregan.”

A shudder ripples through his body as he leans down to kiss you once more, soft and lingering. “I love you,” he whispers when he pulls back just a bit.

“I love you too,” you breathe, eyes searching his. He smiles down at you, content, but you can see the hunger and the passion filling his gaze again. And you want nothing more than to feel the full force of his desire.

As if he can read your mind, he leans his weight onto one arm, and snakes a hand between your bodies, his knuckles brushing over your heated skin. He holds your gaze as you feel him take himself in hand, and then press the tip of his cock to your entrance.

“Just breathe, my love,” he says gently, noticing the hitch in your breath. You do, as he presses himself inside you, just an inch or so, making you gasp at the stretch around him. He stills his hips as he drags his hand back up, framing his forearms on either side of your shoulders. He gently cradles your head in his massive hands, mirroring how you’re holding his face.

Slowly, he moves his hips, pressing a bit more into you. You tilt your head back into the bed, gasping again and squeezing your eyes shut.

He breathes your name, and your eyes fly open again. “Keep your eyes on me,” he says, and you do, finding his eyes again, trusting him so completely. You find you couldn’t look away now even if you wanted to. “Just like that,” he murmurs, thumbs brushing against your cheeks. He slides back out, nearly to your entrance, and then presses back in just a bit more, eyes locked with yours.

And so he sets a rhythm, pulling back and pressing back in just a bit more each time, giving you all the time you need to adjust, all while watching you carefully, his love and protection of you coming through with every thrust he takes. It fills your heart so deeply as he fills you so completely.

Finally, with the last thrust, he buries himself inside you, and you both share the same moan. “I still can’t believe you’re mine,” he gasps, nose brushing against yours.

“Yours,” you agree, “and you’re mine.” He nods in your hands that still hold his face, and then kisses you deeply before drawing his hips out and plunging back into you.

The rush of him against your inner walls sends pleasure cascading through your body, like water rushing over rapids, filling parts of you that you didn’t know existed.

He sets a delicious pace, your legs tightening around him as you clench around his length too.

“Fuck,” he moans, tilting his head to leave wet kisses on your neck, making you moan too. Your arms slip around his neck and your hands clutch at his shoulders, feeling his muscles ripple in time with his thrusts. Your lips brush against his shoulder too, your tongue slipping out to lick at the salty sweat on his skin. He kisses and kisses your neck, and you clench around him again – you can’t help it. He feels so amazing inside you, and his kisses leave you shivering with pleasure, every movement bringing another orgasm to wound tightly in your core.

And then he slows, panting against your neck and presses up to look down at you, amazement on his face. Before you can say anything, he rolls to his side, tugging you with him. He hitches your leg around his hip, stroking your leg in wonder, before curling his arm around your back, warm and strong. Your head nestles against his other bicep, and he kisses you deeply and thoroughly, his tongue swiping sensually against yours.

When he thrusts again, you gasp loudly and arch your back against his arm, for his cock not only reaches a depth you hadn’t thought possible – that place deep inside you that you thought neither of you could ever reach – his tip brushes against that same bundle of nerves his fingers had before.

Pleasure shoots through you like lightning as he does it again and again, making you a moaning mess in his arms, your peak so close. He seems to sense it; seems to note the way you’re fluttering around his length, when he says, “Come for me, beautiful.” He says it again, but this time with your name leaving his lips too. Hearing your name in that deep, gravely voice that you’ve only ever heard in your dreams, and his request, does it for you.

One more thrust has you crying out and clenching around him, your orgasm breaking over you in wave after wave – rolling thunder to match the lightning of pleasure striking through your veins. You find his mouth again for another searing kiss and you can feel his own orgasm before it happens, a tightened throb of him inside you as his muscles coil, and then release.

He groans your name – something you want to hear everyday for the rest of your life – and buries himself deeper than he has yet, spilling and spilling hot ribbons inside you. You flutter around him, wanting to milk him for every drop, every bit of pleasure. He shudders in your arms, until finally he slows and stills.

He pants against your mouth, and pulls back just an inch to find your eyes. “You’re amazing,” he says, voice sounding wrecked. It makes your clench around him again, and he chuckles, brushing his nose against yours. “Are you okay?”

You nod, a smile spreading across your cheeks as your hands slide down to caress his chest. “I’m perfect.” Your eyes search his. “I’ve never been more perfect.”

His hand brushes softly up and down your spine as he kisses your forehead tenderly.

“Was that okay for you?” You ask, praying that it was.

“Perfect,” he repeats your words. “You’re perfect.”

You nuzzle into his chest, still amazed that you’re in his arms, that you’ve just made love, that you’re his wife and the Lady of Winterfell. The pain and grief you’ve felt for days now seems to be fading into a distant memory. You’re not completely healed, but you know you he will strive to make sure you are.

After a few moments of blissfully listening to each other breathe, hands travelling softly over the other’s body, he speaks. “I was thinking you could practice your healing skills here too. I know you’ve always favored medicine and helping people, and I’m sure Maester Oryn would be grateful for your knowledge and skills.”

You pull back just a fraction to look up into his eyes, seeing the hope and peace in them. You had no idea he noticed that detail about you – had no idea he’d want you to bring your passions here, to Winterfell, too.

“You remembered that?” You ask, your voice wobbling a bit from emotion.

“Of course,” he breathes, his warm hand splaying lovingly over your back. “I could never forget how brilliant and selfless you are. The North is better with you in it, my love.” He says it with such tenderness, such sincerity, you feel as if your heart is reaching out to touch his.

You close the tiny space between you, kissing him with a love you never dreamed would be possible, but now couldn’t imagine living without.

You lean back into the sturdy, warm body behind you while you gaze down at the twin babies sleeping peacefully in matching bassinets, a content smile on your face. Cregan’s arms are wrapped around you, hands lovingly splayed over your belly. He kisses your neck softly before you feel him turn his attention back to your children. You know his gaze is filled with love too.

Twin boys, who will be taught how to lead the North by both of their parents. Brothers, who you and Cregan will raise to never have cause to betray the other, and to always support one another and maintain peace throughout the North. The future Lord of Winterfell and Lord of the Dreadfort.

The last fissure in your broken heart has finally sealed over, filled only now with a love that knows no bounds.

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#cregan stark #cregan my beloved #cregan x reader #cregan x you #cregan fanfiction #hotd #hotd fanfic #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x you #cregan stark the man you are

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lv7867 · 27 days ago

Text

Bound by Fire and Fate

Aegon Targaryen x Reader

Summary: A prophecy foretold that Aegon Targaryen’s wife would either be his greatest power or his downfall.

A prophecy had followed Aegon since birth.

"The woman who sits beside the golden dragon will be his greatest power or his greatest downfall."

It had been whispered by seers, scrawled in ancient tomes, muttered by maesters who feared what it might mean. And so, when Aegon took a wife, many watched with wary eyes, waiting to see which fate she would bring him.

That wife was you.

You, who had carried a secret your whole life. Magic ran through your veins like wildfire, ancient and untamed. You had been warned from childhood: Never reveal it. Never let a Targaryen see your power.

Yet Aegon was not just a Targaryen. He was your husband.

And despite his flaws, you loved him.

More than you should. More than was safe.

Because Aegon kissed you like you were his salvation like the weight of his crown lessened when his lips found yours.

He held you at night as if afraid you would vanish with the dawn.

He did not see you as a threat.

You wondered what would he see if he knew the truth.

You never meant for him to find out. It was meant to be your secret till the end of time.

But war cares nothing for secrets.

The battle came at dawn. A rebellion rising from the east, an army pushing toward King’s Landing. You and Aegon stood at the battlements, watching the sky burn orange with the rising sun.

"They mean to take the city," Aegon murmured, his fingers flexing around the hilt of Blackfyre. "To take you."

"They will not have me," you said fiercely.

His violet gaze flickered to you, sharp and searching. "Would you fight for me?"

You did not hesitate. "Always."

He exhaled, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "Then let’s make them bleed, My Queen."

You had meant to fight as you always did, hidden in the shadows, blades in your hands, magic buried beneath your skin.

But then...

Aegon fell.

An arrow, meant for him, whistled through the air. He turned at the last second, but it still found its mark, piercing his side, blood spilling down his armour.

Something inside you snapped.

A wildfire of rage, of terror, of love.

Before you could think, before you could stop yourself, power surged through your veins.

The air crackled.

Fire erupted from your fingertips, consuming the enemy in waves of white-hot flame. The battlefield became an inferno, the scent of burning flesh thick in the air.

When the flames finally died, silence fell.

Soldiers gaped.

Some fell to their knees in fear. The battle had ended in a single breath, and you had ended it.

Your heart pounded as you turned, trembling, to Aegon.

He had seen it. All of it.

And yet, he did not look afraid.

He looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

Slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet, pressing a hand to his bleeding side. His violet eyes burned as they met yours.

"My Queen," he whispered.

You braced yourself for anger, for rejection. Instead, he stepped closer, his hand cupping your face, his fingers gentle despite the blood staining them.

"You hid this from me," he murmured, tilting your chin up.

Tears burned in your eyes. "I was afraid."

He studied you for a long moment. Then, he smirked. "Afraid of me?"

"Afraid of losing you." Your voice cracked. "They said you would hate me. That I would be your downfall."

Aegon exhaled, pressing his forehead against yours. "You were never my downfall," he murmured. "You are my salvation."

Your breath hitched. "You’re not afraid?"

"Afraid?" He let out a breathless laugh, brushing his lips against yours. "You just burned an army to the ground for me." His fingers tightened in your hair, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Burn the world with me."

He kissed you.

Not like before.

This was not lazy or teasing, not the kiss of a king seeking distraction.

This was everything.

Fire and fate, devotion and need. His hands framed your face, his lips claiming yours as if sealing a vow as if your magic had already been carved into his bones.

And you kissed him back with everything you had.

Because this was not destiny deciding for you.

This was choosing each other.

And you would choose him, again and again, until the world turned to ash.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

#aegon ii #aegon ii targaryen #aegon targaryen x reader #aegon x reader #aegon ii fanfic #aegon the second #house of the dragon #team green #aegon #aegon x you

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lv7867 · 4 months ago

Text

Ugh!!!!! Whats hotter than young Cregan?? Old man Cregan with all those years of wisdom.

🤌🏼🤌🏼🤌🏼🤌🏼

Your Gray Wolf of the North

Cregan Stark x Glover!Reader

Tags: older Cregan (he's 56) and younger reader (she's 28), smut, oral sex and fingering (fem. receiving), p. in v. sex, slow burn fr babes! (this oneshot is so long, I'm so sorry lol)

As the widowed Lady Glover, you find stepping into your late-husband's role to be painful, especially when you're surrounded by men who remind you of all that you've lost. Comfort comes unexpectedly from Lord Cregan Stark himself, and a friendship blossoms between you - and perhaps something more.

You glance around the table, your eyes flitting from one man’s visage to another. But these young, middle-aged, and old faces don’t pay you much mind in return. They’re all focused on their liege lord, Cregan Stark – the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.

But it’s hard for you to not look around at this gathering of Northmen. They remind you of your late husband, Lord Jon Glover, who was killed in a hunting accident ten months ago. He was only two and thirty. And now you have taken his place, as the widowed Lady Glover, sat in a stiff, high-backed chair around a long table in the Great Hall of Winterfell.

As your eyes shift from man to man, Lord Cregan Stark and his maester finish collecting reports from each lord, and yourself, on the status of grain harvests. From House Glover and the lands surrounding Deepwood Motte – the ancient seat of your marital house – the harvest reaped was rather unimpressive, considering the area around the wooden castle is mostly covered by dense forest. But House Glover can provide something in abundance that most other northern houses can’t: lumber. Your report of the number of trees felled, hewn, and dried this year – soldier pines for the construction of homes, beeches for furniture, ironwood for making tools – seemed to satisfy the lords in attendance, including Lord Stark and his heir, Rickon Stark, who is sat to his father’s right and the youngest man in attendance. He’s only a few years younger than you, having recently celebrated his twenty-sixth name day. When you gave your report you had looked briefly at him back, and then back to his father – about forty more trees than the previous year, you had finished plainly.

You kept your tone bereft of any emotion for a reason, for you are trying your hardest to keep your thoughts in check. It shocked you at how overwhelming and painful it is to sit so close to these lords of the northern realm, all of whom knew your late husband well. Several grew up alongside him, from training with the sword and bow, to practicing the art of ice fishing throughout the long winter months. Others filled the role as surrogate father after Jon’s own father had died, helping to shape him into a strong and honorable man. One of those men is Lord Stark himself, now in his mid-fifties. You feel his eyes on you from where he sits at the head of the table, watching you try to hide the steadying breaths you’re taking.

Though you find you can bear it no longer, you respectfully wait for a pause between Lord Bolton’s report of the number of sheep slaughtered and processed at the Dreadfort, and Lord Stark’s response, before rising from your seat.

“If you’ll excuse me, my lords,” you say calmly, gathering your skirts in your hands and turning towards the large oak doors leading out of the hall. You hear a smattering of chairs scrape against the stone floor, for northern lords are used to rising chivalrously when a lady enters or leaves their presence, even a widowed lady. You’re careful not to make eye contact with Lord Stark, not quite knowing how he’ll react to your sudden exit from the table and conversation. Whatever his opinion, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re desperate for a moment to truly collect yourself, and to breathe in the late-summer air.

Once outside, you tug your fur-lined cloak tighter around your body and climb the steps up to the wall walk of Winterfell, seeking to follow the path of the inner granite wall to the Hunter’s Gate. You have only been up here only once, with your husband and Lord Stark, but you find you can easily manage the way. The guards stationed along the wall are clearly surprised to see you, but they know who you are, and let you pass by with subtle nods of their heads and murmurs of ‘m’lady.’

Finally at your chosen spot, you stop in front of a crenel to overlook the Wolfswood, as far as the eye can see. The Deepwood lies in the direction you’re gazing, far within the dense forest of pines. What would your husband think of you now, needing a moment alone after simply providing information about felled trees and a mediocre grain harvest? You hope he would understand that it’s more than that – that the weight of his lordship now rests on your shoulders, alone, and that it’s quite heavy and especially painful today.

Though it’s late summer, a light snow has already blanketed this part of the north, and the wind has picked up as well, swirling your hair in spirals. You breathe in the air, filled with the scent of pine and woodsmoke from the lit braziers lining the wall walk. You close your eyes for a moment, trying to halt your racing thoughts.

But the sound of footsteps draws your attention and your eyes blink back open. As you turn your head to the left, towards the direction of the footsteps, you see Lord Cregan Stark approaching, his broad shoulders covered by the thick brown fur of some fearsome northern creature. His cloak is fastened by leather straps, held together by two silver buckles at his chest, in the shape of direwolves – the sigil of his house.

“My lord,” you greet him softly when he stops in front of the crenel next to yours. Embarrassment creeps across your skin, undoubtedly making you flush. He had known where to find you in your moment of weakness and grief.

“My lady,” he responds, his voice low and weathered from constant use over many years, giving orders and responding to the concerns of his people. It’s the way of northern lords, and he’s the northern lord.

You wrap your cloak tighter around your middle, turning to face him fully. “I apologize for leaving the hall. I–”

“You needn’t apologize to me, Lady Glover. I know why you left, and I don’t hold it against you,” he says softly, turning his body towards yours as well. You see the kindness in his expression, the understanding. The change in his stance also makes the wind whip his shoulder-length hair around more dramatically, and you watch the sunlight reflect off of the silver threads that tangle amidst the rest of his brown tresses. The same has happened to his reddish-brown beard, now peppered with gray. Though you’ve known Lord Stark for a decade, and you saw him not long ago at your husband’s burial, you haven’t really noticed until now how the outward signs of age have creeped up on him. But he wears it better than the other men still left in the Great Hall who are of his generation, such as Lord Cerwyn, or older, such as Lord Umber. As you look upon his face, you notice the gray in his hair matches the gray of his eyes – parallel features that you find are actually quite appealing. It suits him, you think.

You nod, casting your eyes towards the stone at your feet before your thoughts can be given away. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”

You hear him inhale deeply, seeming to need the fresh air just as much as you do. “Your husband was very dear to me,” he states quietly. “Like another son.”

You look back up at him now, and give him a weak smile. “He always spoke so highly of you, and often gave you all the credit for his skill with the bow.”

Cregan gives you a small, sad smile in return. “He was a natural – he never really needed my instruction.”

You nod again, and glance out to the Wolfswood for a moment, before looking back to him. “The same can’t be said about his brother.”

Cregan mirrors your earlier behavior, casting his eyes to the stone before looking upon you one more. You can see that he seems to be choosing his words carefully. “How does his progress fair at the Citadel?”

You purse your lips slightly – you can’t help it, for the thought of your late-husband’s younger brother, Ethen, irritates you to no end. “He’s currently working on his healer’s chain, so he has a few more years left of study to complete. A few more years before he will assume his place as Lord Glover, and I will need to leave the North…I think I’ll join my sister and her husband in the Vale.”

Cregan takes a step closer to you, his large frame looming over you even more. His broad shoulders block out the blue sky behind him. “It’s against Westerosi law for the widow of a lord to be removed from her home by the next lord. I would never allow him to make you leave.”

You give him a small, but grateful smile, touched by his words. “Thank you, Lord Stark, but I wouldn’t stay where I’m not welcome. And I would never want to become a burden to you, needing to argue in my favor.” Your voice is quiet, nearly masked by the wind and the rustling of the trees in the distance.

You see his expression harden a bit, a look of determination crossing his seasoned, but still handsome features. “You could never be a burden. Not in the North. Not to me, my lady.”

His words truly do touch you, thawing your heart that has been cold for some time now. “You’re very kind, my lord.” But wanting to change the subject, and lighten the conversation, you look out over the sprawling castle complex before he can say anything else. “It’s beautiful.”

You glance back at him, and see his head has cocked to the side a bit, and there appears to be questions in his eyes.

“Winterfell,” you murmur with a smile, looking around once more at the ancient granite walls. Frost still clings to the northern sides of the turrets of the Great Keep, the Great Hall, the First Keep, and the Broken Tower, where the sun can’t cast its warmth. They stretch high into the sky, surrounded by other buildings and people hurrying between them to tend to their responsibilities, darting this way and that. “You know, the first time Jon and I came to visit, I thought nearly the whole ride about what this castle might look like. I was so sure it would be made of some dark stone, sprawling haphazardly over the land, and surrounded by smoke or fog… The den of the direwolves,” you explain, giving him a smile.

His mouth twitches with amusement as he follows your line of sight across the castle complex.

“But once we broke through the treeline,” you continue. “I thought I’d never seen something so beautiful. It’s formidable, yes, but it took my breath away. And it’s been here for such a long time… If only the walls could talk.”

He looks over at you, a softness blanketing his face now. “They would talk of sleepless nights…” Your eyes connect with his, and for some reason you feel your skin heat again. “Of kings and lords pacing the halls, worrying over their people and threats to the realm.”

You nod, acknowledging this, shifting your shoulders beneath your cloak. “But thousands of Starks have lived here. Surely some of them must have found a moment or two of happiness.”

His gray eyes, nearly the same shade as the stone of his home, slowly search your face for a moment. Under his gaze, you feel your flush creep further up your neck to heat your wind bitten cheeks. “Aye, that’s true… But true happiness hasn’t been found within these walls for quite some time now,” he admits, his age lines becoming more pronounced as his brow furrows.

Your face falls a bit too, understanding his meaning. “You must miss her…Lady Stark.” You state, referring to his late wife, who died five years ago from sweating sickness. It was a terrible loss for House Stark, and for the North.

He inhales deeply again, and looks out over his home once more. “Aye, I do...her loss has made Winterfell very quiet these days,” he replies softly, his jaw flexing as he holds back some emotion, just like you’ve been doing all day.

A sudden boldness seems to overtake your thoughts, and you begin to speak without even realizing what you’re saying.

“Well, then I’ll come to visit you more often,” you state in a rush. He turns his head to meet your eyes again, and you can see surprise in his expression. Not wishing to look like a complete fool, you continue on. “I can sing fairly well, and I know a few jokes, and I can certainly talk your ear off. So much so that I reckon it would put you to sleep.”

He laughs, and the sound of it surprises you as much as you’ve seemed to surprise him. It’s warm and clear, like the crackling of a fire in a hearth. It seems to draw you in – weaving around you like a thick blanket, sheltering you from the cold breeze.

“I could use the rest,” he states as his laughter dies into a chuckle. He gives you a small smirk.

It’s your turn to laugh – it bubbles out of you in the way a stream cascades over rocks, splashing this way and that. When you look back up at him, you see a genuine smile on his face and he lets out another chuckle. The lines around his eyes seem to crinkle even more with amusement.

“I would like that, my lady,” he says softly, once your laughter has subsided. His expression is more smoothed out now, much more collected – the face of a man who’s of great importance. But you can also see a warmth there too, and something, you think, akin to hope; perhaps hope that you will come to visit again soon.

“Well, my lord, please send a raven to the Deepwood when you’d next like some company, and rest,” you state, giving him a shy smile.

“I will,” he murmurs with a nod, returning your small smile. And now it’s your turn to hope that he means what he says.

The trees begin to thin out, allowing more light to stream through the canopy of pine needles.

You didn’t have to hope for long that you would hear from Lord Cregan Stark. As soon as you and your entourage returned to the Deepwood, the maester presented you with a raven scroll.

To the Lady of House Glover,

I will be traveling to the Wall on the morrow, and will return to Winterfell within a fortnight. I am hoping you will return to Winterfell then too, so we might continue our conversation.

Yours, ever faithfully,

Cregan of the House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North

The maester confirmed that the raven must have been sent the morning that you left Winterfell. It warmed you, more deeply than you expected it would, that he was eager for your company again so soon.

And now your horse finally steps into sunlight, which shimmers off of the layer of snow that covers the hills and rocky outcrops that surround Winterfell. The castle, as breathtaking as ever, comes into full view. As do members of the Stark household guard, racing across the frozen landscape to meet you and the men of House Glover who have accompanied you and your lady’s maid, Hannah, back to Winterfell. Lord Stark doesn’t appear to be with his own men.

“Lady Glover,” a man of House Stark greets you, the head of a fierce direwolf emblazoned across his breastplate. “Welcome back to Winterfell. Lord Stark apologizes that he couldn’t be here to greet you in person. He’s injured, and is unable to walk or ride at the moment. If you’ll come with us, Maester Nevin will show you to your rooms.” The guards turn their horses back towards Winterfell, expecting their guests to follow them.

You do, but you feel panic creep up your spine as you urge your horse forward. He’s injured? How badly? What has happened?

When you finally reach the inner courtyard of the Hunter’s Gate, you spot the maester, and quickly dismount your horse.

“Please take me to Lord Stark at once,” you say, kindly, but also firmly and clearly. The maester looks hesitant for a moment, but then seems to decide that arguing with the lady of an important northern house, and one who is the guest of his liege lord, wouldn’t be in his best interest.

“Right this way, my lady,” the old man instructs, gesturing a weathered hand towards the Great Keep. You nod, gathering your skirts and your riding cloak in your hands, and follow him.

He leads you inside, down a long corridor, and up a set of spiral stairs, before stopping in front of a large oak door with a running direwolf carved into its middle. He knocks.

“Enter,” you hear the muffled voice of Lord Stark call. The maester obeys.

“Lady Glover has arrived for you, my lord,” the maester announces, allowing you to enter the chambers.

You step in slowly, now worried that you might have overstepped some kind of propriety – entering into a lord’s chamber like this, especially one who is not your husband.

“My lady,” Lord Stark greets you, gingerly pushing himself up on his bed to lean against the headboard, his olive green tunic ruffling over his torso as he moves. You can see that his left ankle appears to be wrapped securely with strips of cloth.

“What happened, my lord?” You ask, forgetting your momentary hesitation, and stride over to sit in the armchair at his bedside. He gives you a sheepish look before he glances behind you to the maester.

“Thank you, Maester Nevin.”

“My lord, my lady,” the maester responds, and you hear the gentle click of the door shutting behind him.

Cregan turns his attention back to you. “I, um…tripped walking down the stairs this morning and twisted my ankle, rather painfully,” he says, sounding embarrassed. He looks at his hands now folded in his lap before glancing back up at you. “I’m truly an old man now.”

You shake your head, working to remove your traveling cloak as your nimble fingers tug the clasp at your breast. “You’re not old, my lord. I suspect you were simply focused on something very important and forgot about the divet in the stairs from where shoes have worn down the stone for generations,” you say lightly, giving him a small smile as you lean back against the chair.

He smiles too, looking a little less sheepish now. “Thank you for returning to Winterfell, and so soon, my lady.”

“Thank you for inviting me, my lord.”

“Cregan,” he murmurs, adjusting the furs draped over his lap. “Just ‘Cregan’ will do, my lady.”

You return his smile, suddenly feeling warm – there’s a fire blazing in the hearth, but you know that’s not the only reason for the heat spreading through your limbs. You’ve thought about this moment many times since you last saw him.

“I would ask that you call me by my name then too, Cregan.”

He nods, seeming pleased by the familiarity that’s building between the two of you. You certainly feel the same.

“Can I get you anything?” You ask, noticing an empty glass on the nightstand next to the bed.

“I should be asking you that,” he says, tugging at the pillows behind him to adjust them more comfortably.

You let out a light laugh, and stand before reaching for the glass and then walking over to a table where there’s a pitcher of water. You can feel his eyes follow your movements, and you make eye contact as you turn around and walk back to him, the heat in your body burning even more. You hold out the glass, and he takes it gratefully.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, taking a long sip while you sit back down.

“Well, I must say,” you begin, but wait a moment for him to finish drinking. “I’m rather impressed that you started your rest before I even arrived.” You fold your hands in your lap and give him a teasing look.

He laughs. That same warm laugh that escaped him on the wall walk during your previous visit. It makes butterflies flutter in your belly.

“Will you forgive me?” He asks, smiling, and leaning back against his pillows.

“Of course, Cregan.” You hold his gaze for a moment, and then look around, feeling your flush spread to your cheeks. Your eyes land on a stack of books, next to the bed.

You sit forward, craning your neck to read the titles on the spines. “Are these books that you’re reading?” You ask, eyes flicking to him and then back to the stack.

“Maester Nevin brought them up here in case I wanted to read while I…rest,” he says, glancing down to where the books are. “But I’ve misplaced the glasses I wear to read,” he finishes quietly. You see color sweep over his cheeks now too.

You stand again, walking over to the books and kneel down. “Which is your favorite?” You ask, looking up at him.

He watches you for a moment, like he still can’t believe you’re here, and then clears his throat. “Oh, I think…Legends of Giants by Maester Calum Irons.”

You locate the book in the middle of the stack, tugging it free, and then stand once more. It’s old – very old by the look of its worn leather binding. You’ve never read this one.

“How about I read to you for a bit?” You ask, cradling the book to your chest. He looks up at you, his wintery eyes searching your face. Then he moves his hand holding the water glass to place it on the nightstand once more. As he draws his hand back to the bed, he just barely brushes your dress with his fingertips.

He nods, slowly shifting himself further down the bed so he can lay more comfortably. “That would be welcome.” He gives you a light smile, but winces a little when his foot gets caught around the blanket. You step over to gently tug the blanket free and adjust his ankle carefully, making sure that he’s comfortable.

You glance up to see his expression has softened even more, and you know deep down that he’s very pleased that you’re here. It makes the butterflies in your belly flutter even harder as you sit once more, opening the book in your lap. With a deep breath, and a smile tugging at your lips, you begin to read.

“Do you really believe this bit?” You ask, still not quite convinced that giants helped to build the Wall of ice further north. You look up from the book, but see that he’s fallen asleep, truly resting now. You watch the slow rise and fall of his chest – a bit of graying chest hair peeks out from beneath his loosened tunic – and wonder for a moment what it would be like to trail your fingers down his torso. Surprised by your thoughts, you gently shut the book and place it on the floor. As you stand, you notice the fire has started to burn low. You silently cross the room to place a few more logs in the hearth, coaxing the flames to burn brightly again.

Satisfied, you begin to slowly walk around the room, admiring the decorations throughout his chambers. Direwolves appear tastefully everywhere you look – carved into wooden furniture, such as on the sides of his desk and the front of the bed frame. The heavy, ice-blue drapes framing the windows also have silver wolves sewn into them, leaping across the fabric. The stone fireplace too: there are carved statues of wolves sat on their haunches on either side of the hearth. You find the decorations are simple and comforting, making this room warm and inviting on a cold winter’s day.

Your feet carry you over to one of the windows, and you peer out into the courtyard below. Easily recognizable is the Library Tower, with a spiral staircase framing its outer walls, on the other side of the yard. You take a long breath, admiring the pleasant view into the beating heart of Winterfell.

Having looked your fill, you move away from the window, hugging your arms around yourself.

“Is there anything you would change?”

You spin around to face Cregan, not having noticed that he’d woken up. How long, you wonder, has he been watching you walk around his chambers?

He shifts against the pillows, clearly trying to ease the stiffness from his body. He tilts his head too, evidently expecting an answer to his question.

You swallow, and rub your hands along your sides, before glancing over at the windows once more. You look back at him. “I might place a settee beneath that window.” You unwind one arm from around your body, pointing a finger towards the window with the best view of the courtyard. “It seems like a nice place to relax, with a book, and also enjoy watching the bustling castle life below.”

He nods, a smile playing at his lips, as you walk back over to the chair beside his bed. “And what about you?” You ask, sitting once more and folding your hands elegantly in your lap again. “Is there anything you would change?”

He considers the question for a moment, glancing around the room. “I’d make this bed bigger,” he finally says.

You feel your skin flush again, and you cross your legs for something to do.

“I’ve never been able to sleep this way,” he explains, zipping his finger from the left to the right across his chest. “Only this way,” he finishes, his finger moving up and down the length of his chest, indicating the way that people normally sleep. You can hear the humor in his voice, and it pleases you.

“Mmm,” you hum, pretending to think through his explanation. “Well, you should have a new bed made, Cregan. That way you could even lay diagonally across it.”

He laughs, bright and clear, seeming to appreciate your sense of humor, which clearly matches his. It makes the butterflies in your belly beat their wings harder, and you laugh as well.

“I’ve never thought of that,” he says, still smiling. “Alright then, a settee for the window, and a new bed that is large enough to fit me from any direction.”

You nod, still smiling too, and reach up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. He watches you do it, and it feels more intimate than you’re sure it ought to.

“Are you hungry?” He asks suddenly, stiffly pushing himself to sit up in bed. You watch the muscles in his chest and arms flex under his tunic, and it makes your flush run hotter. Even as a middle-aged man, he still appears as strong and fit as the youngest and fiercest of his bannermen.

Before you can do or say anything rash, you tear your eyes away from his body to meet his gaze once more, and nod. “I can fetch the maester and ask for something to be brought to us here.”

He shakes his head lightly. “I’d prefer to go down to the kitchens, if you’d accompany me.”

“Cregan, I’m sure you can hardly stand, let alone walk down to the kitchens,” you protest, sliding to the edge of your chair as you watch him gingerly sit all the way up and slowly move his injured ankle off the side of the bed.

“Alone, yes. With you, I think I can manage,” he states, meeting your eyes. The gentle tone he uses and the words themselves make warmth spread throughout all of you now, knowing that it’s he who thinks of you in this way. He shifts to the edge of the bed, which makes his knees just barely brush against yours.

You bite at your lip for a moment, and then nod with a small smile, agreeing to his plan.

He returns your smile, and then motions his head in the direction of a wardrobe on the other side of the bed. “There are some socks in there and a pair of leather slippers. I think I can manage to put those on, if you’d be kind enough to get them for me.”

You stand, moving carefully around his ankle, but your skirts still brush against his wool trousers anyway. You gather your dress more securely in your hands, trying not to meet his eye, and make your way to the wardrobe to retrieve the items. You quickly return and he holds his hand out for them.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, making to take them from you, but you kneel down at his feet instead.

“Here, let me,” you say, glancing up at him. His breath is coming a little more shallow now, but you try not to think too much of it, and pull the sock and slipper onto his uninjured foot with gentle, nimble fingers. You peek up at him once more, and carefully, as if he, a rugged northman, is made of glass, place the sock and slipper on his injured limb with careful precision. He only winces once, and he tries to hide it by clearing his throat.

“There,” you say warmly, standing back up in front of him. As you smooth out your dress, you realize that you’re standing between his spread legs, much closer to him than you realized you would be. He looks up at you.

“You have a gentle touch,” he murmurs, his hands coming to rest on his thighs.

You swallow and let out a shaky breath. “Well, you’re a very brave patient.”

He smiles. It’s warm and bright, and you know, deep in your bones, that this is a smile that very few people get to see – his genuine smile. You feel lucky to be one of them, and you grin back at him.

“Here,” you say, shaking your head of such sentimental thoughts before taking a step back. “Let me help you to your feet.” You hold out your hands.

He nods, and his warm, calloused hands encircle your smaller ones. It’s as if sparks flicker up through your arms from the feel of his touch, briefly stealing your breath. He appears not to notice as you slowly help him rise to his feet, letting him find his balance. When he does, you find yourselves very close to each other, your breast almost brushing against his lower chest. He seems momentarily reluctant to let go of you, and, if you were honest, you’d say you feel the same.

“Perhaps I should walk on your injured side so you can lean on me for support,” you suggest softly, looking up at him. He inhales slowly, his lips parting as he does. You feel a sudden urgency to kiss him, and you find yourself leaning closer to him, as if an invisible string is pulling you towards his body. You swear he leans in too, until you realize how inappropriate your thoughts are and you pull back a touch.

He nods, his expression shifting into something you can’t quite read. “Yes, that would be very helpful, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” you say breathlessly. You gently let go of his hands and move around to his injured side, weaving your arm underneath his and around his lower back, to curl your fingers around his sturdy side. It doesn’t escape your notice how solid he is, like the stalwart pines that cover the North. He lifts his own arm to curl around your shoulder, and leans on you a bit for balance.

He’s incredibly warm too, which makes you instinctively lean into him more, drawn to his heat. You are acutely aware of his scent as well – like the pines he resembles, mixed with woodsmoke and something unfamiliar; something that must be him alone. You turn your head towards his chest, and your inhale is filled with his essence. It stirs something in you – something akin to longing – as you meet his eye.

“Shall we go, then?” He asks softly, but wintery gray eyes appear to hold more questions than just that one. Questions are forming in your mind too, but you nod before any slip from your lips.

Together, and slowly, you help him hobble from his chambers and down the stairs. As you near the last few steps, your free hand instinctively comes up to splay across his chest, not wanting him to fall forward, for you can tell that he’s in pain. His jaw is clenched, his body is tight with tension, and he’s taking heavy breaths. But you can also tell that he’s determined to push through the discomfort. You truly don’t know him well enough to be sure that this is typical for him, but you suspect it is. Your husband was stubborn – and all Northmen, you have found, are much the same.

Upon reaching the stone floor at the bottom of the steps, he lets out a soft groan, and your hand slips from his chest, falling back to your side. You look up at him, and he catches your eye.

“You look worried,” he says a little breathlessly.

You know your expression is giving away the pity and concern you feel, but you can’t help it. “You’re in pain, Cregan,” you say gently.

“I’ve suffered worse. No need to worry. The kitchens are just that way,” he assures you, gesturing with a hand around the corner, and towards the Great Hall. “No more stairs.”

You nod, knowing there is no use in arguing with him. “Well, let’s keep moving then so we can get you to a chair,” you say, a bit more firmly than you meant it to come out. He chuckles lightly, clearly understanding that you do have some say in what comes next. It makes a smile pull at your lips.

As you continue on towards the Great Hall, a servant carrying a basket of linens crosses your path.

“M’lord,” she exclaims with concern, setting down her basket. “M’lord, there is no need for you to be out of bed. Why didn’t you call for one of us?” She’s an older woman, and you can tell from her tone, is used to mothering Cregan in this way.

He shakes his head lightly, giving her a small smile. “I’m fine, Georgina. I wanted to stretch my legs, and Lady Glover is all that I require to get to the kitchens.”

Georgina’s eyebrows knit together, clearly not believing him, but you can tell decides not to press the matter further. “I see,” she says curtly. “Well, if you require anything further, please don’t hesitate to call for me or Maester Nevin.”

“I promise,” he says patiently, nodding.

“M’lord,” she says, giving him a small curtsy, and then she turns to you and does the same. “M’lady.”

You give her a smile, and watch the older woman pick up her basket once more and continue her walk. The two of you continue on too.

“She has worked at Winterfell the whole of my life, and then some,” Cregan explains, for he can see the questions in your eyes when you glance at each other. “She has been like a second mother to me.”

“I’m glad to hear someone is looking out for your well being,” you say, giving him a lightly reproachful look, and he gives you a small smirk.

“Well, I consider myself lucky because you’re here now too,” he says, leaning into you more as he pushes open the door to the Great Hall with his free hand. His words make you feel special and appreciated, which you haven’t felt in a long while.

You help him through the doorway, and then push the massive door shut behind you. You find it’s truly as heavy as it looks. “Yes, but to help you rest.”

He chuckles again, and the two of you continue your way through the Great Hall, with you following his lead to head towards where the kitchens must be. When you enter them, a team of servants are bustling around the room, clearly working on dinner preparation. They all halt in their tracks once they notice your arrival, with murmurs of “m’lord” and then “m’lady.”

Cregan politely requests that they leave the kitchens for a bit, and they all do, but not without looks of confusion and curiosity. You feel your cheeks heat up again as they pass by the pair of you.

Once you’re alone, you lead him over to a stool tucked beneath a work table, and help him sit. He lets out a shaky breath when he’s finally comfortable.

“Better?” You ask, giving him a small smile.

“Much,” he admits, looking up at you with a lopsided grin. “Have you ever cut an apple?”

You’re sure your blush deepens. “No, I haven’t.”

He nods. “I’ll teach you,” he says softly. It makes the butterflies in your stomach flutter even harder than they have the whole walk here. “There are baskets of fruit, just over there,” he says, pointing to a set of shelves with woven baskets tucked neatly into them. “And there are knives in that block, just there.” He gestures to a wooden block on a far counter, with ironwood handles poking out of it. “Pick whichever one feels comfortable to hold.”

You follow his instructions, and locate an apple and pick what you think is the least intimidating knife, holding its handle gingerly in your hands. You bring them over to him as he tugs a wooden board from a stack on the table, and then stretches his body across the tabletop to pick up a small pot next to what looks like herbs and spices. He then pulls another wooden board closer to the two of you, which has a wheel of cheese on it. Finally, he pulls the stool next to his out from under the table and pats it, indicating for you to sit next to him. The stool is quite close to his, so your elbows brush against each other when you sit down. For a moment, you wonder if he did this one purpose. It makes your heart flutter.

You smooth out your dress and then look at him, waiting for his next move.

“I’ll show you what to do, okay?” He asks quietly, placing the apple in the middle of the wooden board, and picks up the knife in his right hand. You nod, and then focus your eyes on his hands.

“First, curl these fingers back on the apple so you don’t accidentally cut yourself,” he instructs, and you watch as he curls the tips of his left-hand fingers back against the fruit. “Then, place your knife like this,” he continues, holding the blade against the apple. “And use your wrist as a leaver, pushing down and rocking the knife like this,” he finishes, slicing through the apple.

You look up at his face with a shy smile on yours. “I think I can handle that.”

He returns your smile, and slides the wooden board in front of you. Following his instructions, you slice through another section of the apple, surprised by how much force you actually need to push the knife through the fruit.

“Well done,” he praises you, and it makes your heart beat faster. “You continue cutting that up into wedges, and I’ll slice us some cheese.”

The two of you continue working in a comfortable silence, your arms occasionally brushing against each other. When both of you are done, he places slices of cheese on top of the wedges of apples, and then drizzles a light layer of honey over them. You’ve never tasted this before, and you’re certainly intrigued.

“After you,” he says politely, gesturing to the board. You pick up a stack and take a bite. It’s a delicious combination – salty and sweet, both complementing each other nicely. He picks up his own pieces and bites into them, and you can’t help but watch his hands and mouth as juice from the apple and honey mix and start to drip down his fingers. He finishes his piece before you’re even halfway through yours, and licks the wet slurry from his fingers, watching your face as he does it. It’s almost erotic, what he does, and you find yourself mirroring his movements, licking your fingers as well. As you do, you watch him swallow thickly, and his eyes flick down to your mouth, before he meets your gaze once more. You suddenly feel overly warm.

“I’ve never had this before,” you breathe, shifting a bit in your chair.

It seems to pull him from his trance. “Have you not? Do you like it?”

You nod with a smile, trying to will your racing heart to slow down. “I do, very much. Do you make this for yourself often?” You look down at the wooden board, and then back to him.

He chuckles. “More often than I should. I come down here, late at night, on most nights.”

“Why on earth are you coming down in the middle of the night?” You ask with a giggle as your hands come to rest on the table. You instinctively angle your body towards his, which makes your knees softly brush against each other, and that makes your heart start to race again.

You see his cheeks color with pink and he looks down shyly for a moment. “My body tends to wake me up in the middle of the night, from aches and pains, and–” He stops short, and you watch the color deepen on his face.

“What?” You ask with a smile and a light laugh.

He shakes his head sheepishly. “I shouldn’t say what I was about to, to a lady,” he murmurs.

You roll your eyes playfully, and pick up another stack of apple and cheese. “I’m not some blushing maiden, Cregan, and I’m one of your bannermen. You can speak plainly,” you say encouragingly, and he watches you bite into your piece.

He takes a breath, and then speaks. “Men find, as they age, that they will need to…relieve themselves more often, and often in the middle of the night. And so because I’ve woken up, it helps to stretch my legs. I’m usually hungry too, so I make something small like this,” he tilts his head, motioning to the board.

You feel yourself blush now, understanding his meaning. You nod your head and lightly chew at your bottom lip. “I see.”

He nods, a smile playing at his lips too. “And you’re nothing like my other bannermen. You’re much more clever and…pleasing to look at,” he finishes quietly, picking up another stack for himself.

You know your blush must deepen from his compliment, and that he must see it too. Not quite sure how to respond, you change the subject before he can say anything else, and ask, “Where are your children? Are they at home?”

He shakes his head and licks the honey from his lips. “No, they’re not. Sarra and Alys have traveled to the Riverlands to spend time with their cousins,” he says, and you know he’s referring to House Blackwood and his late wife’s family. “And Rickon has gone south to White Harbor to escort a load of iron for ship welding. I suspect he’s also visiting with a young woman that I’ve come to understand he has taken a liking to, but he’s rarely that forthcoming with me about these things,” he admits, shifting in his seat.

“I suppose he’s not forthcoming with you about his romantic dalliances because he knows you won’t approve,” you say, a friendly tease in your tone.

He chuckles. “Aye, you’re right about that,” he agrees, tracing his finger lightly against the grooves in the wooden table.

You laugh too, and glance around the room so you don’t blush even more under his gaze.

“I hope you don’t mind me asking, but…” he begins, and you look at him once more. “You and Jon never had children.” He states, tilting his head to the side. From his expression, you can tell he has questions, but is waiting to see if you are willing to discuss this topic.

“No, we didn’t,” you agree, taking a deep breath. “But it wasn’t for…a lack of trying,” you admit. He nods, glancing down at his lap briefly before looking back up at you. You know he understands your meaning now. “But our maester, and several other maesters, determined that the problem seemed to lie with Jon, rather than with me… Which was a shame. I know he would have been a good father.”

You watch Cregan’s eyebrows knit together a bit, clearly thinking through your former situation. “You’re right in that, he would have been a wonderful father,” he agrees, giving you a sad smile. “And you, I think, would have been a wonderful mother. But you’re young – it’s still not too late for you.” His words are kind, but they twist something inside you – a combined feeling of longing and confusion.

“Would you ever want more children?” You ask before you can stop yourself.

You watch his eyes widen just a bit, for your question seems to surprise him as much as you’ve surprised yourself. You seem to keep doing this with him, for reasons you can’t explain.

He nods. “Yes, if I ever took another wife, I would welcome more children,” he says gently, his eyes languidly searching your face. He swallows slowly for a moment, and then speaks once more. “If you were to marry again, would you want children?”

Your eyes search his, trying to see if there’s some other question in them besides the one he’s just asked. Unable to read him clearly, for you know his skills at hiding his true thoughts are well-honed, as they would be for any lord of his age, you answer only what he has asked.

“Yes. Yes, I would.”

As your feet carry you through the still Godswood, on your way to the Glass Gardens, you think about your days that have pleasantly turned from one to another at Winterfell. The snows have fallen more thickly now, a fresh blanket of white covering the surfaces of the castle and grounds each morning. Both you and Cregan know that returning to Deepwood Motte at this point would be treacherous, but he seems not to mind that the length of your stay is indeterminable. As you have bid each other goodnight each evening, you feel he’s more and more pleased that you’re here.

You’ve spent hours and hours with him now, helping to nurse him back to health, talking with him, eating with him, walking and riding with him, and laughing with him. You both clearly enjoy each other’s company, with conversations flowing freely and a familiarity that has easily settled between the two of you. You’ve talked about a variety of topics, first in his chambers and over meals while his ankle continued to heal, and then on horseback rides too around the sprawling hills and knolls that surround Winterfell. On one particular ride, you asked him what it’s like being the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, and he asked you in return what it was like to leave your home in the West to make a new and permanent life in the North.

Challenging, you both agreed about your respective backgrounds and positions. He confessed that he also loses sleep at night from worrying over things he can’t control, such as when the first snows fall at the end of summer, which impacts the annual harvest, to wars and other demands placed upon the North in fealty to the whole of the Seven Kingdoms and maintaining peace throughout it. You stated that you understand some of what he feels. As the lady of a northern house, you have worried yourself over how your people will survive the harsh winters and what sacrifices will be asked of them on top of everything else. He seemed pleased by your answer, seeing that you take your role very seriously.

For you, moving to the North had been a challenge, as your family had lived a comfortable life in the more temperate lands of the West, and many of the things northerners think of every day were things that had never crossed your mind before, such as will the amount of grain stored last through the long winters. But you adjusted quickly, and felt you took up the mantle of Lady Glover as best as you could.

“Jon was so patient and kind as I learned my role and responsibilities,” you had stated as you and Cregan rode around the outskirts of Wintertown.

Cregan had smiled and said he was glad to hear it. “But were you happy? Has living in the North made you happy?” He had asked, his gray eyes matching the wintry sky above you, indicating that more snow was soon to fall.

“Yes,” you admitted. “Yes, I was happy… I still try to be, even though Jon is gone now. The North, though harsh, makes you fall in love with it.”

He had chuckled and agreed with you, the lines around his eyes crinkling deeper as he smiled. “It has its beauty and charm, this is true.”

“What is your favorite thing about the North?” You asked, as you and Cregan steered your horses down a path cleared of snow, heading back towards the East Gate.

He thought for a moment, and then said, “The smell.”

“The smell?” You asked with a light laugh.

He looked over at you, a smile on his lips. “The air smells clean and crisp. Hints of evergreens, woodsmoke, and wet earth all around you. I’ve been to the South, which smells dreadful. The moment I returned to the North, I felt like I could truly breathe again.”

You had never thought about it that way. “I’m glad you get to wake up in the North everyday then.”

He had pulled his horse to a halt, and his eyes fixed on your face and he simply gazed at you for a moment. He has begun to do a lot of that, as if he truly enjoys looking at you. And every time, it makes you blush and your heart race. “I’m glad that you do too,” he finally said. And in that moment, with the cold breeze whipping your hair around and filling your lungs, you were sure he was trying to say something else too. As if he meant to say, “I’m glad that you do too, with me.”

It’s like this, now, you think, as your feet crunch over the frozen ground, nearly to the entrance of the Glass Gardens. The two of you say so much, but sometimes you feel that certain things are left unsaid. That the two of you are dancing around not just topics of the past and future, but of the two of you. Of what he really thinks of you, of what you really think of him, and what that means between the two of you.

You know how you feel about him now. You’ve been without the love and affection of a husband for nearly a year now, and you had forgotten what it’s like to be the focus of a man’s attention, and of one who looks at you so tenderly. The more time you spend with Cregan, the more you feel drawn to him and his quiet gentleness towards you. His presence commands a room, there’s never been a doubt about that since you first laid eyes on him many years ago. But now that you’ve had the time to study him more closely, and the way that he carries himself in his lordship, you find you can’t look away. On a few occasions during your visit, you’ve sat in the Great Hall with him, just off to the side of the lord’s chair, while he answers the queries of northerners – settling squabbles between neighbors, offering resources to widowed women with young children, weighing in on the details of betrothals. The room falls to a hush when he enters, and when he speaks. His voice is never loud or forceful. It’s always measured and he exudes the quiet confidence of a man who has earned respect over many years, but who doesn’t take that for granted either. He listens intently, considers his pronouncements carefully, and speaks clearly, without fanfare.

It’s impressive to witness, and the more you watch him do this, the more you have found yourself thinking about what it might be like to climb into his lap, while he sits in that chair, and ask him to weigh in on matters that concern you, and him. You wonder what it would feel like to have his hands curl around your waist, tugging you closer as you confess your thoughts. What it might feel like to caress your fingers through his graying beard, like he does when he’s thinking something through. What it might be like for his lips to brush against yours as he shares his thoughts with you.

The first time these thoughts crept up on you, it made you so flushed that he noticed, and thought you had gotten too warm from sitting so close to the hearth. You had agreed with him, and stepped outside to cool off and regain your composure. Never before has your imagination been captured like this – you’ve met countless Northmen, but none so assured in himself, and so thoughtful of you, that he leaves you breathless. Your husband was a wonderful man, and you miss him dearly, but Cregan is another man entirely. You feel sure that you’ll never meet another man like him.

And it doesn’t help that your sleeping quarters are right next to his, in the Stark family tower. You wonder if he did this on purpose, desiring to keep you close by, rather than place you in the Guest House. If he did, you’re glad of it. He always walks you to your door, sees you safely inside, and bids you goodnight. And as you lie awake in bed, tossing and turning as your fantasies become more lucid in your mind, you often hear him rise from his bed and make his way down the stairs. It takes all of your effort not to get up too and stop him from leaving for the kitchens, and ask if he would spend his sleepless moments with you instead. When you finally hear him return, you feel comforted by his presence too, knowing his strength, protection, and compassion are just through the wall behind your head.

You take a deep breath, trying to shake your thoughts as you approach the large wooden door to the Glass Gardens. You decided to come here while Cregan attended to business with some of Winterfell’s stone masons, and to find a place to quiet your mind, not rile yourself up.

Pulling the door open, you are instantly greeted by warm, humid air, as if you’re beside the sea, not in the middle of the North. It’s a welcoming reprieve from the icy chill outside the glass enclosures. You look around and see neat rows of garden beds, framed in with wooden boards, and dotted with plants throughout them. Most are fruits and vegetables that you recognize – for instance, the frilly tops of carrots poking up from the soil. You walk slowly, admiring the garden beds and how the plants seem to be thriving here.

You hear a door open on the farside of the glasshouse, and turn to see an elderly woman walking through, with a basket full of what looks like raspberries.

“M’lady,” she says, giving you a curtsy, all while maintaining the balance of the basket on her hip. “Can I help you with something?” She asks kindly.

“Oh, no, thank you…” you start, but you’re not quite sure of her name.

She realizes what you are asking. “I’m called Miranda, m’lady. I’m the Head Gardener here.”

“Thank you, Miranda. I just wanted to see what the Glass Gardens looked like. I’ve never been here, and I thought I would leave Lord Stark to speak with his men without me in tow.” You give her a sheepish look.

She smiles at you, and you can see a knowing look cross her face. “You’re more than welcome here, m’lady.”

You smile back at her, and look around. “Do all of the glasshouses grow fruits and vegetables?”

Miranda walks over to come stand next to you, and a bed of what you think might be snow peas. “There are five glasshouses, and four and a half of them grow food. The other half of the fifth one, just that way,” she points towards the glass door she came through, and you can see now that all of the glasshouses appear connected by glass causeways. “That bit grows flowers, m’lady. Most are for medicinal purposes, but not all.”

“Flowers?” You ask, trying to contain your excitement. It’s been so long since you’ve seen flowers in lush bloom, for they just don’t grow in abundance in the North like they do where you were raised in the West. “I would love to see them.”

Miranda smiles widely and nods. “Of course, m’lady. I’ll bring you to them.” She motions a hand for you to follow her, and you do. “Would you like some raspberries?” She asks as you two walk side by side.

“Oh my, thank you,” you say, and she carefully scoops up some from her basket and places them in your cupped palm. “These grow in the third glasshouse, if you’re ever looking for a tasty treat,” she says, giving you a wink. It makes you giggle and you nod.

Finally, she gestures for you to enter the last glasshouse, and brings you to the back section. Rows of flowers are tucked in neatly, and their scent perfumes the air. Your eyes land first on bright orange flowers. “What are these?” You ask. You swear you’ve seen them before, but you can’t remember the name.

“Those are poppies, m’lady. Their seeds are what makes milk of the poppy,” she explains, her nimble fingers tilting a bloom so you can spot the seeds nestled inside.

“Oh!” You exclaim, now remembering that your family’s maester grew these in his herb and medicine garden too. “Yes, of course. I thought I recognized them.”

She smiles at you, but a bush beyond her shoulder catches your eye. “Are those roses?”

“Yes, those are golden roses,” Miranda confirms, and she leads you over to them.

What a delight, you think, to see them growing in the North. You lean down to inhale their perfume – a wonderfully rich fragrance with a hint of lemon. These buttery yellow roses have always been your favorite.

“When the petals are crushed and mixed with water, it can be drunk to help with inflammation in the body. When your muscles are stiff and achy, for example. Maseter Nevin drinks a small glass each day,” she says with a smile.

“They’re delightful – they’ve always been my favorite. I didn’t know they had a medicinal purpose too.” You return her smile.

“Ah, yes, m’lady. Sometimes beautiful things can be more than just that.” She gives you the look that a mother would, admiring her young daughter. It warms you inside.

“I think you’re quite right, Miranda.”

A throat clears from the doorway, behind the two of you, and you both turn to see Cregan standing there. His thick cloak almost makes him seem out of place in the warm glasshouse, but he’s a welcome sight to you.

“M’lord,” Miranda greets him, inclining her head.

“Miranda,” he says in his deep voice, walking over to the two of you. “My lady.”

“My lord,” you say softly, feeling the warmth in your veins spreading even more now that he’s here. He stops before you, a small smile on his face. You’ve missed that smile, and you’ve only been away from each other for no more than an hour.

Miranda seems to notice something in your exchange, and must decide to excuse herself. “I should continue on with my harvest. Do call for me, m’lady, if I can be of further assistance,” she says, curtsying once more. “M’lord.” She nods at him too.

“Thank you, Miranda,” you say gratefully, and she gives you a smile before walking off, back the way you both came.

When you’re alone, Cregan finally speaks. He looks pleased, you hope, to see you. “Are you enjoying the Glass Gardens?”

“Very much. I didn’t know roses grew at Winterfell until Miranda showed them to me,” you say, gesturing down to the bush at your side.

“Do you like them?” He asks gently, stepping closer to you before leaning down to press his nose to a bloom, his hair fanning across his face.

“They’re my favorite. Just as you love the smell of the North, I love the smell of golden roses,” you say, leaning down too to smell them once more, delighted with being this close to him too.

When you both straighten back up, you see his expression is even softer.

You look at him for a moment. “What?” you ask gently, smiling.

“These roses were my mother’s favorite too,” he murmurs, his eyes roving slowly over your face.

“Lady Gilliane?” You say, your smile spreading wider.

“Mhm,” he hums, his smile spreading too. “I remember how much she loved coming in here to tend to them. I think it brought her peace.”

You reach out a hand to touch the satin petals of one of the blooms with your fingertips, still smiling. “I’m honored then to have something in common with the beloved Lady Gilliane,” you say gently. “Who was also a Glover,” you suddenly remember, looking up at him. “Much more of a Glover than I could ever be.”

Cregan shakes his head gently, his expression still soft. “When my mother became the Lady of Winterfell, she truly became a Stark, in her heart and soul, and no one ever saw her as anything different,” he explains, glancing down at the roses and then back up at you. “It is the same for you.”

He must notice you blushing, for he continues on.

“As a Glover, I mean.” You see color in his cheeks now too, which could be explained away as being too warm in the glasshouse.

“Of course. Thank you,” you say, truly grateful for his kind words. “I shall think of her now when I see these roses.”

He nods and then says gently, “She would have liked that.” He takes a deep breath and you bask in the tender warmth that he directs at you. “We should make our way to the Great Hall for dinner.”

“This was truly delicious,” you say, finishing the last of the pheasant on your plate.

Cregan takes a small sip of his wine, his glass nearly empty, and nods. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“It’s, um…it’s nice to have company for meals,” you admit, and you feel his keen gaze while you finish your own wine. “It can be quite lonely at the Deepwood…especially at night.” You glance at him, and see a small smirk playing at his lips. You instantly feel silly for saying something that could be taken as suggestive.

“I mean to say,” you try to back track, “that as a woman, you tend to hear all of the strange sounds much more when you’re alone at night.”

“I understand,” he says, nodding more solemnly this time.

You try to shift the focus to him, thinking of him by himself at night. “I’m sure you must feel the same too.” But your brain catches up with your mouth, realizing that you’ve just foolishly made an assumption about him. “Sorry, I ought not to assume that. You’re a lord, so things must be different for you.”

You meet his eyes again, trying to shake off your embarrassment.

“I believe,” he says softly, leaning forward to fold his arms over one another on top of the table, before looking at you. “That I’m just as lonely as you are.”

You let out a shaky breath, understanding his meaning.

“And you’re always welcome here. Always.” His piercingly gray eyes hold your gaze, and you know he means it. And now you’re almost certain too that he’s been having similar thoughts to you, about what it would be like to spend your nights together, rather than alone.

“Thank you, Cregan,” you murmur, and you boldly place your hand over his forearm, giving it a gentle squeeze.

His eyes seem to be asking you the questions you so long for him to voice. His head tilts a little as he looks at you, and his lips part, as if he’s trying to find the right words.

“Shall I walk you to your chambers then?” He finally murmurs.

You nod slowly, trying very hard to hide your sudden disappointment, and place your napkin on the table. You stand, smoothing out your dress, and he stands as well, following you from the Great Hall.

You try to stay ahead of him, so he won’t see the confusion that you know must be etched across your face. But his long strides easily keep pace with you, despite his ankle only having just finished healing.

When you make it to the top of the stairs, you start to walk past his chambers to your room next door, hoping for a brief ‘goodnight’ between the two of you.

But instead of following you, he stops in front of the door to his chambers, and calls your name softly, almost as if he’s whispering a prayer.

You stop in your tracks, and slowly turn to face him, and feel your heart thumping against your ribcage. Had you misread his intentions in the Great Hall?

“Will you stay?” He breathes, stormy eyes searching your face.

Your eyes stare into his, and you release a shaky breath, relieved that you were right – that he wants you back. You step closer to him, and reach out tentatively to touch his hand, your fingers curling softly around his own. His warm hand easily envelopes yours, calluses built up over years of training with his sword rubbing against your delicate skin.

You take the last step closer to him at the same time that he gently pulls you to his chest, and it makes a shiver run up your spine. You slowly lift your free hand to lay it against his chest, your fingers curling lightly into his gambeson. Even through the quilted fabric, you can feel his rapid heart beat, mirroring your own.

His own free hand finds its way around you, his arm following to circle your waist, holding you even closer in his strong, warm embrace.

You nod your head, sharing the same breath as him. You feel his chest shudder under your palm, and he slowly backs the two of you into his chambers, stopping briefly to push the door shut with his foot.

Heat rushes through your body, curling tightly in your core. Your hand on his chest slides up his neck so your fingers can slip through his trimmed beard, and you let go of his hand so your hand can join the other on his face. His eyes bore into yours, but his eyelashes flutter a bit as he feels your fingers caress his cheeks.

Now free, his hand joins his other around your waist, and he gently pulls you to him until your body is flush with his. For days, you’ve wanted to feel him pressed against you, so much so, it’s made you ache for him.

His face is inches from yours, but you can tell he’s waiting, wanting to be sure this is okay – that this is what you want. And you want him to be sure from this moment on that he is all that you want. You stretch up on your toes and your fingers slip behind his ears to snake around the nape of his neck.

He wastes no time closing the distance between you, dipping down to kiss you softly, his hands holding your waist and back tenderly. You can feel his strong fingers gently massaging you through your dress, learning the curves of your body. His beard tickles against your lips and cheeks too – you’ve never kissed a man with a beard before, and you find you love it. You find you want to feel his beard join his fingers in rubbing the rest of your body.

You sigh against his lips and he pulls back, just the slightest bit, and you know what he wants to ask.

“I want you,” you breathe, and you feel his shaky exhale fan across your cheeks as he takes in your words.

In response, his hands slide down your hips, and he bends his knees so he can reach down to cup your ass and thighs, before lifting you into his arms. Though he’s no longer a young man, his strength doesn’t seem to have waned one bit. The thought sends a thrill through you as you wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck, and press yourself into his body. Your dress becomes bunched against his hips, and your need for him to remove it thrums through your veins. You find that now you’re the one looking down, and your eyes find his, two pools of ice, melting with desire.

You shift your hips higher against his, making your breasts press into his chest as your fingers slip up to tangle in his hair. He grips you tighter, holding you steady in his arms. “I want you too,” he husks, before letting out a sigh from feeling your nails skimming along his scalp.

“You can have me,” you say with a sigh of your own. “All of me.”

He kisses you again, but it’s unhurried, his lips molding against yours with steady movements. It makes you melt in his arms, this deliberate pace, as if you both have all the time in the world. Your lips part for him with a whimper, and you lick into each other with languid swipes of your tongues, as he slowly walks you both towards the bed – the bed you’ve spent so many hours sitting next to, tending to him.

He lays you down gently, breaking from your lips only for a moment to crawl up the length of your body, his knees framing your hips and thighs and his forearms caging in your shoulders, before dipping down to kiss you again. Your palms slide up the planes of his chest, slipping against his gambeson. The laces dangle down, trailing over your breasts teasingly as your kiss deepens. You move your hands to tug at the laces, and he lifts his chest a bit to let your nimble fingers work through the knot. When you do, you tug apart the collar of his gambeson, and his tunic beneath, and then slide your palms against his warm skin. He sighs against your lips as your fingers card through the modicum of hair on his chest.

“Can I touch you?” He husks against your lips. It makes you shiver to know he’d never do anything without asking you first. He’s such a gentleman.

You nod, your nose brushing against his. “Please,” you breathe.

In response, he tilts his head to nose at your cheek so he can kiss your face and then down the length of your neck, slowly and softly. His beard brushes against your sensitive skin, making your body tingle. Your hands slide up his shoulders to touch his neck again too before tangling once more in his hair. You feel his sighs against your skin, his warm breath washing over your skin as he kisses lower, his lips grazing your chest. His hands lift to rest on your breasts, his fingers toying with the laces of your dress, before his eyes flick up to meet yours. You know what he’s asking.

You arch into his hands, and he understands that he can continue – that he really can have all of you. His practiced fingers pull at your laces while he mouths at your breasts through the fabric of your dress. You want nothing more than to feel his lips on your soft skin. As if he can read your mind, he tugs your dress and shift apart, and his mouth finds your skin again. His lips move tenderly, reverently, between the swell of your breasts, his tongue slipping out to leave a wet trail in his wake, soothing the roughness from his beard. It makes wetness pool between your legs. You can’t help but let out a soft moan and tilt your head back into the furs when his mouth follows the soft curve of one of your breasts before his lips form around your nipple, his tongue swirling around the taut peak. He lets out a soft groan in response, the sound reverberating against your sensitive skin.

“Cregan,” you breathe, your fingers slipping beneath the collar of his loosened gambeson and tunic to touch his shoulders. You need to feel his hot skin against yours.

He looks up at you at the same time that you look down at him, while his mouth travels across to repeat his movements to your other breast, sucking on this nipple as well. You arch into him, breathless, and you feel your core clench around nothing. But you understand that he doesn’t want to rush – that he wants to savor these moments with you. It makes your heart flutter too, to know he cares this much.

But you can tell he also doesn’t want to deny you anything either. He keeps kissing your chest as his hands pull your dress down your shoulders and arms, bunching it around your lower back and hips. In any other circumstance, you know you’d be cold instantly, but you couldn’t possibly be under the heat of his gaze and the desire that is coursing through your body.

“Gods, you’re so beautiful,” he breathes, shifting down to kiss the softness of your belly. His compliment makes you smile and laugh lightly – it’s been so long since you’ve heard words like that.

He smiles up at you, clearly understanding the effect he’s having on you. “I’d like to see all of you,” he husks, pushing himself up and sliding off the end of the bed to stand, but still hovering his torso over you. You instantly miss his closeness, but are distracted from that when his hands slowly tug your dress and shift over your hips, his fingers expertly grabbing hold of your stockings to pull them down too. He quickly pulls your boots off as well, and then lets your clothes fall to the floor.

His eyes rove over your naked form, and though you feel yourself blush, your legs tantalizingly slip against the furs before revealing your core to him. He looks there for a moment, and then back to your face, and his expression tells you there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. It makes your heart race in your chest, especially as you watch him tug his gambeson and tunic up over his body in one fluid motion, tossing them both to the floor. Your eyes follow the curves of his muscular chest, and his burly biceps that fade into powerful tendons that wrap down his arms – all still toned from the sword sparring you know he still does almost every day, though you’re sure he doesn’t really need the practice. Your eyes follow too down the trail of hair that runs from his chest and disappears beneath his trousers, more gray at his chest and then darkening as it trails lower. Your mouth waters as you watch him undo his trousers, and he watches you watch him.

Your legs fall apart even more – almost instinctively, as if your body is beckoning him to join you – as he pushes his trousers and small clothes down his sturdy hips, tugging them and his boots off too, now just as naked as you are.

As he straightens back up, can’t help but let your gaze linger on his manhood, long and girthy, hanging heavy with desire. Though your maidenhood is long gone, and you’ve had sex many times, you’re not entirely sure how he’ll fit inside you. He must see your momentary apprehension cross your expression.

“I wouldn’t hold it against you if you’ve changed your mind,” he says softly, catching your eye again.

You sit up quickly and crawl to the edge of the bed, before kneeling in front of him, your eyes never leaving his. Your hands come up to rest on his shoulders before you lean in to kiss him. It’s soft and slow, and you can feel his relief as his shoulders relax, glad you aren’t going anywhere. His hands lift to encircle your waist, holding you tenderly.

But just to make extra sure that you’re both on the same page, your right hand slips from his shoulder and your fingers follow the trail of hair down his chest and stomach. He shivers beneath your touch, and you can feel his breath in short bursts against your skin, as your hand wraps around his length, tugging languidly.

He groans against your lips as your hand slips up and down his cock, your small fist swirling over his tip too, feeling him leaking against your palm.

“I want you, all of you,” you say in between kisses, and he gasps against your lips as your hand moves more purposefully along his length. “I want to feel you inside me.”

He moans into you, and you moan back, loving his reactions to your words and actions. You know he knows – he’s absolutely sure – that you both want the same things.

Excitement courses through your body as his arm slides more securely around your back, and the other reaches out to brace his weight, as he guides you both back down to the bed, shimmying you up to the middle and finding his spot in the cradle of your thighs. He kisses you deeply as your hands trail over his warm skin, learning the shape of him too.

After one last deep kiss and smile against your lips, he shifts his way down your body again, slowly and with the purpose of learning all of your curves and what he can do to bring you pleasure. His tongue follows the curve underneath your breast, making you tremble with bliss. He playfully nips at your sides, making you gasp. He sucks bruises into your inner thighs, making you writhe beneath him in pleasure. Your hands follow him as he moves too, carding through his hair, caressing his cheeks and shoulders. He leans into your touch as he worships your body, glancing up at you with reverence. It makes your heart feel like it might burst, to be looked at and touched in this way. You want to make sure you can give all of this back to him too.

But your train of thought halts as his lips shift down to hover over your core, his breath ghosting teasingly over your wet cunt. Your eyes find his again as he leans into place the most gentle kiss to the cleft of your cunt. You whimper, wanting so much more than just sweet kisses.

He can’t seem to deny you anything, for he gently lifts your legs over his shoulders, your heels coming to rest on his strong back, before he presses his face in firmer and swipes his tongue up languidly, but deeply, through your folds. You gasp, fingers tightening in his hair and your legs begin to shake a bit, for it feels incredible. He braces his weight on his elbows, and his hands curl around your thighs, holding you steady but tugging your legs apart at the same time. As his tongue swipes up and down, his beard brushes against your most sensitive spots, making you moan, much more loudly than you probably should. But he seems to want to hear you, moaning against you in response and licking into you like he’s never tasted anything so sweet. You moan again and again, and then cry out his name when his tongue presses inside you, opening you up for him.

You can’t help but roll your hips down to meet the thrusts of his tongue, and he encourages you by tugging you closer, his biceps pressing firmly against the back of your thighs. Doing this together only makes him go deeper, and he swirls his tongue inside you too, making pleasure race up your spine.

He pulls another whimper from your lips too as one of his hands slips between your thighs, his fingertips teasingly rubbing your dripping cunt. Though his tongue is perfect, you’re desperate to feel his fingers inside you. As if he can read your mind, he draws his tongue from you, lapping at your wetness as his fingertip teases your entrance, dipping in only shallowly despite the rocking of your hips.

You whine, your fingernails raking gently across his scalp, very close to begging him. But you should have known that’s not necessary, for he’s given you everything and more so far. As you roll your hips, he gingerly pushes his finger inside you, and your head presses back into the bed with a moan. Though you sometimes touch yourself, two of your dainty fingers are nothing in comparison to one of his.

He kisses your inner thighs as you rock down against his digit, taking more of him inside you until he’s down to the last knuckle.

As he gives you a moment to adjust, he asks, “Is this what you wanted, beautiful?”

You clench around his finger, and look back down at him, your fingers slipping out of his hair to caress the line of his jaw while he lavishes your hips with kisses.

“Yes,” you breathe, and as you do, he draws his finger back before pushing it inside you again, swirling it as he does. But before you even have a moment to catch up, his tongue flicks out to play with your pearl too.

“Gods, Cregan,” you moan, his finger and his tongue finding the same rhythm, sending pleasure washing over you. He moans against you too, the sensation sending sparks through your veins, lighting a fire in you that burns brightly for him.

As he pumps in and out of you, he also curls his finger to brush over that spot that you can never reach yourself, making you arch against him with a blissful whine. You feel him smile against your skin, and then he gently introduces a second finger, snugly pressed against your walls as you stretch around his digits. You rock your hips firmly against his hand, taking both of his fingers eagerly, wanting everything he can give you. Your body trembles as he sucks on your pearl and both fingers brush over your sweet spot, bringing you closer to your peak.

“That feels so good,” you say, and he hums against your pearl in response before his tongue flicks quickly over it, his fingers speeding up to match his pace.

A string of moans leaves your lips, as he quickly brings forth your peak. “Oh gods, Cregan, I’m gon–”

He sucks hard on your pearl and curls his fingers so perfectly inside you, as if he could feel your orgasm with his fingers and tongue and chose just the right moment to give it to you.

You cry out, your body convulsing with pleasure beneath him as he draws your orgasm out, stroking you through it and groaning as he feels you flutter around his soaked fingers. In all your years, you’ve never come like this.

You’re still gently trembling beneath him, and your fingers slip down his neck to caress his shoulders, while he places one last kiss to your pearl, and slowly withdraws his fingers from you, his fingertips caressing your swollen cunt for a moment. He smiles down at you as he crawls up to kiss you once more, his hips nestled against yours and his arms framing your head. You smile against his lips and sigh between kisses, satiated – but only for a moment.

You wind your arms around his back and then press your hips up into his, feeling the heft of his cock press against your core, and he lets out a soft sigh. You spread your legs even more, and then run your sensitive cunt along the length of his cock, making him moan now while his tongue traces the shape of your lips. You feel him lean his weight onto one arm as the other rubs down your body before he takes himself in hand, teasing your cunt with the tip of his cock.

The feeling makes you moan against his lips, your legs lifting to slide against his hips and thighs as he mirrors your movements with his cock, sliding his tip up and down through your folds, his precum mixing with your wetness.

But you remember his size, and your earlier apprehension of how he’ll fit inside you, and so you speak quickly. “Can I ride you?” You ask, knowing that you being in control of the pace and depth of his cock might make it easier for you to take all of him as swiftly as possible.

He hums against your lips before pulling back to look down at you. Your hands slip down his sides to run back up the planes of his chest, locking eyes with him. His pupils are blown wide, only slivers of gray peering down at you now. “Aye,” he breathes, smiling at you. “Aye, of course.”

You hum happily and stretch up to kiss him. As you do, he lets go of himself and slides his arm underneath your back, before rolling you both over, still kissing you. He carefully holds your body against his, and you feel a swooping sensation in your belly to join your desire.

It makes you laugh lightly, and he laughs too, both of you enjoying this playfulness as he helps you straddle his hips.

You settle your knees firmly into the fur, and tuck your legs against his sides, before giving him one last kiss and sitting up to kneel. He watches you go, his chest rising and falling in anticipation. You love seeing him beneath you like this – watching you, wanting you.

After looking at him for a moment – you still can’t quite believe you’re here with him, like this – you lift your hips and reach between your thighs to take his length in your hand, running your palm up and down his silky cock. As you do, you find your balance on your knees before reaching further between your thighs to caress his balls, gently squeezing them and rolling them around with your fingers.

He lets out a groan, clearly surprised and incredibly aroused by what you’re doing to him. It thrills you to know that you can surprise a man with as much experience as he has.

You play with him for a moment, teasing his balls and stroking his length, before you mimic his movements from before, running the tip of his cock through your folds. He sighs in pleasure as he watches you, his eyes flicking back and forth between your hand on his length and your eyes. Your one hand comes back up to rest against his thigh, and you bite your lip as you line him up with your entrance.

As you slowly sink down on him, your mouth falls open, and hitched breaths escape your lips. You fall forward a bit, your hands coming to rest on his stomach for support. You can feel his abs clench beneath your palms, clearly trying to stay still for you.

But his hands move to caress your thighs and hips, his eyes never leaving yours. “Are you alright?” He asks, and though you tell by the look on his face that he’s incredibly turned on, you can hear the concern in his voice too. You know now that that’s his way – to protect, always.

“You’re so big,” you moan, sinking down even further, stretching around his length. A groan is pulled from his throat and his fingers curl into the crease of your hips, holding you steady. You still your hips for a moment when you feel him throb inside you, for he clearly wasn’t expecting you to say that. It makes you smile and he smiles back.

And then you begin to gently roll your hips, taking more of him into you as your palms slide up his stomach to rest on his chest, leaning down even more. It makes him shift inside you, brushing against your walls and your sweet spot in a way that makes pleasure rush up your spine, and you can’t help the breathy moan that escapes your lips. He moans in response, and his hands and arms wrap around your back, following the waves of your body. The lower you get to him, the more he fills you up, until there is nothing left that you can take on your own. Your forehead comes to rest against his, and your long hair fans over his own tresses splayed against the pillows.

As he lets you adjust, he tilts his head back into the pillows so he can look up at you, his nose brushing against yours.

“You feel so perfect around me,” he husks, and his words make you flutter around his length. “Are you sure you’re okay?” You feel your heart reach out to his, touched deeply by his need to make sure that you’re alright.

You nod with a happy sigh, kissing him softly. “I’m fine, I just needed to adjust. You feel so good inside me,” you breathe, grinding your hips against his. The way his cock swirls inside you makes you shiver with pleasure. He sighs with pleasure against your lips, clearly enjoying the feeling too, and your words of encouragement.

His hands continue to caress your back and hips as he kisses you languidly, before slipping his palms down to gently grip your ass with his massive hands. As you begin to move once more, he helps you roll your hips, gliding slowly up and down his length. Your own hands skim up his chest to curl around his shoulders, giving you more leverage to rock yourself back on him, setting an unhasty pace. You’ve realized he’s onto something – drawing out both of your pleasures. There’s really no rush.

He hums against your lips as your tongues dance languidly, tasting each other and swallowing the other’s moans. You start to feel him move beneath you too, his hips thrusting up gently to meet your hips. It drives him deeper, making you tremble with pleasure.

One of his hands slide up to splay over your back, keeping you close to him. You wouldn’t dream of going anywhere though – right in his arms is the only place you can imagine being. “How often have you thought about this?” He asks between kisses.

You gasp against his lips, surprised by his question. You feel yourself blush.

He chuckles, his one hand playfully squeezing your ass cheek. “You can tell me.”

You bury your face in his neck, your lips brushing against his warm skin. “For days, multiple times a day,” you admit with a smile.

“Is that so?” He asks, turning his head so he can gaze at your face, resting on shoulder.

“Mhm,” you hum, still smiling shyly, and wiggling your hips as he thrusts up to meet yours. “What about you?”

His hand on your ass leaves your skin before pressing into the bed. He pushes both of you up so he’s sitting, and you’re sitting in his lap, your breasts pressed into his chest. Your arms wrap around his neck, clutching onto him as you adjust to him in this new angle, which makes him go even deeper into you.

“For days, so many times each day,” he agrees, and then adds huskily, “And everytime I woke in the middle of the night, I wanted to know if you were awake too.”

You lift your hips up and then sink back down, clenching around him. “I was, and I was waiting for you,” you moan against his lips.

“Fuck,” he breathes as you start to bounce on his length. His arm around your back slackens just a bit to allow you to move however you want, and the expression on his face shows how amazed he is by you. You feel the same, your heart beating wildly for him.

Your hands slip from around his neck to cradle his face, his beard tickling your palms. “Show me what you were thinking of,” you murmur, locking eyes with him.

He pushes his hand against the bed and tightens his arm around your back once more, rolling you both over. He manages to stay inside of you as he gently pins you beneath him, kissing you deeply. Your legs lock around his hips, thrilled that he does want to show you. Your hands run up and down his back, feeling his muscles ripple as he rolls his hips with shallow thrusts. It sends pleasure racing through your body to coil in your core.

“Let me show you,” he husks, sending a shiver through your body to join your pleasure, for you thought this was what he was thinking of.

You nod with a moan against his lips, and he slowly pushes himself up to kneel between your legs, sliding out of you. You clench around nothing and whimper at the loss, but his hands rub you soothingly, and he straightens your legs gently before lifting a knee to straddle your right leg. Then he lifts your left leg straight up, and brings it to his chest, caressing your shin.

“Can you lay on your side for me, my lady?” He asks playfully, and you obey with a light laugh, shifting to lay on your right side. As you move, he brings your left leg down to hook around his left thigh, holding your shin with one hand to press it against him, which makes your ass nestle against his cock.

You’ve never tried this position before, and you look up at him with a mix of curiosity and intense desire, knowing his mind thought all of this up for you.

He grinds against you for a moment, making you gasp with delight, before he draws his hips back, taking himself in hand and angling against your cunt. He holds himself there, and you know he’s waiting for your approval.

“Please,” you breathe, wiggling against him.

He lets out a pleased sigh as he pushes back into you, and it makes a high-pitched whine escape your lips. The angle is completely different with your hips being sideways like this, his cock rubbing inside you in the most delicious way. As thrusts fully into you, his now free hand curls around the curve of your hip, his hand covering you completely. And now he really grinds into you, swirling his cock so perfectly that he hits places inside of you that you know have never felt this type of pleasure. He also brushes his tip along your sweet spot, purposefully angeling his cock to do just that.

“Does that feel good?” He asks, drawing his hips back to set a languid pace, letting you feel everything.

“Cregan, gods, yes,” you moan, tilting your shoulder back so you can look up at him. He looks like one of the gods you just mentioned, towering over you, the muscles in his abs rippling as he thrusts in and out. His hair is mussed from you tugging on it, and you can see he’s starting to sweat – the heat in the room and the heat of your bodies making beads of moisture gather on his skin. You have an urge to lick the salty sweat from his skin, but your mouth can’t reach him just now.

Instead, your hands find his sturdy thighs, curling around them and holding on as he thrusts into you. Seeing that you’re okay, and that you’ve got something to hold onto, he picks up the pace, snapping his hips to plunge in and out of you. You moan and press your head back against the bed, overwhelmed in the best way.

“You look so beautiful. Gods, you’re perfect,” he says, his cock hitting your sweet spot over and over again. You feel your second peak building and you dig your fingers into his thighs, holding on as he keeps up this pace.

“Cregan,” you whine, clenching around him as pleasure washes over you. He seems to understand what you need, hitching your leg around his thigh higher up his hip. The hand that’s curled around your hip lets go so he can slip his hand between your thighs to rub your pearl in time with his thrusts.

It sends so much pleasure coursing through you that you’re shaking beneath him, and staring up at him with so much adoration. This – this is what he wanted to show you. This is the pleasure he dreamed up for the two of you. This is all for you.

You feel your peak suddenly wind tightly in your core.

“Cregan, I–” And then it snaps, making you cry out and come around him, fluttering even more than you did on his fingers as he draws out your orgasm, every thrust and swipe of his fingers bringing you untold pleasures.

He moans your name with what sounds like reverence, worshiping your body on his knees. Your hands grip his thighs so tightly, you’re sure you must be hurting him, but he doesn’t complain. You can tell he’s enjoying every second of this, making and watching you come undone for him, again.

As he feels your peak subside, he slows his hips down and gently unwinds you so you’re lying fully on your back again, and then he moves back between the cradle of your hips, all while staying inside you. He’s incredible.

Your legs slide up to caress his hips as he leans back down, his forearms caging in your head once more as your arms wrap around his back. He leans down to kiss you, thrusting incredibly slowly, his tip dragging inside you to make pleasure keep sparking in your veins.

“Keep going. Don’t stop,” you beg him, and he pants against your lips, nodding his head and resuming his thrusts with purpose. You lock your legs around him, your heels pressing into his lower back, making him plunge even deeper into you.

You moan, completely pliant for him and rocking your hips to meet his thrusts. He kisses you deeply again, and your fingernails drag down his back as his body rolls in waves. He moans at the feeling, his hips snapping even faster.

“Come for me,” you breathe in between kisses, clutching at his back. You seem to set something off in him, as his hips move more erratically and you can feel his peak building, ready to burst.

He says your name with a plea. “I’m gonna–” He reaches a hand back to try to unlock your legs from his back, clearly intending to pull out.

“No,” you plead. “No, don’t pull out. Cregan, please.” He looks down at you, as if you are the most precious thing he’s ever laid eyes on, and comes, crying out with your name on his lips. He buries so deep inside you, you’re sure he’s kissing your womb, and you feel white hot ribbons coating your walls as he trembles in your arms. You clench around him, desperate to milk him for every drop and every ounce of his pleasure, wanting this to be something he’ll never forget. You know you won’t – nothing could compare to this.

He pants against your lips, and then tilts his forehead up to rest against yours. His fingers stroke your cheeks as you rub his back tenderly, giving him a moment to come down from his high.

As he catches his breath, you gaze up at him, feeling that he truly has all of you – your mind, your body, and now your heart too. It’s a breathtaking realization. He lifts his head to look down at you fully, and you see it on his face: your thoughts reflected back.

“Winterfell and I will always welcome you home, if you’ll have us,” he breathes. You feel your heart swell so much you think it might burst.

“Do you mean that?” You ask, your voice suddenly thick with emotion. You never thought – never dreamed – that you could find this type of happiness after so much loss and loneliness.

“With all my heart,” he murmurs, rubbing his nose tenderly against yours. “Marry me, and be Lady Stark.”

Tears slip from your eyes as you press up to kiss him, nodding fervently. “I will. I will marry you, Cregan Stark.”

You gaze out at the courtyard below, smiling as you watch the bustle of castle life. You settle comfortably against the settee that sits at the perfect height beneath the window, allowing you to appreciate the view you’ve come to love.

In your arms, and nursing at your breast, is your’s and Cregan’s son, Edric Stark, born eight months after you and Cregan wed beneath the heart tree in the Godswood of Winterfell, surrounded by his other adoring children, so happy for the both of you. Cregan insisted the baby be named after your beloved father, bringing your family and heritage permanently into the fold of House Stark. You look down at your peaceful son, suckling contentedly, and you know you’ve never been happier. And your love for Cregan blooms even more in your heart, like the roses that bloom in the Glass Gardens.

As if he can tell you’re thinking about him, the door opens for Cregan to step across the threshold. A contented smile settles across his face as he takes in the pair of you – his wife and son – and strides across the room. He stops at your side and kneels down, leaning in to press a kiss to your lips and then dipping down to gently kiss his son.

“Are you enjoying the view, Lady Stark?” He murmurs, grinning playfully at you.

“I am, Lord Stark,” you say, your complete and utter happiness coming through in your voice as you gaze into his gray eyes. You reach up a free hand to caress his cheek and ever-graying beard. “I’m looking at you.”

Moots and Cregan Wives Taglist ❤️:

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@eldrith @cregnstark @onebrainsel

@helpmedecideaname @lv7867 @mckennah123 @valardohaeriss @janniepark1997 @omnjc @meetmeatyourworst @ohhdearmargot @laurathebabex

#cregan stark #cregan my beloved #cregan x reader #cregan x you #cregan fanfiction #hotd #hotd fanfic #cregan stark x reader #cregan stark x you #cregan stark the man you are

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lv7867 · 4 months ago

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Love this!!! 🐺🐺🐺🐺

Wolves Mate for Life

Fandom: House of Dragon

Summary: You and Cregan have been married for years, ruling Winterfell together. On your anniversary, he surprises you with a rare display of affection, proving that even the stern Lord of Winterfell can be a romantic at heart.

Pairing: Reader/Cregan Stark

Winterfell’s stone walls stood tall and unwavering, a fortress of strength against the harsh northern winds. Snowflakes drifted gently from the sky, settling on the castle’s towers and battlements, blanketing the world in a quiet, serene stillness. But within those ancient walls, warmth and love thrived—a testament to the bond you shared with Cregan Stark.

You had ruled Winterfell by his side for years, enduring both harsh winters and fleeting summers. Your marriage, like the North itself, was built on resilience and loyalty. Though Cregan was known to the realm as a stern and formidable lord, to you, he was something more. He was your partner, your love, your home.

Tonight marked your anniversary—another year spent together as husband and wife, as Lord and Lady of Winterfell. The day had passed quietly, as most days in Winterfell did. But as evening fell, you noticed Cregan’s absence from the hall, a rare occurrence given his unwavering sense of duty.

Curiosity piqued, you wrapped yourself in a thick cloak and ventured through the winding corridors of the castle. The air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and snow. The flickering torchlight cast shadows on the stone walls as you made your way to the courtyard, where you finally found him.

Cregan stood near the training yard, his broad shoulders dusted with snow. He turned at the sound of your footsteps, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his lips as his eyes met yours.

“You’re supposed to be inside,” you chided gently, stepping closer. “It’s freezing out here.”

“And yet you came looking for me,” he teased, his voice low and warm. “Couldn’t bear to be without me for long, could you?”

You rolled your eyes, though a smile tugged at your lips. “Someone has to make sure you don’t catch your death out here.”

Cregan chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. He closed the distance between you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you close. His cloak smelled of woodsmoke and the wild northern air, a scent that had become as comforting to you as the warmth of a hearth.

“Do you know what today is?” he asked softly, his breath misting in the cold air.

“Of course,” you replied, resting your head against his chest. “How could I forget?”

“I’ve been thinking about something,” he murmured, his voice thoughtful. “About wolves.”

You pulled back slightly to look up at him, curiosity shining in your eyes. “Wolves?”

He nodded, his gaze steady and intense. “Do you know why wolves mate for life?”

The question caught you off guard, but you shook your head. “Tell me.”

Cregan’s hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. “Because they know that loyalty is the foundation of everything. They find their mate, and they never let go. They fight for each other, protect each other, and build a future together. It’s in their nature.”

Your heart swelled at his words, warmth spreading through you despite the cold night air. “Do wolves mate for life?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

“Aye,” Cregan said, his gaze never wavering. “And so do I.”

Tears pricked at your eyes, and you reached up to press a kiss to his lips. “Then you’re stuck with me forever,” you whispered against his mouth.

“Gladly,” he murmured, kissing you deeply, his arms tightening around you as though he never wanted to let go.

When you finally pulled away, breathless and flushed, Cregan took your hand and led you toward the kennels. “Come. There’s something I want to show you.”

Your curiosity grew with each step, and when he opened the door to the kennels, you were met with the soft sounds of pups yipping and the scent of fresh straw. But it was one pup in particular that caught your eye.

A small direwolf, its fur as white as freshly fallen snow, padded toward you on unsteady legs. Its bright, intelligent eyes locked onto yours, and you knelt down, your heart melting at the sight.

“She’s beautiful,” you breathed, reaching out to let the pup sniff your hand. The little wolf nuzzled your fingers, her tail wagging happily.

“She’s yours,” Cregan said softly. “A symbol of our future. Of the family we’re building together. She’ll grow alongside us, protect us, just as we protect each other.”

Tears filled your eyes as you scooped the pup into your arms, cradling her against your chest. “She’s perfect.”

Cregan smiled, his expression softening as he watched you with the pup. “I thought it was time to show you that I can be more than the stern lord everyone sees. You’ve always seen the man behind the title. I wanted to give you something to show how much you mean to me.”

“You do, every day,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion. “But this… this means everything.”

He stepped closer, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “You’ve given me everything. You’ve given me love, a home, a family. This is just a small way of showing you that I’ll spend the rest of my life giving that back to you.”

You smiled through your tears, leaning into his embrace. “I love you, Cregan.”

“And I love you,” he replied, his voice steady and sure. “Always.”

The next morning, you woke to find the little direwolf pup curled at your feet, her soft fur blending in with the blankets. Cregan was already up, standing by the window as he gazed out at the snow-covered lands of the North. The sight of him bathed in the morning light made your heart swell with love.

“You’re awake,” he said, turning to you with a soft smile.

“I am,” you replied, stretching your arms above your head. “And so is she.”

Cregan chuckled as the pup yawned and padded over to him, her tiny paws making soft sounds against the floor. He bent down to scoop her up, holding her close to his chest. “She’s a fighter, just like you.”

You got out of bed and walked over to them, wrapping your arms around Cregan from behind. “We’ll raise her well. She’ll be strong and loyal, just like her pack.”

He turned in your embrace, his gaze locking onto yours. “Our pack.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, not from the cold, but from the sheer intensity of his love. In that moment, you knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, you would face them together. You and Cregan were bound by something stronger than any vow or promise. You were bound by the same loyalty that wolves carried in their blood.

Days turned into weeks, and the little direwolf grew quickly. She followed you everywhere, her bright eyes always alert, her presence a constant reminder of the bond you shared with Cregan. The people of Winterfell took notice, murmuring about the direwolf pup that never left the side of her lady.

One evening, as you sat by the hearth with Cregan, the pup curled at your feet, he took your hand in his. “I’ve been thinking about our future.”

You tilted your head, curiosity lighting your gaze. “Oh?”

Cregan nodded, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I want to ensure that Winterfell thrives long after we’re gone. Our legacy, our children—they’ll carry on our name and our strength.”

Your heart swelled at his words. “And they’ll have the loyalty of a wolf’s pack.”

“Aye,” Cregan said with a smile. “Wolves mate for life, and so do we.”

As the years passed, your love only grew stronger. The direwolf pup became a fierce protector, a symbol of your enduring bond. And no matter what storms came your way, you faced them together, knowing that your love was as unbreakable as the pack you had built.

Because like the wolves of the North, you and Cregan were meant to be together forever. Wolves mate for life—and so did you.

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lv7867 · 4 months ago

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Please keep me fed!!!! 🤌🏼🤌🏼🤌🏼🤌🏼

Cowboy!Cregan 7 (the prequel)

Summary: How Cregan met his favorite city girl.

Warnings: cursing, typical cowboy behavior, fighting, mention of blood

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

Masterlist

.....................................................

The bells chimed as the door opened to the small restaurant.

Cregan stuffed his hands in his pockets, nodding to the man at the counter. He looked around before his eyes settled on the ranch hands at their table.

It was a routine for most of them. This was the best coffee place that opened at 5am. And yesterday, Glover had invited Cregan to join them- something about bonding and shit- he couldn't really remember.

But he was soon to inherit his father's farm, and bonding with the guys felt like a good idea.

Mormont grinned, the old man waving young Cregan over. "Didn't think you'd show!"

He shrugged, removing his hat before he sat down. "I'd like to think I'm a bit friendlier than Dad."

Rickon Stark was the opposite of personable. He would never join the guys for coffee like this.

Glover threw an arm around his shoulders. "No problem at all. We all just ordered so you're not too far behind."

Cregan browsed over the menu for a while, tuning out the others as they spoke at too high of a volume. No doubt they had hearing loss.

"Cregan," Glover scolded, elbowing him.

His head shot up, following what Glover motioned at.

There she stood.

A pretty girl in the diner uniform looking at him with a questioning look in her eyes, a notepad, and pen in her hands. "Sorry. I just… can I get you anything?"

Her voice was smooth, falling from her perfect lips and Cregan had sworn he'd never seen anything like it.

He stared for a while before coming to. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, yeah, sorry. Um… just a coffee is fine."

She gave him a smile and nod, taking the menu from his hand and muttering a small, "coming right up."

When she walked off, he could feel the others' eyes glued to him.

All with wide smirks.

"Stark likes the new girl," Umber whispered (it was anything but a whisper).

"She's not that new," Glover said.

Manderly spoke up. "He's just mad 'cause he already asked for her number."

"With no success it looks like," Cregan teased.

Glover punched him in the arm and went back to his coffee, practically downing it in one go and grimacing at the burn.

"Well, I think she's nice looking and all that," Cregan reasoned. "But don't go getting ideas."

…

The breakfast went nicely after they got over their teasing.

But as they all made it back to the ranch and got to work, Umber had a particularly concerning smirk to his face that never faltered. It seemed to just grow every time Cregan looked at him.

He'd finally had enough. He threw the reins down into the dust, ignoring the horse's slight jump. "What the hell is your problem?"

Umber shrugged, holding back a giggle. "Nothin. Don't get your panties in a twist, Stark."

He put his hands on his hips. "I'm gonna give you one more shot before I throw you over this fence."

Mormont approached, placing a heavy hand on Stark's shoulder. "He gave that girl your number before we left."

"He-" Cregan's voice caught in his throat. Complete shock in his eyes.

"Figured you could use a little help since you weren't gonna do it yourself."

"Oh, I'm gonna kill you," Cregan growled. He took heavy steps towards Umber, grabbing him by his shirt collar. "I'm gonna kill you!"

A riot broke out, yells and scuffling, dirt kicked up and a little blood, and finally a few of the guys got Cregan off of Umber. His knuckles were bloody, and he had a slight ache in his shoulders.

"What the fuck!" A voice boomed.

Rickon Stark.

The older Stark stood with his hands on his hips, a trait his son had picked up. He threw his hat down, profanities spilling from his mouth. "I come down here to work and you're doing whatever the fuck this is! Get your asses up and get the fuck out there. I don't pay you to stand around, goddamn it!"

One by one, they muttered apologies and excuses, disappearing into the barn to ready their own horses.

That left Cregan standing with a guilty expression. "Dad-"

"-Shut the fuck up," he ordered. He paced a few times, running a hand over his face. His voice softened as his dad mode turned back on. "I let you out here because I thought you could handle it. You could be one of them-"

"-I can be-"

"-You obviously can't! Now what the hell was that?" Cregan's mouth opened, but Rickon interrupted. "And if you say it was about a woman, I swear to god-"

Cregan's mouth shut.

He took that for an answer and heaved a long sigh. "What am I gonna do with you?"

"Won't happen again, Dad."

"Better not." He stared down at his shoes for a while before giving in. "Eh, I did worse at your age. Just… keep the fighting to a minimum, got it? With these guys anyway. I need workers. Go to the bar if you feel like picking fights so much."

"Yeah. Can do."

Rickon finally gave the smallest hint of a smile. "Go on. Cows don't wait up."

…

The next day, Cregan had off. He waited until the others left the restaurant that morning before going in himself. He couldn't take more teasing this time.

The girl practically brightened when she stepped up to his table. "Didn't think you were coming in today. You missed the others."

He took her in. Her hair was the same. Her uniform the same. He imagined her morning routine, the comfort in doing the same thing every morning. Suddenly, he felt like being a part of it. "Oh, yeah. Felt like sleeping in a bit," he lied.

She checked her watch. "It's 6:15. Hardly sleeping in."

"Always gotta beat the sun up," he grinned.

She laughed at that. It was sweet. "Well, seems you did. What can I get you, Mr Stark?"

"Cregan. And uh, coffee again is fine."

"Just coffee?"

The question threw him off guard. "Yeah. Yeah, just that."

She gave him a strange grin and took off.

He wasn't sure how he was gonna do it. He had to explain the situation. He had no idea what Umber had said to her, but at least he could tell she didn't hate him. He doubted she'd spit in his coffee.

She returned, setting down a hot mug of coffee and a plate with a small breakfast biscuit on it.

He looked up, about to correct her when she interrupted him. "Good morning, Cregan."

He savored the smile she gave him, finally remembering himself when she began to walk away. "Um, sorry, would you-"

"-I get off at noon," she grinned.

He was actually gonna ask for creamer. "I'll pick you up then."

He couldn't deny that he would be thanking Umber later at the bunkhouse. After he teased Glover about the whole ordeal, obviously.

He lied yesterday when he said he just thought she was good looking.

He liked her.

He liked her a lot.

.....................................................

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lv7867 · 5 months ago

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Not me starting completely over before i read this new chapter!!!!

PART ONE: “Judas”

Upon returning to King’s Landing, an unexpected betrothal is arranged to make peace between Princess Rhaenyra and Queen Alicent’s children.

Word Count: 13k

Warnings: violence, strong language, and arranged marriage. Refer to the link for detailed chapter warnings.

PART TWO: “Vows”

After the wedding, Aemond hasn’t said a word to his new wife, and she is determined to fix that.

Word Count: 7k

Warnings: smut, violence, strong language, and arranged marriage. Refer to the link for detailed chapter warnings.

PART THREE: “Little Dragon”

In a the aftermath of a fight sparked by the feud between him and her brother, Lucerys, Aemond and his wife are now trying to fix things between them.

Word Count: 10k

Warnings: smut, strong language, and implied violence. Refer to the link for detailed chapter warnings.

PART FOUR: “Stay”

With his pregnant wife with ordered to rest by the maesters until her labors begin, Aemond must find new ways of entertaining her.

Word Count: 4k

Warnings: smut, strong language, implied past violence, and pregnancy. Refer to the link for detailed chapter warnings.

PART FIVE: “The Calm Before the Storm”

With the family coming from Dragonstone to visit after the birth of Y/N’s first child, Aemond must control his impulses and be civil with the Velaryon boys for the sake of his wife.

Word Count: 9k

Warnings: smut, strong language, referenced violence, and death. Refer to the link for detailed chapter warnings.

PART SIX: “Downburst”

Trapped in King’s Landing with the Greens as they plot the usurpation after Viserys’s death, Y/N must navigate the fragile line between her loyalty to her husband and her contempt for his family.

Word Count: 13k

Warnings: strong language, some sexual content, referenced violence, and death. Refer to the link for detailed chapter warnings.

#hotd #house of the dragon #prince aemond targaryen #prince aemond #aemond one eye #aemond #aemond targaryen

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lv7867 · 5 months ago

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Yassssss . Love these two

Bound by Affection Part 2

Emperor Geta x healer!reader x Emperor Caracalla

Warnings: Fluff, rivalry between siblings, Caracalla being sick and more himself from the movie

Authors Note: this is now based off of what we see pretty much in gladiator 2. I know the first one wasn’t the Geta and Caracalla we know, but this one is more like the Geta and Caracalla We know now

Masterlist | Previous

MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+MDNI18+

The balance within the palace was fragile, each day bringing new challenges that deepened the complexity of your relationship with the two emperors. The shifts in their behavior were subtle at first, but you noticed the cracks forming beneath the surface.

Caracalla’s once-boundless energy had waned. He still sought your company, his charm as sharp as ever, but there was a heaviness in his steps, a pallor to his skin that he couldn’t hide. His free-spirited nature was giving way to moments of brooding reflection, his illness creeping into every aspect of his life.

“Don’t fuss,” he muttered one evening as you pressed a cool cloth to his fevered brow. His voice was weaker than usual, though he tried to mask it with a smirk. “You’ll spoil me, and then I’ll never let you leave.”

“You’re in no position to argue,” you replied softly, brushing damp curls from his forehead.

He sighed, his hand catching yours and holding it in place. “If you leave, the palace will turn to stone, and I’ll be the first to crumble.”

The vulnerability in his voice broke your heart, and you leaned closer, pressing a kiss to his hand. “I’m not going anywhere, Caracalla.”

Across the palace, Geta was changing too. The carefree, charming young man who had once filled the halls with laughter now carried himself with a quiet strength. He had taken on more responsibilities, his calm demeanor a stark contrast to the tension brewing around him.

One afternoon, as you found him in the library poring over scrolls, you couldn’t help but notice the shadows beneath his eyes.

“You’ve been working too hard,” you said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He looked up, his hazel eyes softening at the sight of you. “Someone has to, especially now.”

“You don’t have to bear it all alone,” you reminded him.

He reached for your hand, his touch grounding. “I know. You’ve been my anchor through all of this. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

---

The turning point came one fateful evening when the three of you sat in the palace gardens, the scent of jasmine heavy in the air. Caracalla leaned heavily against you, his energy waning despite his efforts to hide it. Geta sat across from you, his posture straight, his expression unreadable.

“I hate this,” Caracalla muttered, his frustration palpable. “Being weak. Being watched. Every moment, people waiting for me to fall.”

“No one’s waiting for you to fall,” you said, your voice gentle but firm.

“Don’t lie to me,” he snapped, though the anger in his voice faltered as he looked at you. “Not you.”

Geta’s gaze shifted between you both, his jaw tightening. “You’re not weak, brother. You’re just human.”

Caracalla scoffed, though there was no real venom in his tone. “And you? Are you human, Geta? Or have you already ascended to perfection?”

The jab hung in the air, but Geta didn’t rise to it. Instead, he leaned forward, his voice steady. “I’m doing what I have to, for Rome and for us. I suggest you do the same.”

Caracalla’s laughter was bitter. “Spoken like a man who’s never felt the weight of mortality.”

You squeezed Caracalla’s hand, drawing his attention back to you. “You’re both carrying different burdens, but that doesn’t mean you have to face them alone. I’m here for you—for both of you.”

Geta’s eyes softened, and for a moment, the tension dissolved. “You’re too good to us,” he murmured.

---

As the weeks passed, Caracalla’s condition worsened, his sharp tongue and unpredictable moods becoming more pronounced. There were days when he barely left his chambers, his illness sapping him of the vitality he once wielded so freely.

Geta, meanwhile, grew more composed, his presence a calming force in the palace. He had stepped into the role of leader with a grace that belied his youth, though the strain was evident in the quiet moments he shared with you.

One evening, as you found yourself alone with Geta in the gardens, he finally let his mask slip.

“I’m losing him,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

You placed a hand on his arm, your touch steadying. “He’s still here, Geta. And he needs you now more than ever.”

“I’m not sure I’m strong enough,” he confessed, his hazel eyes clouded with doubt.

“You are,” you said firmly. “I’ve seen it in the way you’ve cared for him, for Rome, for me. You’re stronger than you know.”

He pulled you into an embrace, his arms wrapping around you as though you were his lifeline. “Don’t let me fall, amica mea.”

“You won’t,” you promised, your voice muffled against his chest. “I’ll hold you up, just as you’ve held me.”

---

The palace was a different place now, the once vibrant halls shrouded in a somber quiet. But amidst the challenges, the bond between you, Geta, and Caracalla grew stronger, forged in the fire of shared struggles.

Caracalla, even in his weakened state, refused to let go of his playful charm entirely. On one rare good day, he cornered you in the library, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Tell me,” he said, leaning against the table, “what did I ever do to deserve someone like you?”

“You mean besides being endlessly stubborn and impossible to deal with?” you teased, earning a weak laugh from him.

“Exactly,” he said, his grin faltering as he looked at you. “You could have walked away a hundred times by now, but you stayed. Why?”

“Because I care about you,” you said simply. “Both of you.”

“And we’ll never let you regret it,” Geta said, stepping into the room and resting a hand on your shoulder. His calm presence was a stark contrast to Caracalla’s fiery energy, but together, they balanced each other—and you.

As you stood between them, you knew that despite the challenges ahead, your bond was unbreakable.

---

The empire was shifting. Whispers of discontent stirred in the Senate halls, and the weight of leadership pressed heavily upon the two brothers. With each passing day, the strain on their relationship grew, their once-shared camaraderie fraying at the edges.

Caracalla’s illness worsened, his temper becoming as unpredictable as a storm. His moments of charm and levity were fewer, replaced by bouts of frustration and melancholy. Yet, in his rare good moods, he was still the same man who could make you laugh with a sly comment or warm your heart with a fleeting touch.

Geta, meanwhile, was transforming before your eyes. The carefree dreamer had hardened into a composed and calculating leader, his every action measured and deliberate. His affection for you remained constant, but his moments of vulnerability became rarer, hidden behind a mask of imperial duty.

---

One night, you found Caracalla in his chambers, staring out at the city. The soft glow of oil lamps illuminated his pale features, and the tremor in his hands as he gripped the windowsill did not escape your notice.

“Caracalla,” you said softly, stepping into the room.

He didn’t turn, his voice bitter as he spoke. “The city sleeps, unaware of how fragile it all is. They praise us as gods, but look at me. A god who can’t even stand without trembling.”

You approached him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “You’re no less powerful because of this illness. Your strength isn’t just in your body—it’s in your spirit, your will.”

He turned then, his dark eyes searching yours. “And what happens when the will fades too? When all that’s left is a hollow shell?”

You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing over his skin. “Then you lean on the people who love you. You’re not alone in this, Caracalla. I won’t let you face it alone.”

His gaze softened, and for a moment, the vulnerable boy he once was peeked through the cracks. “You’re too good for me,” he murmured. “Too good for either of us.”

---

Geta, ever the steadying force, had thrown himself into his duties with relentless determination. He spent long hours in the Senate, navigating the treacherous waters of Roman politics with a sharp mind and unwavering resolve.

You found him late one evening, still seated at his desk, scrolls and reports spread before him. His head rested in his hand, exhaustion etched into his features.

“Geta,” you said gently, setting a cup of wine beside him. “You need to rest.”

He looked up, his hazel eyes weary but warm as they met yours. “There’s too much to do. Rome doesn’t wait.”

“Rome needs you strong, not burnt out,” you replied, taking his hand and tugging him away from the desk.

He allowed you to guide him to the couch, his resistance half-hearted. “You’re the only one who can talk sense into me, amica mea.”

“And don’t you forget it,” you teased, earning a faint smile from him.

As he leaned back, his head resting against the cushions, you sat beside him, your fingers brushing through his curls. He closed his eyes, his shoulders relaxing under your touch.

“Sometimes I envy him,” he admitted quietly, his voice almost lost in the silence of the room.

“Caracalla?” you asked, surprised.

“He still has you to distract him,” Geta said, his tone tinged with sadness. “I’ve buried myself so deeply in this role that I’ve forgotten what it feels like to just be... me.”

“You haven’t lost yourself,” you assured him. “You’ve grown, yes, but the man I care about is still here, behind all the responsibility. And I’m not going anywhere, Geta. You don’t have to face this alone.”

He reached for your hand, holding it tightly. “You’re my light in all of this. Without you, I’d be lost.”

---

The tension between the brothers reached a boiling point during a Senate meeting. Caracalla’s fiery temper clashed with Geta’s calculated calmness, their differing visions for Rome threatening to tear them apart. You intervened before their argument could escalate further, pulling them aside into a private chamber.

“This has to stop,” you said firmly, looking between them. “You’re both fighting for the same thing—a stronger Rome. You’ll never achieve that if you keep tearing each other down.”

Geta’s jaw tightened. “He refuses to see reason. His impulsiveness endangers everything we’ve worked for.”

Caracalla scoffed, his tone biting. “And your obsession with control makes you blind to anything outside your narrow vision.”

“Enough!” you snapped, startling them both. “You’re brothers. You’ve been through too much together to let this divide you.”

They fell silent, their gazes turning to you.

“I love you both,” you continued, your voice softening. “But I can’t watch you destroy each other. You’re stronger together than apart. Find a way to make this work, for Rome and for yourselves.”

The weight of your words hung heavy in the air, and slowly, they both nodded.

---

That night, the three of you sat together in the gardens, the tension from earlier giving way to a tentative peace. Geta poured wine for all of you, his movements precise and deliberate, while Caracalla leaned against you, his head resting on your shoulder.

“We’ll find a way,” Geta said quietly, his hazel eyes meeting yours.

“We will,” Caracalla echoed, his voice laced with determination.

You smiled, hope blossoming in your chest. Despite the challenges ahead, you knew that as long as you stood together, you could face anything.

---

The palace had become a volatile place, the air thick with unspoken tension. Caracalla’s illness, far from softening him, had hardened his demeanor. The playful charm he once wielded so effortlessly had given way to a sharper edge, his words cutting and his temper volatile. He moved through the halls like a storm, demanding absolute loyalty from those around him.

You found him one evening in the atrium, pacing like a caged animal. His tunic hung loosely on his frame, a testament to his deteriorating health, but his eyes burned with a fierce intensity.

“Caracalla,” you called gently, stepping into the room.

He turned sharply, his expression unreadable. “What is it now? Come to lecture me, like Geta?”

You took a cautious step forward, your voice calm. “I’m not here to lecture you. I’m here because I care about you.”

His laugh was bitter, a sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Care? You care for a dying man who can barely command his own body, let alone an empire?”

“You’re still the same man I’ve always cared for,” you said firmly, meeting his gaze.

He stepped closer, his dark eyes searching yours. “Then prove it. Stay by my side. When they whisper about my failures, remind them who I am.”

“Caracalla,” you murmured, reaching out to touch his arm.

He caught your hand, his grip firm. “Do you love me?”

The rawness of his question took you by surprise. “Of course I do,” you replied without hesitation.

His expression softened, if only for a moment, before the hardness returned. “Then don’t pity me. Stand with me as my equal, not as my nursemaid.”

---

Geta, on the other hand, had become a beacon of stability in the chaos. His calm, measured approach to leadership was a stark contrast to Caracalla’s fiery unpredictability. Yet even he could not mask the strain of their growing rift.

You found him in the Senate chambers late one evening, his head bowed over a map of Rome. The room was dimly lit, the flickering candlelight casting shadows across his face.

“Still at it?” you asked, stepping beside him.

He looked up, his hazel eyes weary. “Someone has to clean up the mess he leaves behind.”

“Geta…” you began, but he shook his head.

“I’m not blind to what’s happening,” he said quietly. “He’s slipping, and I can’t reach him. Every decision he makes pushes us further apart.”

“He’s scared,” you said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

Geta sighed, leaning into your touch. “Fear doesn’t excuse recklessness. Rome can’t survive on fear alone.”

“You’re both stronger together,” you reminded him. “Find a way to bridge this gap before it’s too late.”

He reached for your hand, his grip warm and steady. “I don’t know if it’s possible anymore. But for you, I’ll try.”

---

The fracture between the brothers reached a breaking point during a meeting with the Senate. Caracalla’s impatience boiled over, his temper erupting as he dismissed the senators’ concerns with a wave of his hand.

“Enough!” he roared, slamming his fist on the table. “I am not here to beg for your approval. I am Rome. You will follow my commands or face the consequences.”

The room fell silent, the senators exchanging uneasy glances. Geta, seated beside him, spoke calmly. “They are not your enemies, Caracalla. They are our allies, and we must treat them as such.”

Caracalla turned to his brother, his expression cold. “Allies? They are vultures, circling for scraps. Don’t mistake their flattery for loyalty.”

The tension was palpable, and you intervened before the situation could escalate further.

“Enough,” you said firmly, stepping between them. “This isn’t the time or place for this.”

Caracalla’s gaze shifted to you, his jaw tight. “Stay out of this.”

“I won’t,” you replied, your voice unwavering. “You’re brothers, not enemies. If you tear each other apart, Rome will fall with you.”

Geta rose from his seat, his tone measured but firm. “She’s right. We can’t afford to let our differences destroy everything we’ve built.”

Caracalla’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, his silence speaking volumes.

---

Later that evening, you found Caracalla in the baths, his expression distant as he gazed at the water’s surface. You sat beside him, the silence between you heavy.

“Do you ever wish things were different?” he asked suddenly, his voice soft.

“All the time,” you admitted.

He turned to you, his vulnerability laid bare. “I don’t want to lose him, or you. But I don’t know how to stop this spiral.”

“You start by trusting us,” you said, taking his hand in yours. “We’re not your enemies, Caracalla. We’re your family.”

He nodded slowly, his grip on your hand tightening. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve more than you think,” you replied, leaning closer.

---

Meanwhile, Geta sought solace in your presence, his moments of vulnerability growing more frequent. One evening, as you shared a quiet moment in the gardens, he spoke of his fears.

“I’ve always admired him,” Geta confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “His fire, his determination. But now, I wonder if that fire will burn us all.”

“It won’t,” you said firmly. “Because you’ll be there to temper it, just as he tempers your reserve. Together, you balance each other.”

He looked at you, his hazel eyes filled with gratitude. “And you balance us both. Without you, I don’t know where we’d be.”

---

The path ahead was uncertain, the weight of their roles as emperors pressing heavily upon them. Yet, as the three of you stood together, you knew that love—complex and imperfect as it was—would be your guiding light through the storm.

---

The shift in Caracalla’s demeanor had grown sharper, and the palace felt it. He moved with a predator’s confidence, his steps echoing through the halls as servants scrambled to avoid his gaze. Power radiated from him, but so did a sense of chaos. His illness, now a public secret, didn’t weaken him in the eyes of others—it made him all the more dangerous, as if compensating for his failing body with sheer force of will.

In stark contrast, Geta embodied a quiet stability. Where Caracalla demanded, Geta negotiated; where Caracalla ruled by fear, Geta sought respect. Yet even he was changing, his patience thinning under the weight of his brother’s antics and the empire’s demands. The only thing that kept their growing animosity from boiling over was you.

---

One evening, Caracalla summoned you to his private quarters. The room was dimly lit, the only illumination coming from the brazier in the corner. He stood by the window, gazing out at the city with a glass of wine in his hand.

“Do you know why I called for you?” he asked without turning around.

“I have an idea,” you replied, keeping your tone light.

He turned then, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “Do you?”

There was an edge to his voice, a challenge in his gaze. You stepped closer, undeterred. “You’re testing me.”

He smirked, the expression both cruel and amused. “I test everyone. Why should you be any different?”

“Because I’m not just anyone,” you replied firmly.

He set the glass down, closing the distance between you in a few swift strides. “No, you’re not,” he said, his voice low. “You’re the one thing in this entire empire I can’t control, and it drives me mad.”

Your breath hitched as his hand came up to cup your face, his touch surprisingly gentle. “But I don’t want to control you,” he continued. “I want you to stand beside me. To remind me that I’m not just a tyrant, even if that’s what they all see.”

“You’re more than that,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

He leaned closer, his lips brushing against your temple. “Stay with me tonight. I need you.”

---

Across the palace, Geta sat alone in the gardens, the cool night air doing little to soothe the storm within him. When you found him, his expression was distant, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

“Geta,” you said softly, sitting beside him.

He didn’t look at you, his eyes fixed on the fountain ahead. “I envy him,” he admitted after a long silence.

“Why?”

“He takes what he wants without hesitation,” Geta said, his voice laced with bitterness. “Meanwhile, I hesitate, I overthink, and I lose. Not just power, but… you.”

Your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice. You reached out, placing a hand over his. “You haven’t lost me.”

He turned to you then, his hazel eyes filled with a mixture of hope and doubt. “Haven’t I? Every time I see you with him, I wonder if there’s any room left for me.”

“There’s always room for you,” you said firmly, leaning closer. “You and your brother may be opposites, but you both have a place in my heart.”

His hand tightened around yours, and for the first time in days, a faint smile crossed his lips. “You’re the only thing that keeps me grounded in all of this.”

---

The tension between the brothers finally erupted during a council meeting. Caracalla’s temper flared as he dismissed one of Geta’s proposals with a wave of his hand.

“Your caution will be the death of Rome,” Caracalla sneered.

“And your recklessness will destroy it faster,” Geta shot back, his voice uncharacteristically sharp.

The senators exchanged nervous glances, clearly uncomfortable with the brewing conflict. You stood at the edge of the room, your heart pounding as the argument escalated.

“This isn’t about Rome,” Caracalla snarled, stepping closer to his brother. “This is about you wanting to prove you’re better than me.”

“I don’t need to prove anything,” Geta replied, his calm façade cracking. “Your actions speak for themselves.”

“Enough!” you interjected, stepping between them. “This is not the time or place for this.”

Caracalla’s gaze shifted to you, his anger momentarily replaced by something softer. “You’re defending him?”

“I’m defending both of you,” you said firmly. “You’re brothers. If you can’t find a way to work together, Rome will tear itself apart.”

Geta’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “She’s right. We need to set aside our differences.”

Caracalla hesitated, his pride warring with his affection for you. Finally, he sighed, stepping back. “For now.”

---

That night, the three of you sat together in the atrium, the tension from earlier still lingering but softened by the shared bottle of wine. Caracalla leaned back against a column, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering light, while Geta sat beside you, his presence steady and comforting.

“Do you ever wonder what life would be like if we weren’t emperors?” Geta asked suddenly, his voice thoughtful.

“All the time,” Caracalla replied, surprising both of you. He looked at you then, a rare vulnerability in his eyes. “But if I weren’t emperor, would I still have you?”

“You’d have me no matter what,” you said, your voice filled with conviction.

“And me?” Geta asked quietly.

You turned to him, taking his hand in yours. “Always.”

Caracalla smirked, though there was no malice in it. “She’s too good for us, Geta.”

“Maybe,” Geta replied, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

As the night wore on, the three of you sat in comfortable silence, the weight of the empire momentarily forgotten. For now, you were just three souls bound by love, trying to navigate a world that demanded too much of all of you.

Hope you enjoyed it! Please consider liking and reposting! – Midnight💜

#x reader #gladiator 2 geta #geta and caracalla #emperor geta x reader #geta x reader #geta #emperor geta #gladiator caracalla #emperor caracalla x you #emperor caracalla x reader

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lv7867 · 5 months ago

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second sight | cregan stark x fem!oc (bonus ii)

a/n: I'm back on this bonus feature, a special episode of the Stark-fluff, I'm giving you deleted scenes! Yay! So these did not make the cut for the chapters I wrote, they were either repetitive or just meh, but I did work on them so I thought you'd all love a glimpse :)

SCENE #1 (part i) - I DON'T TRUST YOU

Winterfell had grown colder since her arrival.

It wasn’t just the weather. The halls felt different—quieter, more shadowed, the cold biting sharper than it had in years past. Since the day Claere had stepped across Winterfell’s threshold as his bride, whispers followed her, as persistent as the wind that howled through the keep.

Cregan Stark sat at the head of the long table in the Great Hall, a ledger spread open before him. The flicker of torchlight danced across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw. His supper, a hearty stew that had long gone cold, sat untouched beside him. But it wasn’t hunger gnawing at him tonight.

His thoughts were tangled, circling back to the same place: Claere.

She unsettled him in ways he couldn’t explain, though he prided himself on reason and instinct. She moved through Winterfell as though she were of another world—her silvery hair catching the light in a way that seemed otherworldly, her violet eyes drifting to things no one else seemed to notice. Her habits baffled the household. She barely ate, spoke sparingly, and often vanished for hours into the grey skies on her mighty dragon. The servants whispered of seeing her wander the halls at night, murmuring to herself in a language older than the North.

Cregan had witnessed it himself: her wandering, barefoot, as if in a trance, her lips forming soft, lilting words that left him uneasy. There was something haunting about her, something unknowable. Even the dogs kept their distance, tails tucked low when she passed.

He tried to dismiss the gnawing whispers as nonsense. Claere was a young woman far from home, a stranger in the harsh, unyielding North, navigating customs as cold and unrelenting as its winters. Of course, she would struggle. Of course, she would seem strange.

And yet, the stories clung to him like frost on iron.

The Valyrian witch, they called her. The true queen of pale fire and blood magic. Beautiful, yes, but unnatural—a creature of strange songs and sleepless nights. Whispers filled the keep, spoken in low tones by bannermen and servants alike. They said her kind preferred the taste of human flesh to that of beast, that her gifts were double-edged: capable of charm and destruction in equal measure.

Cregan had never been one to indulge superstition. The North demanded practicality, not folly. But Claere...

Her harp’s strange, haunting melodies still lingered in his mind, dissonant and otherworldly. Her violet eyes, too large, too sharp, seemed to see into places no mortal gaze should reach. She walked the halls of Winterfell in silence, barefoot and unflinching, her expression distant as if caught in a dream—or a curse.

With her, the line between myth and reality blurred in ways he hated.

A sharp echo of boots on stone pulled him from his brooding. He looked up from the ledger to see two figures approaching the long table, their movements halting and uncertain. A man and a woman, wrapped in wool cloaks patched from many winters past, their faces pale and taut with worry.

“My lord,” the man began, his voice trembling as he bowed low. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his cloak, twisting the frayed fabric nervously. “Forgive the intrusion, but we... we need your help.”

Cregan closed the ledger with deliberate slowness, the thud of its binding echoing in the chamber. He stood, his dark brows knitting together. “Help?”

“Our children,” the woman blurted, her voice cracking as she clutched her husband’s arm. “They’ve not returned from the woods. They went out hours ago. They were with...”

She faltered, her throat tightening around the name.

“With?” Cregan prompted, his voice cold and edged with steel.

“With the princess,” she whispered, her eyes darting toward the floor.

The name landed like an axe stroke.

“Claere?” The word came sharp, almost incredulous, but the knot in his chest tightened.

“They were curious about her, my lord,” the man added hastily. “About that dragon. My lady, she told them stories, and... well, they followed her.” His voice grew quieter. “We thought they’d be back before long, but they haven’t. It’s... it’s nearly sundown.”

Cregan’s gaze shifted to the narrow window, where the last streaks of sunlight bled orange into the encroaching dark. The North woods were no place for small children, not with wolves and worse lurking in the shadows.

“How old are they?” he asked, his tone clipped, his jaw tightening further.

“Six and four,” the woman said, her voice trembling. “Their names are Jonnel and Betha. Please, Lord Stark. Please bring my pups back to me.”

Her words cracked with desperation, the kind only a mother could summon. But Cregan barely heard her. His mind was already racing, drawn inexorably back to Claere.

Her strange, sleepless eyes. Her murmured words to herself, were too soft to catch yet unsettling in their rhythm. The echoes of the harp still rang faintly in his mind, haunting and cold.

The rumours clawed at him like unseen hands. Could she truly have harmed the children? The image of her, pale and otherworldly, the fire casting strange shadows across her sharp features, surfaced unbidden. He thought of the dragon she claimed was hers, a beast as enigmatic as its mistress.

No. He shook his head as if to dislodge the thought. It was ridiculous. It had to be. But still...

“Ready the horses,” he said, at last, his voice a low growl.

The woman sobbed with relief as her husband bowed low. Cregan turned away without another word, fastening his cloak and striding toward the courtyard. His men fell in behind him, ready to patrol, their silence speaking to the gravity of the task ahead.

As they mounted, he cast one last glance toward the keep. Somewhere within its ancient stones, she was likely unaware of the turmoil she’d caused—or worse, unbothered by it.

He spurred his horse forward, his thoughts darker than the woods they now entered. Whatever they found out there, he knew this much: Claere was not a woman to be trusted.

The woods swallowed the last light of day, the shadows deepening to a near impenetrable black. The only sounds were the crunch of hooves on frosted leaves and the occasional snap of a branch underfoot. Cregan rode at the head of the patrol, Ice strapped across his back, its weight a constant reminder of duty.

The trees closed in around them, gnarled branches clawing at the sky, and the cold bit sharper here, as if the forest itself sought to repel them. His men called out the children’s names—Jonnel, Betha—voices ringing out into the empty expanse. But none dared call for her.

His breath misted as his thoughts churned. The bloodied image of Claere from his imagination melded uncomfortably with reality. The rumours whispered in Winterfell grew louder in his mind. He gripped the reins tighter.

“Lord Stark!”

The shout snapped his attention forward. One of the men pointed, and there she was, emerging from the underbrush like some ghostly specter. Claere.

Her hands were slick with blood, crimson streaking her pale fingers and arms, as though freshly painted. Her skirts, once pristine, were smeared with mud and more blood, dark streaks dragged haphazardly across the fabric as if she’d wiped her hands there in haste. Her feet were bare, toes red and raw against the frostbitten earth, and her hair had fallen from its usual bindings, wild tendrils framing her gaunt, hollow face.

Cregan halted his horse so abruptly it reared off the track, and he dismounted in a single swift motion. Ice sang as he drew it, the great blade gleaming even in the dim light.

He approached his wife slowly, like a predator stalking its prey.

Claere’s head lifted at the sound of his boots crunching against the frost. Her violet eyes, tired and strange, met his. She took a hesitant step forward, but he raised the blade. Wordlessly.

Her steps faltered. She blinked, and though her expression remained still, her hands trembled, her fingers twitching at her sides. Slowly, she stepped back, lowering her eyes to the ground.

"My lord," she said, her voice hollow, as if the words were spoken from a great distance.

His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. The stories screamed in his mind—the Valyrian witch, blood and fire, the maneater, the beautiful demon.

“The children?” His voice was low, hard, edged with suspicion.

Claere did not flinch. She turned her head, glancing westward. “The brook by the tall trees,” she said, her voice faint and uneven. “I only tried—”

But he didn’t wait for more. He sheathed Ice and strode past her, his pace swift and resolute. His men followed, their torches bobbing behind him like fleeting will-o’-the-wisps.

The landmark came quickly, the brook glinting faintly in the moonlight, its surface not yet frozen over. At its edge stood a towering tree with roots gnarled and exposed, reaching toward the stream like claws. Beneath its shelter, he saw them.

Jonnel and Betha.

The children were huddled together beneath a cloak far too large for them, their small feet tucked into the softness. Claere’s cloak. The fire before them sputtered weakly, the last of its life fed by scraps of leather—her shoes again, he realized, sacrificed to the flames.

For a moment, he simply stared, the scene pressing on him. The children were unharmed. Warm. Protected.

The men moved quickly, retrieving the little ones, murmuring reassurances as they wrapped them in blankets. Cregan didn’t follow. His gaze remained on the remnants of the fire, on the makeshift items strewn about—the cloak she’d offered, the shoes she’d burned.

When he turned back toward the woods, he saw her standing at a distance, her shoulders hunched as if against the cold. Her hands hung limply at her sides, stained red but empty. She did not meet his eyes, staring instead at the children being carried away.

The suspicion that had burned so fiercely in his chest faltered. He looked at her again—not the witch, not the monster, but the woman who had given what little she had to keep two helpless children safe. The moment stretched, and he felt something stir—an unease that wasn’t borne of mistrust, but of something far heavier. Guilt.

Yet still, the concern lingered. The blood on her hands, the strange air about her—it was all too much. Too foreign. Too other.

He shook it off and turned away, climbing into his saddle. The ride back to Winterfell would be long, and the questions clinging to his thoughts longer still.

“The horses, my lord,” one of his men called, gesturing toward the horses. An extra one.

“Leave her one,” Cregan commanded. “Let her do as she pleases.”

He cast one last glance over his shoulder. She had taken to kneeling by the brook, a silent figure against the shadowed woods. For the briefest of moments, he wondered if she was praying—to whom, or for what, he could not say.

And then he rode on, the ghost of her presence trailing after him like a haunting he could not outrun.

Cregan leaned against the cold stone of the ramparts, the weight of the night pressing down on him. Below, the gates of Winterfell stood sturdy and silent, the soft glow of torches marking the perimeter. His breath came in slow, heavy puffs, mingling with the frost of the air. He told himself he wasn’t waiting, and yet his eyes lingered on the road leading from the woods, scanning for the faintest silhouette of a rider.

Her bloodied hands plagued him. He shook his head, frustration knotting his chest. What had he done? In his anger, his doubt, he had left her. The memory of her kneeling by the brook, her skirts muddied, her face hollow with exhaustion, burned itself into his thoughts.

“Damn it,” he muttered, running a gloved hand through his hair.

The sound of hooves on stone broke the quiet, and his heart stuttered. He leaned forward, eager, catching sight of a figure dismounting in the courtyard below. It was her—already within the keep. She hadn’t taken the horse he’d left; she’d come through Winter Town. Barefoot, frostbitten, her steps faltering but determined.

By the time Cregan reached her chamber, the air was thick with the sharp tang of herbs and damp wool. The door was slightly ajar, and a faint orange glow spilled out into the dim corridor. He paused, his hand resting against the rough wood, listening to the muffled movements within.

She was there, alone, perched on a low stool by the hearth. Her head was bowed, a curtain of silver hair falling across her face, her shoulders trembling as she worked. The basin at her feet was darkened with blood, the water tinged red and nearly frozen again. Her hands moved in slow, mechanical strokes, dabbing a cloth over the angry cuts on her fingers. Her frostbitten toes rested in the frigid water, the skin cracked and raw, as though she didn’t feel the sting of the cold.

It was the lack of reaction that unnerved him. She worked as if her body were something apart from herself, her expression distant, eerily calm, even serene.

“Claere,” he said, his voice rough, filling the silence.

She didn’t stir. Her focus remained locked on her hands, wiping at the blood as if she could somehow erase it from sight.

“Claere,” he said again, louder this time.

Her head lifted slowly, her eyes meeting his with a hollow detachment.

The sight of her—pale, bloodied, and so utterly calm—set his teeth on edge. Anger sparked in him, but it was an anger born of fear, of guilt, of not understanding sooner. He stepped inside, the door groaning on its hinges behind him.

“Stop,” he ordered, his tone sharper than he intended.

Her gaze flicked down to her hands, and for the first time, there was a flicker of awareness in her expression. Slowly, she lowered the cloth, her fingers trembling.

He crossed the room in two long strides, calling for the maester with a bark that echoed down the hall.

When Maester Kennet arrived moments later, his face tightened at the sight of her. “Lady Stark,” he said gently, kneeling beside her. “Please, allow me.”

Cregan stood back, his arms crossed, his eyes locked on her every movement. She didn’t resist as Kennet worked, applying oils and wrapping her hands with strips of linen soaked in pungent herbs. Even as the maester’s careful fingers pressed against the frostbitten flesh, she barely flinched. Her stillness was unsettling as if she had resigned herself to pain—or worse, as if she didn’t feel it at all.

“She’ll heal,” Kennet said when he finished, rising to face Cregan. “But the cold has taken its toll. She must stay warm, my lord.”

Cregan nodded curtly. “Thank you, maester.”

The room fell silent once more, save for the crackling of the fire. Claere remained where she was, her hands now neatly bandaged, her feet swaddled in cloth. She seemed smaller somehow, sitting there in the flickering light, her head bowed as though waiting for something she knew would not come.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said, her voice low and steady, though her gaze dropped to the basin at her feet. The words were measured, devoid of plea or softness. “It was never my intention to cause their parents grief. I misjudged the woods, the snow. The children swore they knew the way to the shrubs I needed.” Her eyes flicked briefly to the bloodied water, then back to her frostbitten toes. “They did their best.”

Cregan’s gut twisted at the sight of her—the bruised, bloodied hands, the faint tremor in her slender frame. But her tone, her words—they struck something raw in him. There was no defense, no demand for his apology. Just quiet truth, sharp and unadorned.

His grip on his emotions slipped. He’d pointed a sword at her throat, doubted her every action, accused her in his heart of monstrous things. She had borne it all without protest and still managed to save two children who weren’t hers to protect. And she had nearly frozen herself to do it.

He swallowed thickly. “Thank you,” he said at last, the words low and stiff, clawing their way out of his chest.

Her head lifted at the sound, her silver hair falling from her face. Her violet eyes found his, and for a moment, the room seemed colder. She studied him in silence as if trying to see past his words, past his name and title, straight to the marrow of the man.

“You doubted me.” Her voice was soft, but it carried a bite—a blade, not dulled by anger, but honed by a quiet certainty. It wasn’t an accusation; it didn’t need to be.

“I…” He hesitated, the truth a jagged stone lodged in his throat. The weight of what he’d assumed, of how he’d treated her, was unbearable now, standing here in this room with her bruised feet in freezing water and her bandaged hands still trembling. “I was wrong, princess.”

She tilted her head, her expression unreadable. For a moment, he thought he saw the flicker of something in her eyes—amusement, perhaps, or pity. But it was gone too quickly to name.

“Even the lord of Winterfell,” she murmured, her voice laced with quiet irony, “can be wrong.”

He stiffened at the words, but not from anger. They weren’t spoken to wound. There was no malice in her tone, just an acknowledgment of the raw, human truth that he’d been so slow to see.

Her gaze dropped again to her hands, now wrapped tightly with linen soaked in oils and herbs. She flexed her fingers experimentally, as though testing the pain, but her expression barely changed. Only her lips moved, faintly, a breath too soft for him to hear.

Cregan watched her with a churn in his chest he couldn’t name. She was still too strange, too foreign, her pale beauty both otherworldly and unsettling. But there was something else now, something gnawing at the edges of his certainty.

“You burned your shoes,” he said suddenly, his voice sharper than he intended.

She glanced at him, startled, as though she’d forgotten he was still there. “The fire wouldn’t hold in the snow,” she replied simply. “Leather burns slower than wood.”

“And the cloak?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Sewn with wool and lined with my blood,” she said, showing him her wounded palms. “It was all I had left to keep them warm.” She shrugged faintly as if such a thing were obvious.

His chest tightened. She’d used her own blood to insulate the children, to keep them warm while she bore the frost herself. He thought of the sight of her in the woods, barefoot in the snow, her skirts smeared with blood. How quickly he had drawn his blade. How sure he had been that she was a monster.

And here she was, undoing every dark thought he’d clung to with a calmness that only made him feel smaller.

“Why?” he asked, though the word felt hollow as it left his mouth.

Her brows furrowed, as though the question confused her. “Because they were cold,” she said simply, tilting her head. “And I was not.”

There was no answer to that. No apology would be enough. He stared at her, his chest heavy with something unfamiliar. Guilt, shame, and something else—a growing awareness that this woman, this strange, pale figure who unsettled him so deeply, had a strength that defied the stories whispered behind her back.

As the silence stretched between them, she turned her gaze back to the water. Her fingers brushed the surface, red streaks curling like smoke in the fading warmth. “The children,” she said, breaking the quiet. “They are safe?”

“Aye,” he managed, his voice hoarse.

She nodded once, her expression unreadable. “Good,” she said softly, as if that were the only thing that mattered.

[ I have no idea why I rejected this scene, I think I didn't explain it as well or just did not have enough evidence to support Cregan's mistrust, the description wasn't up to par, it was just all over the place, so I wrote it off. ]

SCENE #2 (part ii) - SOAP AND BUBBLES

Winterfell was meaner than Claere had imagined—colder than the stories ever told. The air seemed to gnaw at her, the chill seeping beneath layers of fur and silk. But it wasn’t just the weather; it was the people, the customs, their lives. Northern life was unyielding, hard as the ironwood trees that dotted the wolfswood. Mercy was a luxury the North could not afford.

Claere had begun to learn the harsh ways of her new home. She spent long hours pouring over maps in the solar, her fingers tracing the paths of rivers and trade routes. She watched with quiet vigilance, absorbing everything—how the men spoke of war and how disputes were resolved swiftly and without sentiment. She’d even resorted to mingling with the maids and stewards, overhearing their fierce remarks about her. It stung, but she endured, knowing that respect was earned here, never freely given.

Cregan noticed. He always noticed.

At first, it was the odd tilt of her head when someone spoke, the way her clothes turned to more cloaks and furs, darker shades of his own colours rather than Targaryen colours, how her lips pressed together in thought. Then it was her diligence—how she’d taken to studying the Stark family ledgers without complaint, or how she lingered longer in the courtyards, her eyes sharp and observant of the children playing. She was... different. Strange, yes. Vigilant, certainly. But hers was a quiet resilience, the kind that never stopped intriguing him.

On his fortnightly ride to White Harbor, the thought of her lingered, as it often did these days. He tried to focus on the tasks at hand—the long lists of goods to inspect, the tallies to confirm—but her image crept into the quiet moments between. The curve of her lips when she smiled, the soft cadence of her voice when she spoke of the godswood, her quiet intensity as she studied maps in the flickering firelight.

Winterfell’s larders were vast and well-stocked, but White Harbor offered treasures the North could not produce—southern goods that reminded him of her, a woman so different from the hard, unyielding stone around them.

He moved among the crates of grain, smoked fish, and wool with the practised eye of a Stark lord. Each decision he made carried the weight of his house, and his men knew better than to question his scrutiny. But when he came upon the crates of southern wares, he paused.

“What else do you have from Dorne?” he asked the merchant, his tone sharp with interest.

The man looked at him, startled, before recovering. “Fruits, spices—cinnamon, saffron, dried lemons. They fetch a high price, my lord.”

“Bring more next time,” Cregan said, his voice brooking no argument. “Fresh, if you can manage it. And anything else of quality from the capital—items meant for royals.”

The merchant nodded eagerly. “Of course, my lord. Is there anything specific you seek?”

Cregan paused, considering. “Vegetarian fare,” he said at last. “Dried herbs, cheeses, and anything light. She...” He stopped himself, feeling the weight of his men’s curious gazes. “The Lady of Winterfell has particular tastes,” he finished curtly.

It wasn’t intentional, not at first. As the goods were sorted, his gaze wandered to another stall nearby, smaller but filled with curiosities from Essos—glass beads, bolts of silk, carved wooden idols. But when he saw the little bar of soap, nestled between silks, it stopped him in his tracks. It was a lovely thing, carved with intricate patterns and scented like lilies. He turned it over in his palm, imagining her expression if he gifted it to her.

“She’ll think you’re courting her,” one of his men teased, his grin wide.

“Then let her think it,” Cregan replied gruffly, tucking the soap into his saddlebag.

When he rode back to Winterfell, the cold biting at his cheeks, the thought of her remained a quiet warmth in his chest. The blood oranges, dates, and soap nestled in his saddlebag felt like small tokens, yet they carried a significance he didn’t yet have the words to express.

In his mind, he pictured her as she might look when she found the soap—a small, private smile tugging at her lips, the kind that made the world outside Winterfell feel momentarily distant. It was a thought that stayed with him, warming him far more than the furs on his back.

He left the gift in her chambers that evening, no note, no ceremony. The next day, he knew she had found it. The scent of lilies wove its way through Winterfell like a secret, light and intoxicating. It clung to the cold stone, a defiance of the North’s austerity.

By the time he passed her chambers that evening, the fragrance was stronger, laced with warmth from the hearthfire within. Her door hung ajar, as it often did—a small defiance she had taken to after remarking how Winterfell’s doors seemed designed to shut out the world. Cregan paused, his hand brushing the uneven wood of the doorframe. The hinges needed mending, he noted absently, his eyes narrowing.

He meant to pull it closed. He meant to walk away. But the faint sound of water—soft, sloshing and rhythmic—stilled his hand. His instincts told him to leave, to respect her privacy. But a flicker of motion within drew his gaze like a lodestone.

Just one glance. One little peek.

Gods, this was hell. The hearthlight gilded her bare shoulders, turning her skin to honeyed gold. Steam curled lazily around her, softening the stark edges of the chamber. Her hair, a tumble of silver silk, was piled atop her head, loose strands clinging to the damp nape of her neck. She moved with an unhurried grace, her back to him, the soap he had gifted her sliding over her skin.

Cregan went immobilized, his breath caught in his throat. The soap’s lather trailed down her shoulder, gleaming against her bare arm before vanishing into the water. Her movements were deliberate, sensual without intent, a quiet intimacy that made his pulse pound. He drank in the curve of her back, the subtle lines of her ribs, the delve of her spine, the elegant slope of her neck.

She was a sight to rival the old gods themselves.

A muscle in his jaw tightened as heat flared low in his stomach, an ache sharp and sudden. She was so different here, stripped of the Northern chill and her careful composure. She was soft. Vulnerable. A creature of fire and moonlight, wholly unguarded in her private sanctuary.

For a man of the North, accustomed to restraint, this was dangerous ground. He gripped the doorframe, his knuckles whitening as he struggled against the urge to step inside, to close the door behind him, to join her—

“Lord Stark.”

The voice shattered the spell. He turned sharply, his shoulders stiff, to find one of her handmaidens standing behind him. Her gaze flickered to the open door, her expression caught between curiosity and amusement.

“The hinges,” he said gruffly, his voice lower than usual. “They need mending.”

She arched a brow, a faint, knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Lady Stark prefers it that way, m'lord. She likes the air.”

Cregan forced a curt nod, stepping back and away from the door, away from the golden light and the intoxicating scent of lilies. “See to it,” he muttered, his tone clipped.

Without waiting for her response, he turned and strode toward his chambers, his steps heavy and deliberate. Once inside, he pushed the door shut with more force than necessary and leaned against it, dragging a hand down his face.

The scent still clung to him, subtle yet maddening. His hands trembled as he pressed his palms to his eyes, willing the image of her—bathed in firelight, her skin glistening, her form so achingly bare—to fade. But it didn’t. It stayed with him, carved into his mind, an unshakable temptation.

“Gods,” he muttered under his breath, sinking into the nearest chair. His chest rose and fell with each labored breath, and for the first time in years, Cregan Stark felt truly undone.

She was a storm he hadn’t anticipated, and she was far more dangerous than the winter winds ever could be.

[ I love how i deleted so many horny Cregan scenes, like I have two more of him just being a simp for his wife. lmao we love a pathetic lovey-dovey king ]

SCENE #3 (part iv) - BOW SHOOT

When Cregan sought her out to share the latest developments, he found her in the courtyard, not with her harp nor wandering the keep, but standing alone by the practice yard. She was a pale figure against the rough-hewn timber and frost-covered ground, a giant bow in her hands. Her eyes narrowed in quiet concentration as she drew the string back, the soft morning light catching the strands of silver in her hair.

Cregan paused by the stockades, his brow furrowing in curiosity. She was an unusual sight here, out of place among the cracked leather targets and straw dummies. Yet there was a determination in her stance, something raw and deliberate, even as the arrow she released flew wide, thudding into the frozen ground with an audible lack of grace.

She frowned, her lips tightening, but said nothing as she adjusted her grip and notched another arrow.

“Planning to shoot your way out of trouble now, princess?” Cregan called, his voice carrying over the yard. Though the words were light, his eyes lingered on her, taking in her unflinching focus.

Claere’s head turned slightly, her gaze meeting his for the briefest of moments. There was no smile, no coy remark—just that same steady resolve. “The bow was left by the yard,” she said, her tone as cool as the frost beneath their boots.

He approached, boots crunching against the frozen dirt. “And you thought to pick it up?”

“I thought to try,” she replied, not looking at him this time. Her fingers trembled slightly as she drew the string back again.

The release was awkward, the arrow wobbling and veering far from the target. Cregan sighed and stepped closer, his presence casting a long shadow over her. “A bow’s no use if you don’t know how to wield it,” he said, his tone softer now, but still tinged with amusement.

When the second shot went wide, he couldn’t help but smirk. “A bow’s no use to someone who doesn’t know how to wield it,” he said, stopping just short of her.

Her grip on the bow tightened, and for a moment, he thought she might argue. But instead, she turned her head, her gaze meeting his with that same unsettling calm. “Then show me,” she said simply.

The words hit him like a challenge, quiet but loaded with meaning. Without a word, he stepped behind her, closing the space between them until his chest was nearly flush against her back. The sharp scent of pine and leather clung to him, and she stiffened, though not out of fear.

“Here,” he murmured, his voice low as his hands came to rest on her shoulders. He adjusted her stance, his touch firm but careful, like a sculptor shaping something fragile. “Relax. You can’t shoot if you’re this tense.”

She inhaled sharply, her body responding instinctively to his nearness. His hands moved with deliberate slowness, sliding down her arms to guide her.

“You’re stiff as stone,” he chided softly, his hands sliding to her arms, steering them gently. “Let go of some of that pride. A bow doesn’t care for it.”

She inhaled sharply, her gaze fixed on the target ahead. But all she could feel was him—solid, steady, and far too close. His fingers brushed hers, calloused and warm, as he helped her notch another arrow.

“Draw slowly,” he instructed, his hot breaths against her cheek. “Feel the tension. Don’t fight it.”

Her pulse thundered as she drew the string back, the bow creaking under the strain. His hands moved over hers, steadying her grip. She could feel the rhythm of his breaths, deep and even, and unconsciously, she matched it.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice rougher now, closer. She swore she felt the faintest graze of his lips against the shell of her ear, though it could have been the ghost of her imagination. “Focus. You’re not thinking about the target.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears as the bowstring thrummed under the tension. Her fingers felt too cold, her cheeks too warm, and his hands too solid, too sure as they held her steady.

“Let go, love,” he whispered, and it wasn’t just an instruction. It was a command, a promise, a challenge.

She released the string, the arrow slicing through the air. It struck the edge of the target—not perfect, but far better than before. A breathless laugh escaped her lips, surprising even herself.

“A fine attempt,” Cregan said, his voice laced with approval. But he didn’t step away. His hands lingered on hers, the rough calluses brushing against her softer skin, his touch deliberate, deliberate enough to send a shiver down her spine.

“And if I miss?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her head tilting slightly to glance at him over her shoulder. The movement brought her lips close—too close—to his.

His gaze dropped to her mouth for a fraction of a second, his expression unreadable. Slowly, his fingers slid along the inside of her wrist, his touch featherlight, tracing the delicate veins beneath her skin.

“Then I’ll catch you,” he said.

The silence that followed was thick; charged. For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them—their breath mingling in the cold air, the tension crackling like the belly of a beast.

And then he stepped back, the absence of his warmth a jarring contrast to the heat still lingering on her skin.

“Try again,” he said, his tone lighter now, though his eyes still burned with something unspoken.

She turned back to the target, her movements steady, though her heart was anything but. When she drew the string again, she couldn’t help but feel his gaze on her—not just watching but waiting.

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

#hotd #house of the dragon #cregan stark #house targaryen #fire and blood #hotd cregan #cregan fanfiction #cregan stark x oc #cregan x you #cregan x oc

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lv7867 · 5 months ago

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Nesting.

Cregan Stark x pregnant!reader

Summary: the reader has nesting habits while carrying their child. It's worrying Cregan to no end.

Masterlist

A/n: based on an incredible ask! He's so girl-dad-coded. Sorry, but I said the thing and I'm not taking it back. Girl dad.

.......................................................

Cregan stepped into their chamber and paused. "My love, what are you doing?"

His seven month pregnant wife looked over her shoulder. "Tidying."

She was currently standing on her small vanity bench, now pulled over to the bookshelf where she had been wiping at the dust on the highest shelf.

His hands came up, ready to catch her at a moment's notice as his body moved closer. "Why, sweet girl? Why not rest?"

She sighed to herself. "The birth is nearing. I need to be prepared."

"Love, dust on a six foot bookshelf is not something the babe will be checking." He placed a firm hand on her lower back. "Why don't you come down from there?"

Though she didn't want to, fighting him was utterly useless. "I don't know if I-"

He had already grabbed her, keeping her in a bridal carry as he moved to the bed. The slight groan from her made him pause. "Your back hurting you again?"

"Never stops," she muttered with a hand over her forehead, "It's like your child enjoys his mother's suffering."

"His? You think a boy?"

"It has to be," she whined. "It needs to be. I don't think I can take this many more times." When his face fell, a light smirk came over hers. "I can only clean the shelves so many times."

He scoffed in amusement. "You little minx." Usually a teasing comment like that would result in the two under the covers, but during this stage, it only made him more cautious of every move.

He set her down softly on the bed, taking extra care to hold her lower back.

She let out another groan at the movement but the ache subsided for a moment.

"Sit tight. I'll have someone fetch something to eat." And he stepped out of the room.

It was only a minute. A moment even. But still, when he returned, she was sitting in front of the fire, leaned back on her heels.

"What are you doing?" His voice echoes sharply.

Her hands flinched back as if she'd touched the fire itself, her body turning as much as possible to him. Her eyes were watery. "You're angry," she whispered.

The burly man forced himself to take a breath. "I'm not."

"No, you are."

"Fine. I am. But love, what is this?" He bent down to her level and grabbed her wrists, showcasing the ash across her palms.

"It was… it was so filthy across the front here. I've been staring at it for days. I just need to finish-"

"-With your bare hands? With these pretty little hands you intend to wipe ashes from a burning fireplace?"

"Just the front-"

"-And now I've got to wash all of this off you, don't I?" It sounded condescending, like scolding a child, but the light twinkle in his eyes proved that he enjoyed caring for her even when it exhausted his efforts.

"I was only trying to to help."

Her watery eyes were causing his heart to ache with a slight devastation. "I know, I know. But you're too close to the flames for my liking. Our little pup will melt."

A silent sob wracked through her at the mere thought of harm to their unborn child. Harm that was her fault.

"Oh, sweet girl. I didn't- I- oh, gods," he tucked an arm around her. "None of that. Let's wash you up."

"But the ash-"

"-When you get into bed, I'll handle the ash. Alright?" He asked quietly with a hopeful look in his eyes.

Her eyes searched his for a way to truly know he meant what he was saying. To wake in the morning to the sight of ash still in place was unbearable at the moment. "Alright."

"Alright," he confirmed with a relieved smile. "Alright. Let's get you up, yes?"

She nodded as he he helped her up and sit on their sofa. He held her hands palm up and gave her a stern look. "Stay here."

He moved to the small water basin by their beside and dipped a cloth in it, soaking it completely before moving back to her.

He cradled each hand gently as he wiped at the ash on her hands, taking care to wipe as much as he could. "Ash is dangerous, my love. I want you to tell me next time you want it cleaned."

"I thought I could do it quickly," she explained.

"Just promise me you'll tell me what you want done rather than doing it yourself. I don't want you to overexert yourself."

She heaved a defeated sigh. "Alright."

He kissed her forehead. "Thank you. We'll wash you and get you to bed."

…

A week had passed in which Cregan had constantly ushered her to their bed, the nearest seat, and even having her sit in his large seat during petitions as he stood next to her.

But today he had yet to see her, and he began to miss her.

The moment the petitions ended, he excused himself to his solar, where he knew she'd be cuddled up with one of her few books.

He was right. The door opened, and he grinned at the sight of his wife with his cloak wrapped around her, reading away at the book he was sure she'd read at least seven times now. "Enjoying yourself?"

Her head shot up. "I didn't expect to see you for another few hours."

"I finished early. You know I can't stay away for too long."

She set her book away as he entered the room.

He kissed her softly and rubbed his thumb across her cheek. "What did you do with your day, pretty girl?"

She fidgeting with her hands. "I read quite a bit. That's all."

His brows twitched. "That's all? Just reading?" He knew better.

"Just that."

He ran his tongue across his front teeth. "If I go into our chambers, I won't find anything different than it was this morning?"

Her eyes widened. "Don't-"

"See? I know you too well." He leaned down and kissed her again. "You can tell me now, or I can go see for myself."

"No, stay here," she said in an urgent manner. "Stay with me. I've missed you," she tried to cover.

He pretended to give into her, letting her pull him down by the grip she had on his doublet. He kissed her cheek then pulled away quickly. "I'll be back."

"No, wait."

Cregan was already gone, moving swiftly to the bedroom and tossing the door open. Laid across their bed was an abundance of furs. Every cloak they owned but the ones they currently wore. Every fur blanket made for them was thrown on the bed. It all seemed messily done, but he knew better.

Not long after, the sound of his wife's footsteps came to his ears and he turned to meet her. "You've been quite busy."

"I'm only preparing, Cregan!" She whined. Her arms wrapped around his torso, her stomach keeping her from being fully against him. "It'll be any day now."

"You beautifully stubborn girl," he said with a shaking head in mock frustration. "You promised you'd tell me when you needed something."

"This is hardly a change. It was easy, I assure you."

"Love, I can't sleep like that. I burn like a furnace in the night anyway. This won't do any better."

"But the babe-"

He took her by the biceps, tugging her away from him. "The babe will be fine. The North is cold, but Winterfell is warm and comforting. Now please. Let me remove some of this from our bed."

Her eyes darted through the doorway to the bed and back up and him a few times in contemplation. "Fine."

"You sit over there," he pointed at their sofa. "And I'll do this."

She waddled over to the sofa, sitting down with a slight distain.

Cregan began to throw cloaks and furs over his shoulders, inspecting each one in light amusement and annoyance. He threw looks to his wife occasionally when she would say, "Not that one." Or "Keep that one." He had managed to get most of them off the bed before he gave in. "You'll keep these three. Understand?"

She nodded. "And if I get cold?"

He sighed. "You have a warm husband. He won't let the chill touch you or the girl."

He took his leave, pausing with a smile when he caught her soft "girl?". But he left anyway, returning the furs where they belonged.

…

Cregan was indeed right again, for she laid in bed in a small puddle of sweat. The heat was great in their shared bed, and her husband was right to correct her previous thought.

"What are you thinking so hard about?" the great lord muttered, his voice riddled with sleep. His eyes were closed peacefully, but even with no sight, he knew when his wife was troubled.

"Just-" Cregan's hand rubbed at her bump gently, urging her to continue. "A girl?"

He let out huff, pulling himself from sleep. "I know it's a girl."

"It's not," she urged. "It's not. It's a boy."

He peeked his eyes open. "I don't care what it is. But I know it's a girl."

She let out a disappointed sound and pushed his arm away, beginning to push herself up to sit.

"No. You need to sleep."

"I have to change things now. I'm not ready for a girl," she explained with a hurried tone.

Before she could even move off the bed, Cregan had reached out and grabbed her, pulling her back to him and gently forcing her to lay back down. "There's nothing to change," he urged with his eyes locked on hers. "You've done everything right. The babe is loved and cared for, and the rest will fall into place. Yes?" When she didn't answer, he kissed her softly and tried again. "Yes?"

That was what she needed to hear. "Yes." She rubbed a hand over her shoulders in an attempt to soothe an ache. "Yes. You're right. He'll be fine."

"She'll be fine," he teased.

She sent an icy glare, making him close his mouth and lay back down.

"We'll just focus on today, alright? And today, you need sleep." When she had cuddled up to his side, he relaxed, knowing he had his entire world in his arms. "Just focus on today."

...................................................................

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#fanfiction #game of thrones x reader #cregan stark x you #game of thrones fanfiction #game of thrones imagine #game of thrones x y/n #cregan stark x y/n #cregan stark x reader #house of the dragon fanfiction #cregan stark imagine

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lv7867 · 5 months ago

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You! Making me still be in love with Cregan 🩶🩶🩶

There Goes My Heart Beating, 'Cause You Are The Reason

Cregan Stark x Wife!Reader

Tags: fluff, light descriptions of smut (light for me!), light breeding kink (light for a Stark man!), truly this is just Cregan being a loving wife guy

As he and his wife take a ride through the Wolfswood, Cregan Stark thinks about how much he loves her, how happy he is now, and what that means for him. He works up the courage to share his thoughts and feelings with her, and she shares something with him too.

His arm is starting to get stiff from holding his wife so securely against him as his horse steps carefully over the forest floor, now dusted with snow, but he really doesn’t mind. He loves having her this close to him, and keeping her safe has become second nature to him.

Her cloak is pulled snuggly around her body, and his cloak his tugged around both of them, to keep her warm. And though very little of her skin is exposed to the chilly air, he can still smell the mix of her soap and perfume each time she moves her head to glance around the Wolfswood, taking in the rugged nature of the North in awe. She smells so sweet – like vanilla and honey, drawing him closer to her. He can’t help but brush his nose against her hair, breathing her in.

Where his arm is curled around her middle, her arm is folded over his, her gloved hand splayed over the back of his own. He wants to move his hand to gently caress her, but he’s afraid of accidentally tickling her while she’s on top of a horse. He’d never put her in danger of falling from such a height, but the way she moves beneath his hand, shifting her weight as the horse beneath them moves this way and that, he’s reminded of what it’s like to feel her move beneath him, arching in pleasure. Her passion takes his breath away.

Because she’s sitting in front of him, her bum is pressed firmly against his groin too. He’s trying very hard not to think about how good it feels to have her brushing against him, especially when she shifts her hips to get more comfortable. He swears she glances over her shoulder each time she does it, like she knows what she’s doing to him, but he’d never accuse her of such teasing. She’s a lady, his Lady of Winterfell, and he doesn’t want to say something that might make her uncomfortable, even if he’d only be playfully teasing her back.

This is all very new to him, and he’s waded into waters he really has no prior experience with. His parents died when he was young, as did his younger brother, leaving him with just his half-sister, Sara, for immediate family. His extended family – his uncles and cousins – betrayed him and tried to prevent him from assuming his role as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. They were either imprisoned or sent to the Wall, and he has no love for them now.

So, to have a kind, intelligent, gentle, funny, and warm woman wake up next to him every day, support him and share his duties, and fall asleep in his arms every night, is something that is very unfamiliar to him. Being so close to her initially made him freeze up, his nerves getting the better of him. He couldn’t remember what it felt like to have a tender hand on his arm, or soothing words whispered in his ear. He’s stumbled over his own words, trying to tell her she’s the most beautiful and exquisite person he’s ever known, and he’s sure she noticed the way his cheeks turn scarlet red. He had to counsel himself on how to make her feel special and comfortable in her new home, but he was afraid of either falling short with his gestures, or overdoing it. He settled on asking the head gardener of Winterfell’s glass gardens to make sure that a fresh bouquet of flowers is placed on her desk in her study every morning, so she is reminded of him and his love for her when she is seeing to her responsibilities as the Lady of Winterfell. She commented to him just yesterday on how much the gesture means to her, and it made a warmth spread through his insides that he’s still getting used to feeling.

She’s a remarkable woman, and fits in perfectly into her new life with him at Winterfell. Though she isn’t from the North, you’d never know that by the way she has taken up the mantle as the second most important person in this part of the realm. She remembers with ease all of the names of the lords and ladies that visit Winterfell, and asks about their grandchildren or how renovations to their keeps are progressing – details he struggles to remember himself. It eases some of the weight on his shoulders, knowing she’s there to carry some of the burden with him. She has a knack for making people laugh too, for she’s clever and witty, and seems to enjoy putting a smile on the faces of others, and making them feel at ease. Despite what many people think, he does have a sense of humor, but it’s true that he’s never been adept at expressing it. She helps him, granting him openings in conversations where he can say something funny too. And she makes him laugh too when they’re alone; he laughs so hard his cheeks and abs hurt the next day, but soothed by the joy he feels in his heart from her.

She’s brave too – for moving to the frigid North in comparison to where she was raised in temperate South. Brave for marrying a man she’s never met, and giving him a chance to prove himself to her. Courageous for stepping into a role that is not at all easy, and can be frustrating and taxing on one’s mind and body. And unwavering in her encouragement of him to be close with her, emotionally and physically. It’s hard, he knows, to be vulnerable with another person. To expose your insecurities and inexperience to them, hoping they will understand. He was afraid to touch her at first, she seemed so delicate and he couldn’t bear the thought of accidentally hurting her. But to her credit, she had climbed into his lap on their first night as a married couple and kissed him breathless, reassuring him that she wanted this – that she wanted him.

And so they had taken their time, exploring each other with wandering hands and lips, sighing and then gasping with pleasure. Her pleasure has become his pleasure, and he wants nothing more than to make her feel every ounce of bliss imaginable. She’s like a goddess to him, and he happily finds himself on his knees as often as possible, one of her legs draped over his shoulder as she clutches at the wall she’s leaning against and tangles her other hand in his hair, breathy moans escaping her lips as he licks as deep as he can. The sound, the feel, and the taste of her coming for him is an indescribable feeling – he catches himself thinking about it when he’s supposed to be listening to the advice of his bannermen gathered around a table in the Great Hall, and he has to take a steadying breath. And to be inside her, to feel her warmth and wetness enveloping him, pulling him in, clenching around him…he can’t quite catch his breath if he lets his mind wander to that. She sets his mind ablaze with the way she moves beneath him or on top of him, rolling her hips to meet him thrust for thrust. He longs to feel her skin against his, to feel her sweet breath fan over his face when he presses his forehead against hers, to feel her heartbeat sync up with his, now one. And the sounds she makes and what she says to him replay over and over in his mind, especially when he’s alone, trying his best to get through replying to as many raven scrolls as he can. Her moans and gasps, her whimpers and whines – he knows now that they’re all for him. He’s grown in confidence to try new things too, like a new position or angling his hips in such a way that he brushes over the sweet spot inside her. The sounds she makes send shivers up his spine and make him throb inside her. It’s the sweetest music to his ears. The things that she says to him too…encouraging him and voicing her desire for him, has made him feel like a completely different person, one worthy of her love and passion. About three weeks ago, as he pumped into her, she begged him to put a baby inside her, telling him there’s nothing she wants more than to be the mother of his children. Her words surprised him so much, and wound his desire so tightly, that he came harder than he ever has in his life, spilling into her and cupping her face in his hands, overwhelmed and elated by the thought of her round with their child. As they regained their breath, she kissed him so tenderly that it made tears prickle at the corner of his eyes. He felt so incredibly lucky to have her and was overcome by the thought of Winterfell housing a true family again; boundless energy, laughter, and love filling its walls. He never let himself dream of this possibility, not until now.

As he thinks about it with her pressed against his chest, the possibility wounds its way around his heart, making him feel so warm inside. His throat constricts with emotion as well. While his mind wanders, his arm shifts around her middle a bit, his instincts on even higher alert to protect her and the baby that might be growing inside her.

“What is over that ridge, my love?” She asks softly, her voice breaking through the stillness in the forest and his thoughts. She points just off to their left, through a gap in the evergreens.

He clears his throat, trying to regain his composure. “If we were to ride that way, we would head towards Deepwood Motte, the seat of House Glover, and then the Bay of Ice. Bear Island, and the keep of House Mormont, sits in the Bay of Ice.”

She cranes her head to look at him. “Might we visit the Glover’s and the Mormont’s soon? I’d like to see more of the North, and to meet the local people that live near Deepwood Motte and on Bear Island.”

He feels the warmth spread through his veins even more, touched by her desire to know the North and its people even better. “Of course, my darling,” he murmurs, his breath ruffling her hair. “We can send ravens to them as soon as we return to Winterfell. How does that sound?”

She turns even more in front of him, and he gently pulls the horse to a halt as she leans in to softly kiss him. He melts into her kiss, time standing still as her plush lips mold to his. When they finally break apart, she smiles up at him, looking content. “Thank you,” she breathes, smiling even wider as she gazes at him.

“Anything for you,” he replies, mirroring her smile and feeling butterflies in his stomach flutter with happiness. He inhales deeply, the crisp scent of the evergreens around them mixing with her perfume as the breeze ruffles her hair. “There’s one more thing I want to show you before we head back.”

She nods, and leans in for one more quick peck to his lips, before facing forward again. Someday, he hopes he can find the words to tell her how much that means to him.

He nudges their horse forward, steering him down a narrow path through the dense undergrowth. They walk quietly for a few more minutes and eventually come to a clearing in the trees where a pond sits, fed by a small stream that trickles down over rocks wedged into the hill beyond them. Right now, the pond is iced over, and the stream has formed crystal clear icicles over the rocks, frozen in its flow.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes, before turning once more to look at him. “Can we have a closer look?”

He chuckles, smiling at her. “Of course.”

Dropping his reins, and unfurling his cloak from around her body, he dismounts and then helps her climb down as well. He carefully holds her waist, setting her down gently, knowing her toes are probably tingling from the cold. Her hands slip down his shoulders to curl into the fur of his cloak, and she looks up at him, her eyes sweeping over his face.

“Have I ever told you how handsome you are?” She asks, pressing her body into his.

He feels himself blush, looking down briefly before meeting her eyes once more. “You have, my love.”

“Hmm,” she says, her hands sliding down the fur before slipping underneath his cloak, hugging him. He feels his heart thump against his ribcage, reaching out to her with every beat that it takes. His arms wound even more snuggly around her waist, pulling her gently into his chest. “I should tell you more often,” she continues. “I certainly think about it all of the time.”

“Do you?” He breathes, feeling her hands travel lightly up and down his back, even over his many layers. He’s always so aware of everything she does. “Well, so do I, about you.”

“Is that so?” She says, grinning up at him.

He nods, returning her smile, trying to find his confidence before speaking. “Aye, you’re the most elegant, graceful, and beautiful woman that I’ve ever met,” he says softly, admiring her lovely face. “You take my breath away.”

Her expression softens, and he watches the rosiness on her chilled cheeks deepen as she blushes. “Thank you, Cregan,” she murmurs, her eyes crinkling at the corners from her smile.

“Are you happy?” He asks, his hands rubbing slowly over her back.

She nods this time and then stretches up on her toes to kiss him. “Very happy,” she assures him when their kiss ends. “Are you?”

“I never thought I could be this happy, my love, you…” He swallows, trying to find the right words. “You have filled a hole in me that was vast and dark with your light and love… I am a better man because of you, sweet wife.”

The tender look she gives him fills him even more, healing him and softening the scarring around his heart.

She gently pulls her hands out from beneath his cloak to reach up and cup his cheeks. “That means the world to me, Cregan. I love you dearly, and want nothing more than for us to be happy and content.”

He smiles into her hands, nodding. “As do I, my darling. I love you too.” It feels so good to say it; it feels so natural for him now.

“And,” she continues softly, one of her hands falling away from his cheek to reach down and tug one of his to her front, placing his palm over her belly. “I know that more happiness is on the way.”

His breath hitches as he takes in her words.

“Are you certain?” He breathes, letting himself dare to hope.

She nods, her smile spreading across her cheeks again, and he can see the joy in her eyes. “Yes, Maester Gerrard confirmed it with me just before we left for our ride. I wanted to tell you when the moment was right, out here, in this beautiful land that has welcomed me so warmly. You’re going to be a papa, my darling husband.” She curls her hand around his on her belly.

He feels tears fill his eyes, and he tries to blink them away, but he’s not quick enough. They slip down his cheeks, and he sees the same thing happen to her, both of them overcome with happiness.

He dips his head down to kiss her, so joyful and so in love, that all of his worries and fears melt away, replaced by the knowledge that she will be the mother of his children, perfect in every way. Knowing that someday soon, he will get to cradle his son or daughter in his arms, and watch her hold the baby too, gently rocking them to sleep, as he holds both of them in his arms. A little Stark, filling Winterfell with life and love and happiness. It’s as if the hole inside him closes for good, and relief floods his veins to join his joy. As he continues to kiss his wonderful wife, the breeze ruffles the evergreen trees around them – as if they are sharing his hope and happiness, spreading it throughout the wild, wondrous North.

Moots and Cregan Wives Taglist ❤️:

@princessvelaryon @sylasthegrim @vividxpages @bucksplum

@eldrith @cregnstark @onebrainsel

@helpmedecideaname @lv7867 @mckennah123 @valardohaeriss @janniepark1997 @omnjc

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lv7867 · 5 months ago

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Me to me. Needing to get me some Geta, and then Caracalla being the most broken baby you want to fix the world for. ❤️🤘🏽😩❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹❤️‍🩹 making me feel my feelings. How dare. 🖤

Part III: Our Time is Limited (18+)

Part II

Pairing: Geta x Reader (Romantic) & Platonic!Caracalla x Reader

Synopsis: Fighting back worry, Reader reveals their concerns about Acacius and Lucilla. In the dark of night, Geta & Reader find solace from the weight of the world in each other, even if the reprieve is temporary. The struggles of the empire are only part of the obstacles that move to keep Geta & Reader apart. Caracalla's illness rears its ugly head proving to Geta that protecting the ones he cares about most may not be a possibility, throwing him closer to the edge of despair and desperation.

Warnings: smut/sexual activity + drug use + violence

A/N: Oof am I excited about this installment of the story! These three have my whole heart and I'm beyond grateful to those of you who are joining me on the journey of telling this story. Some of this will continue to follow canon, but I haven't fully decided how the story will end... therefore if things diverge... don't be surprised. I'm letting these characters dictate where the story goes within the realm of my planning. And as always, please forgive me for any and all mistakes!

** I will start working on the next part soon, but work is picking up for me in the next few days. So I apologize if it takes a bit longer to get part four out!

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The cool stone was in stark contrast to the humidity and heat that rose through the heavy air. Steam clouded your vision, marking the water's surface in swirling patterns not unlike the constellations in the night sky. Trusting your knowledge of the room, you tracked through the dark with expertly placed steps avoiding the slippery spots and sharp edges. Barefoot and clad only in the robe Caracalla had discarded before slipping into bed, your mind wandered to the events that had unfolded just hours earlier.

You dipped your toe into the farthest bath. Warmth radiated up the length of your calf enticing you to sink into its depths. More than ready to shed the tension in your muscles and the ache of your cheek, you plucked at the knot around your waist. The heavy fabric fell off the slope of your shoulder, exposing your skin to the air. Letting it drop to the floor, you kept a firm grasp on the smoking bundle in your hand. Inhaling deeply, you allowed the medicine to sit in your lungs easing the pain and dulling your mind.

Alone, you stood exposed to the empty space. For a moment, the haze over the water cleared revealing your reflection. Here, hidden from prying eyes you were free to map the passage of time. Youth remained in the pleasant curve of your chest and hips, and yet your eyes… they were no longer the bright windows to your former self. Tired, and anxious, you stepped carefully into the bath. Sinking down on the ledge beneath the surface, the water washed in choppy waves.

Covered to the top of your chest, you brought the furl of dried flora to your nose once more. The foggy weight of the opium and devil’s breath wafted around you, smoothing your senses. Lost to their powerful hold, you almost missed the emperor’s approach. Geta stood beside you, admiring the glimpses of your skin.

“You’re late.” Your head lolled to the side to look at him. The makeup he’d worn earlier had been wiped clean apart from the smudge of scarlet that painted the fatigued skin beneath his eyes. Dressed down from what he’d worn during the day, rings still adorned nearly every finger. Their stunning jewels glowed in the dim flickering torchlight that danced about the room.

“And you are… relaxed.” Geta smiled down at you, amused with just how far gone you were. Standing beside the pool, he twisted the ring on his pinky, an anxious habit he’d picked up in his youth.

“And I’d be better if you were in here with me. Do you intend only to watch or join?” Your eyelids fluttered as you struggled to focus your vision under the influence. The deep fortifying breath you took filled your lungs with moist air and the murky lull of the opium. The pain had long since ceased and yet you continued to partake, the blend doing wonders to ease the nervous jumble of your mind. Unburdened, your free hand slid beneath the surface, teasing your pebbled nipples before dipping between your thighs.

Under the watchful gaze of emperor Geta, you allowed your eyelids to close, blocking out the rest of the world, focusing on the brush of your fingertips along your core. In your self-imposed darkness, you listened to the muted thump of clothing being discarded beside you. Geta’s robes pooled at his feet leaving him bare and in search of the water’s pleasant heat. With care, he stepped in to join you, the waves lapped harder at the sides as his weight upset the balance. Ripples crashed upon you, marking his approach, but it was the sensation of his presence surrounding you that snapped reality into place.

Geta’s broad palms came to rest on either side of your head, leaning his weight into his elbows so that mere centimeters separated you. Mesmerized by his beauty, you reached for him, mapping the planes of his chest with your fingertips so that glistening trails reflected back at you.

“You’re late.” You repeated, this time the plush of his lips brushed yours as you spoke.

“As you’ve mentioned,” Geta smirked into the kiss. The velvet of his tongue exploring yours added fuel to the fire stirring within. Just as he felt you lean forward, chasing more, he pulled back earning a pitiful whimper. “Can you find forgiveness within?”

“Perhaps.” Emboldened and consumed with need, you tossed away the bundle, its flame extinguishing in the puddle beside your discarded clothes. Entirely free, you ran an eager hand along the soft expanse of his stomach, teasing your way closer to where you knew he desired your touch the most. A sharp inhale tumbled into a choking gasp as you reached for him beneath the surface. Geta was half hard in your hand as you rolled your wrist, passing the width of your thumb over the tip and sealing the rest of the words in his lungs. Swift and gentle, you pushed against his chest, leading him across the bath to rest on the far ledge. Enveloped by steam and the feeling of your hands upon him, Geta’s head tipped back bumping lightly upon the stone.

From this vantage point, it was impossible not to lose your senses in the delicious features of the man before you. His shoulders heaved, shuttering at your steady grip along the length of his cock. Trusting you completely, Geta’s jaw fell slack, his eyes squeezed shut, blocking out everything besides you. The thick bands of gold wrapped around his fingers bit into your waist as he pulled you closer, forcing you to balance with a knee upon the ledge beside him, your other thigh resting between his spread legs. The hand at your waist held tight while the other kept him from slipping, his hips raising to meet you, desperate for more.

“Is this what you desire, Geta?” You whisper along the shell of his ear, timing your question with the twist of your hand. A greedy smirk wrapped around the rest of your thought. “Tell me what you want.”

“You.” Geta’s eyes snapped open, and the dark of his pupils was blown wide, showing the depth of the lust that consumed him. Using all his strength, Gets hauled you into his lap, your lush thighs pressed along the outside of his own. In one fluid motion, the breadth of his hand fell to the base of your throat feather-light over the bruises that marred your skin, while you hastily sunk down on him. Swallowing each other’s moans, Geta devoured you in a heated kiss. Unsteady, you reached for his shoulders, using him as an anchor.

Devoid of any thought but the storm of pleasure that continued to build, crackling in lightning strikes across every nerve in your body. The pair of you were in perfect harmony, his body moved in unerring time with your own. Leaning back, Geta pursued you, dropping his hand from your throat to lay a line of fire down the column of your neck, traversing the swell of your breasts above the water.

Focused entirely on you, Geta groaned as your velvet walls fluttered around him. His free hand came between you, laying expertly placed brushes on your clit. The swirl of your hips faltered as did his own. The pair of you worked each other over the edge, the sound of unhindered moans echoed through the room before giving way to shaky breathes. Boneless, and weak, Geta’s strong arms wrapped around you, holding you to his chest. Exhausted, he buried his face into the side of your neck.

“Mine… you’re mine. Always.” You could feel the ghost of his words drift over your flushed skin as he spoke. His confession twisted the knot in your stomach, for you knew it was the truth you both desired, but not the reality that existed. For as long as Caracalla lived, this was all you and Geta could ever be, lovers in the night, shrouded in shadow and hidden from the world.

“Yours… but only so far as the night allows.” At the sound of your voice, Geta sat back to look at you.

“Only so far as the night allows… though I’ll gladly take what the gods permit.” His response was met with a half smile from you. Geta studied the bleary look that remained in your eyes from the opium and devil’s breath. Even held captive to the influence of the medicine, the worry and fear from earlier at the arena returned.

“What if the gods have abandoned us?” You murmured, pressing the pad of your thumb along the expanse of his lower lip.

“Where is this coming from?” His head cocked to the side, the scared boy returning in full force at the look on your face. “You promised a confession… that you’d tell me the concern which occupies your mind. You have my ear.”

“I did, yes. I just… I do not know if what I speak is truth or the anxieties of a mind on edge.” You admitted sheepishly.

“It matters not. It weighs upon you, and you mustn’t carry this burden alone.” Geta’s wide eyes looked up at you, encouraging you to share the concerns of your heart with him, to trust him in a way that no other had ever dared. For there were many who gossiped to and confided in him as an act, but never had another trusted him with their innermost contemplations.

“It’s the General and his wife… there is something afoot with the pair of them. The way he spoke before the crowd today… Those were not the words of one loyal to Rome or you. And Lucilla… you should have seen her face when that gladiator stepped into the arena. It was as if the world fell away.” Taking a shaky breath, you reached for him, pulling his brow to rest on yours. “There’s something wrong there, Geta. You must be cautious. I need you safe, both of you.”

“Acacius… and…” He looked past you, dropping his countenance so that he could stare into the abyss beyond.

“Lucilla, yes," You repeated hesitantly.

“But they are…” The tremble in his hands radiated over your body as he clung to you.

“Meant to be your closest allies, I know.”

“It cannot be true.” Geta’s voice cracked, the thoughts catching on the barbs that constricted his throat. Not wanting to lose him entirely, you held his face between your palms, your thumbs sweeping in tender arcs across his cheekbones.

“And I hope that it isn’t, in earnest I do, but until you know for certain I pray you to keep a weather eye upon them. For I am uncertain where their true loyalties reside.” A shallow nod marked his comprehension. “You know I would not speak of this unless I believed there to be at least a thread of truth in it. Geta, you and Caracalla… you are my priorities.”

“I know.” Words failed him. Desperate for you to know how sincerely he understood, Geta’s lips met yours. With careful hands, he fastened his hold on you, gripping tight to the back of your thighs as he lifted you to sit on the edge of the bath. The temperature change sent gooseflesh rushing over your skin, causing you to shiver, though the discomfort was short-lived. Geta followed you to the side, his hands skimming from your ankle to the bend of your knee allowing him to see the sway of pleasure at his touch before reaching for your robe. Standing to his full height, but still within the water, he swept the flowing garment over one of your shoulders. Together you threaded your arms through the holes, letting it drape behind you. Satisfied that you were protected well enough, Geta exited the steaming bath.

Bent at the waist, he reached for his own robe. The bright carmine of the fabric was beautiful against his skin as he donned the cover. Not wanting to slip on the damp stone, you stood at a snail's pace and made your way to him. You grabbed for the ties he held in his hands while yours remained unfastened. Geta relinquished his hold without question allowing you to methodically form the knot.

“Take me to bed, Emperor. For tonight I am yours alone. Let no fear of the future keep you from me and I shall do the same.” Tugging lightly, you felt Geta pitch toward you, his hands finding your frame to keep from tumbling further. The tip of his tongue wet his bottom lip in contemplation.

“As you wish.” Geta deftly closed your covering, tying it loosely before reaching for your hand. His own quivered, painting a picture of the tremulous hold he had upon his nerves. On instinct, he guided you both back to his chambers. The journey was short and uneventful, only the two guards beside his door remained awake at this time of night.

Back in the relative safety of his room, the pair of you undressed and fell into the comfortable plushness of the bed. Already spent from the night’s previous endeavors, Geta curled into you, his strong arm protective around your middle, holding you flush with his chest. The emperor’s distant stare sat buried in your shoulder, and with each mellowing breath, he inhaled the scent of you and attempted to let go of his thoughts. You didn’t need to see his watery eyes to know his struggle. Threading your fingers with his, you willed peace upon him, hoping that sleep would overtake him soon and relieve the pain and worry.

A new day broke over the imperial palace. Within hours a hectic flurry of action would overtake the relative calm of the early morning, but for now, a tenuous peace remained. Geta, still free from the perils of the waking world, did not so much as stir as you gingerly pulled yourself from his arms. Dressing quickly, you found your way back to Caracalla much the same as the day before. The dull ache from your wound had returned with the absence of the opium’s presence in your system. At the back of your mind, you noted the itch to reach for more, to pull from the supply that sat ever present in Caracalla’s chambers. To your better judgment, you ignored the desire.

Sunlight trickled into the vast room, not yet strong enough to illuminate the space in full. Heaped upon the bed, Caracalla lay tangled beneath the sheets, his bare chest milky white apart from the marks that littered his otherwise perfect skin. Dundus’s elated chirp announced your arrival. The tiny creature picked its way across the table, seeking attention and affection. Dressed in clothing fit for an emperor, Caracalla’s faithful pet and companion lept from the back of the chair he’d crawl on to get closer to you, landing upon your shoulder. Tiny hands plucked at your clothes, tickling the exposed skin at your neck.

“Good morning, my little friend. Thank you for keeping him company.” You collected a piece of fruit from the nearby bowl and handed it to Dundus who happily accepted the gift. Like this, you made your way to Caracalla. The young man stirred in his sleep, more aware of you than you’d previously thought. At the side of the bed, the faithful animal departed, scurrying off in another direction as you pulled back the covers to join the emperor.

“Where did you go? I woke and could not find you.” The groggy croak of his voice caught you off guard.

“I know, forgive me.” You tucked yourself into his side, your head resting on his chest, hiding your face from him. “But I am here now.”

“I do not like it when you are gone. I am lost.” His confession was barely more than a whisper, so low you were uncertain whether he meant for you to hear it. The bridge of your nose burned, the guilt of leaving him behind was always present, but hearing him speak candidly… it hurt more than you were prepared to handle.

“I am never truly gone, Calla. You can always find me, here, even in the dark.” You pressed the width of your palm to the place above his heart. Caracalla’s hand came to rest on top of yours, keeping you close without asking for more. Silence descended upon you both, leaving far too much room for your mind to spin. Like this you waged war with your thoughts, counting away the minutes until the sun rose fully above the horizon.

Almost done dressing, you ran your hands over the pleats in your stola, fixing them in place. The black and gold swirled together impeccably, fierce and sharp. Caracalla’s unassuming frame came into view beside you dressed in matching attire. Your gaze fixed on the mirror before you assessing the picture of unity the pair of you presented, but the look in the emperor’s eyes faltered the rhythm of your heart. Turning to face him, you noted the absent feel of his gaze. It was as though you barely existed in his current reality.

Caracalla reached for you, his slender arm extended weakly, just close enough for his fingertips to brush the gold inlay of your clothing. His touch wandered haphazardly over your stomach to the curve of your hip, dragging higher and ghosting over your breasts to your collarbone.

“What are you doing?” You stilled his movement, holding him in place. “Talk to me.”

You craned your neck trying to look into his eyes again, but nothing came of your request. The emperor remained silent.

“We should go, your brother is waiting… your public is waiting.” You took a step to his side, floating past him a fraction of a pace before an iron grip clamped around your bicep, ripping you backward. Off balance, you tripped over the flowing cape that draped down your back, smacking into the wall with force. A sharp pain shot through your shoulder causing you to gasp. Flat against the stone, you didn’t have time to think when another blow landed. Caracalla’s nails bit into the tender flesh around your chin, your face held like a vice in his hand.

“Calla, stop… ” You pleaded knowing it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. You grabbed for his wrist, struggling to speak, “You’re hurting me.”

“You're mine, whore,” was all he uttered, fresh blood trickling down your face as skin tore. The slamming of the chamber doors reverberated powerfully through the room breaking his concentration long enough for you to slip from his grasp. You stumbled forward, arms extended to try and keep from falling. Your knees crashed into the unforgiving ground and rattled your thoughts. A voice called in panicked waves from whomever had entered the room. Distantly, you recognized your name but could not respond.

As carefully as he could, Geta who had come to collect his brother, lifted you from the ground. Back on your feet, you tried to focus. You felt the strength in your knees give way as Geta wrapped you into his chest. Over the top of your head, he locked eyes with Caracalla. Still trapped in his delusion, Calla started toward the pair of you forcing Geta to bark an order.

“Macrinus, take her.” He gestured to the silver-haired man behind him whose face was absent of emotion.

“I’m fine.” You tried to protest, but your argument was shallow given the crack of your voice and the droplets of red that welled like shining jewels from your wounds.

“You’re not.” As gently as he could, Geta passed you to Macrinus who guided you to sit upon a nearby chair. With keen attention still on the brothers behind him, the man pulled a cloth from somewhere deep in the pocket of his robes and handed it to you.

Across the room, Geta held onto this brother, a hand tense on his shoulder and the side of his head, keeping Caracalla's eyes from drifting toward you. Quietly he whispered, his words not powerful enough to be audible from a distance. But it did not matter, even without them, it was obvious what transpired. The struggle to bring Caracalla back to reality grew more strenuous with every fit that overtook him, each bout taking more time to end than the last.

The world refocused around you, allowing you to really look at the relative stranger who stood beside you. Mapping his features, you noted the way time had been kind to him, such beauty lingered along with the scattering of lines that shaped his face. As if he could feel eyes upon him, Macrinus’s focus fell to you and it chilled the blood in your veins. A hardness enveloped his being, a calculated focus left his eyes void of life as though everything human about him had died. You stood to meet him, forcing the man to continue to pay attention to you rather than the emperors.

“Leave us.” You demanded, no longer wishing for his continued company.

“What?” He scoffed in disbelief at your boldness.

“You heard me. Leave us. Your presence is no longer necessary.” You stepped in front of the man, your hand ghosting closer to the blade strapped to your thigh. Shoulders pulled tight, you cringed at the pain that radiated down your arm, but held firm in place, preventing any ludicrous idea that he might draw closer to Geta and Caracalla.

Macrinus's eyes flicked between you and the brothers. Giving into your request, he raised his hands in resignation, humanity returning to him as he backed up before turning away from the scene. You waited for him to navigate out of sight before returning your attention to the emperors, and it was heartbreaking. Slumped cross-legged on the floor was Caracalla, his head swaying from side to side, Geta knelt before him still holding onto his brother. Tears streamed down Calla’s rosy, pockmarked cheeks. The worst of the spell appeared to have ended leaving behind the childlike shell of the once lucid emperor behind. You knew this version of him intimately. Gone was the violence, replaced by a soul-deep desperation for closeness.

With cautious steps, not trusting the strength of your legs, you made your way to the pair. Geta chanced a look back at you over his shoulder, his own eyes wet with emotion. As you got closer you attuned your ears to Caracalla’s senseless mumbles, ignoring the warm trickle of crimson down your chin and neck. The words he spoke would have seemed meaningless to an outsider, but they were far from it.

“Lost… lost… I can’t find…” Still muttering under his breath, Caracalla reached for his brother trying to make him understand, but failing to communicate. Stepping into the space next to Geta, you lowered yourself beside him, using his shoulder for support. Your attention was focused entirely on Caracalla, but you could feel Geta’s eyes on you… watching.

You tested the waters, making contact with the man seated before you, treading lightly with your words, “I’m here. I am not lost.” Calla’s face snapped to yours, and in an instant, he was crawling to you.

His uncoordinated limbs wrapped around you in a fierce embrace. The crown of laurels that decorated his fiery hair pinched uncomfortably at the side of your head as he buried his face in your neck. You could feel him shaking in your arms, sobs wracking his body. Locked together in a never-ending maze of time and memories, you sat back on your heels, twisting to finally sit on the floor. You gripped him tighter as you rocked smoothly from side to side.

Geta burned to touch you, to hold you, to tend to your hurts and nurse you back to health, and yet, here with his brother, he was trapped. He pleaded with you silently, praying to the gods for forgiveness. He failed to do what he’d promised, keep you safe. The weight of the empire rested on his shoulders, its tenuous balance almost too much to bear. It was never supposed to be this way, him working alone. But all of that paled in comparison to the bone-deep guilt that chipped away at this heart when he looked at you.

A heavy sigh fell from Geta as he ran a hand over his decorated countenance, wiping away the tears and smudging the color that surrounded his eyes. Sensing his sorrow, you extended a hand, begging for him to take it. For a moment, he hesitated, terrified of needing you and simultaneously petrified at the thought of losing you. With a simple nod, you invited him once more to take your hand, and by the mercy of the gods he did. The weight of his fingers laced with yours seemed to right the injustices of the world, giving you both the strength to carry on.

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lv7867 · 5 months ago

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Ok……. I hope this is still ongoing, cause i cant even!!! Love this! 🤌🏼🤌🏼🤌🏼🫵🏼❤️

Part II: Our Time is Limited (18+)

Part One

Pairing: Geta x reader & platonic!Caracalla x reader

Synopsis: Geta and you deal with the aftermath of Caracalla's outburst, finding comfort in each other. Not only is there Caracalla's illness to attend to, but those who surround the emperors are growing more and more weary of their reign. As loyalty wanes, so does the inner circle's patience with your ever-constant presence and the emperors' hot tempers. With so much at stake the balance between keeping the peace and protecting those you love becomes muddy.

Warnings: sexual activity/smut + alcohol consumption + wounds/wound care

A/N: Well, this took a while to write, and I feel like there is more I want to add to this story. So, be on the lookout for part 3 (There may even be a few more parts if it continues to be well received)! I truly cannot say how thankful I am for the response to part 1. I felt the love for sure! So thank you to everyone who read that and has stuck with me here! And as always, please forgive me for any and all mistakes. We're going for a "fun" time... not always a historically accurate time!

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No light apart from the moon illuminated the grand bed chamber of the emperor upon your waking. Depending on how it was considered, the hour was either incredibly early or late. No sound could be heard from the hall or the open balcony. The silence should have been comforting, but a nagging pit in your stomach kept you from returning to sleep. A chill had collected in the air. Reprieve from its sting came in the form of Geta’s study frame tangled with yours beneath the luscious sheets. His body produced heat like a raging fire whose flames were fed with rage and the desperate clamber for power.

His protective warmth painted your skin in a heavy flush. Your head tipped back to stare at the man whose body melded with yours in a way that surely must have been crafted by the gods. Like this, lost to sleep, Geta’s youth was easy to see. The healthy glow of his unmarred skin was alluring, drawing your hand from under the covers you traced delicate patterns over his toned chest. Tension in your hip forced you to adjust yourself. Shifting your weight, you accidentally brushed the wound on your cheek. The sudden flash of fresh pain rippled in erratic shocks down the tender column of your throat causing you to hiss. Beside you, Geta stirred in his sleep.

Uncomfortable and fighting back the multitude of possibilities that flooded your mind, you gave in to the reality that returning to sleep was growing less and less likely. Prone to fitful sleep, even with the sedative, Caracalla was sure to begin fighting his forced slumber sooner rather than later. As carefully as you could, you tried to extricate yourself from Geta’s embrace. You’d managed to free your bare thighs from between his own when the groggy grumble of his voice stopped you cold.

“Where are you going?” He reached for you, hauling you back before finally opening his eyes. Your chest sat flush with his, and your good cheek rested on him, as his feather-light touch sought any part of you he could reach. The shapes he drew were hypnotizing, jumbling the words in your head. Concerned by your lack of reply, Geta rolled you on your back, allowing him to see your entire face as he rested his weight over part of your body. “It’s early. Stay with me a few hours more.”

“You know as well as I do the fickle nature of the sedative. I do not wish for him to wake alone. He can be… He can be so scared and lost without a familiar face to ground him when he comes to.” Messy strands of hair stuck to his forehead, tempting you to fix them. With a ghosting touch, you brushed them away from his face. The rich hue of his eyes followed your every move.

“And you will be there when he needs you, but that is not now. For now, I need you… here… in my bed.” He followed his thought with the trail lips between your breasts. Each graze was accompanied by a tender bite, leaving behind more evidence of the night only he’d be blessed enough to see. Geta continued to move lower, tasting every inch of skin he could find before pausing to look back at you through hooded lids. The arch of your spine sent heat washing over him.

Struggling to breathe properly, you reached for any part of him you could find. The flare of pleasure that overtook you as Geta came closer to where you wanted him was blinding. With eyes screwed shut, you couldn’t keep the huff of laughter from escaping as you spoke, “You are insatiable, emperor.”

Nipping at your hipbone he murmured against flushed skin. “I am making up for lost time.” Threading your deft fingers through his messy copper locks, you gripped at the root and tugged roughly earning you a delicious hum. Geta's focus became entirely on drawing those delicious noises from you once more, and to that end he was successful. Gooseflesh ran over your body as chilled air drifted all around. With nothing between you and the emperor, you fell completely to his mercy and desire.

Geta’s shoulders dipped lower allowing him to wrap one defined arm around your thigh while the other explored the marks he’d created earlier. From his position, he could feel the way your body quaked under his touch. The power he had over you with just the help of his tongue and calloused fingers threw every unwanted thought and worry to the side. This was all he wanted, all he’d ever desired. What once remained fantasy was now freely given.

A particularly well-placed kiss had you rolling your hips searching for more. Geta’s teasing no longer satisfied the well of lust that threatened to drown you alive. On instinct, your hold tightened, hauling a rumbling groan from him that nearly eclipsed the pitful whimper in which you begged.

“Geta… Please…”

Skimming along your body with his own, he felt the buttery expanse of your skin. Your pebbled breasts pressed into his chest as his breath ghosted in your ear. “Use your words, tell me what you crave.”

“I want you. I want to feel-.” You were cut off by the drag of his fingertips along your most sensitive of skin. The nerves there fired in quick succession, leaving you to focus on the journey his mouth took along the slope of your shoulder. Unsatisfied, yearning for the weight of him, you reached between you. The fragile strength of your trembling fingers wrapped around his cock. Rolling your wrist, Geta shivered. His hips twitched ruining his self-control.

“Then you shall have me.” Were it not for his desperation to fulfill your every wish, he could have stayed like this and let you bring him to his release with just the delectable skill of your hand. Without fanfare, Geta moved quickly, the firm press of him hard against your core had you moaning in anticipation. His lips captured yours in a devouring kiss pulling the focus from the pressure that built as he pressed into you. Your plush walls spasmed in time with the roll of his hips into your own. Tongues and teeth clashed in a fight for control. Even here, where he felt the most vulnerable as if his soul was laid bare for you to consume, he clung to the power that acted as a crutch in his daily life. But the fight was a losing battle.

Geta’s eye fluttered shut, closing him off from you as he buried his countenance into the crook of your neck, and that simply wouldn’t do. You knew this part of him, the boy, now man, that retreated inside himself when things grew too much. The bold and confident facade he put on for the public was a disguise that few had been able to decipher... apart from you. Tenderly, you traced the length of his spine, paying attention to the way he shuddered under your touch. Much softer than before, you wound your fingers through his hair while guiding his brow to your own.

“Look at me. Do not hide from me now.” Your words enveloped him, easing him back to the present and away from whatever tried to steal him from you. Carefully Geta met your eyes. Their normal severity was absent, replaced with the soft haze of adoration.

“I love you.” The tender confession tumbled from your lips, and the truth of it shattered the last vestiges of the barrier that ran between you. All walls had been abandoned. The steady snap of his thrusts brought the pair of you closer to oblivion. Together you fell, the steady crash of energy over every nerve filled the space with heady moans of pleasure.

Too soon for your liking the moment waned, leaving you breathless and weak beneath him. Geta rested his weight along his forearms to prevent crushing you. From his position, he watched a new line of crimson spill down your cheek. The sight of it brought a flood of unwanted emotions swirling in his stomach.

“You're bleeding again.” His voice wobbled with exhaustion and worry. The thick pad of his thumb brushed away the evidence, smearing the dried blood from hours before with the bright hue of that which flowed currently. From this proximity, Geta got a truer picture of your condition. Deep patches of black and purple bloomed across your cheek and brow, but that was not what fumbled the rhythm of his heart.

The hidden outline of fingers around the base of your throat undid him. Masked by the layer of dried ichor that coated your throat he saw the depth of his brother’s illness. Never had he imagined Caracalla would be capable of hurting you in this way. The slice of a blade had been beyond reason, but his hand around your throat… that was unconscionable.

Rage burned hot, the flare of his nostrils timed with the heavy rise and fall of his chest as he tried to calm himself. You knew without a doubt the thoughts that sped through his mind. Anger, disbelief, sorrow but most of fury. “I will never let him lay his hands upon you again.”

“Please, don’t make promises you can’t keep, Geta.” Something new flashed in his eyes as he looked down at you, and the sight of it broke tender and soft. “Even you cannot keep me safe from him, not entirely. I want to believe that everything wrong about our lives will right itself in time, but that is a childish, fool-hardy thought. Even you cannot deny that.”

“Why? This is… what we share… Why cannot we find a way out of this mess together? Shouldn’t we be allowed happiness?” The same reasoning from the night before returned. A pitiful well of dampness pooled at the corners of his eyes. The dejected young man who looked to others for reassurance in everything he did bore himself to you fully. “I can keep you safe. Do you trust me?”

“With my life.” You reached for him, pulling his lips to yours in a sympathetic and calming embrace. It lasted just long enough for his breathing to settle and his mind to slow. Gently, Geta shifted his weight away from your body giving you space to recover. Torn from his steadying presence, you rolled onto your side following him with your gaze as he slipped from the bed. He pulled a robe from the floor and wrapped it around himself. Exhaustion crossed your vision and dulled your mind, lulling you closer to sleep. Only the gentle clink of glass against glass kept you from falling away entirely.

Geta returned to you quickly, his hands full of what appeared to be vials of acetum and honey, two clean cloths resting over his wrist. Finding a spot to deposit the vials on the bed, he took one of the rags. With some hesitation, he reached between your plush thighs, wiping away the mess the pair of you'd made. The sudden jolt of your hips as he reached your core slowed his hand, easing the strength with which he worked. Your weight settled back into the plush sheets as he finished and discarded the cloth upon the flood.

“Sit up.” His words were tender, holding none of the desperation from before. Following his command, you lifted yourself from the comfort of the bed, the sheets crumpled further under your movement. Geta’s eyes raked over your body, admiring the swell of your bare breasts and the curve of your waist. A glint of something more akin to lust was shown briefly before he settled into the space next to you. With practiced care and thoughtful hands, the emperor cleansed your wounds and removed the remnants of dried blood. Your focus never left his face as he worked. Instead, you took the time to memorize the tug of concentration between his brows. Deep lines formed there creating a picture of what was to come, of an older Geta, of an emperor marked by the passage of time. You prayed the gods would favor you, for that was a vision you prayed to see in person.

“There, that’s better.” Geta twisted to discard the vials and cloth upon the nearby stand. “Come, let us sleep. The day is sure to be long enough without the edge of weariness dulling our minds.”

Slowly, you sank back into each other’s arms, your bodies together in perfect harmony as sleep overtook the pair of you.

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Fresh morning light seeped into the sea of curtains around the bed chamber. Were it not for the pressing knaw of anxiety, you’d have happily stayed curled in Geta’s arms. But that was not a possibility. Knowing that time was running short to return to Caracalla before he woke, you extricated yourself from the comfort of your lover's embrace.

The marble was startlingly cold beneath your feet forcing you to work quickly to find your discarded robe. The memory of the night before was stunningly clear making it easy to find your blood-stained clothes. Stooping, you grabbed the creamy fabric, shoving your arms inside before tying it tightly around your waist.

You chanced a glance over your shoulder at Geta who was still peaceful in his bed. Without further hesitation, you disengaged the lock and made your way into the mostly empty hall. Only two guards remained posted to protect the emperor. Thankfully, the comings and goings of women from Geta’s chamber were nothing new. Your presence there may have been different from the norm, but it was hardly shocking given the previous night’s difficulties.

Your bare footsteps, pounded down the hallway toward Caracalla, praying to the gods that you’d find him asleep. Rounding the corner, you watched as the guards parted to allow you into the room. There were no questions or need to exchange words, this room had been your home for more than a decade. Not a soul would question your presence inside.

Caracalla’s living quarters were nearly as extravagant as his brothers. The only strange addition was that of his pet monkey who sat alert on the table, gnawing at the fresh fruit that had been placed there the night before for his consumption. Dundus chirped at your arrival, announcing it to his still-slumbering owner. Curled in a ball on his side, the emperor lay oddly upon the covers.

There was nothing comfortable or dignified about how he was left. With soft steps, you made your way to him. His chest rose and fell in shallow waves marking the hold the medication still had upon his mind. Much the same as his brother, he looked far younger in sleep, and yet with Caracalla, the evidence of his poor health would never fully disappear. The sores on his face had broken through the remnants of the makeup on his tear-stained cheeks. A measure of guilt flooded your veins, churring the acid in your empty stomach and forcing you into action.

Beside the vanity sat a pitcher of clean water and a rag you’d readied before things fell apart the previous evening. It had become your nightly ritual to clean Caracalla’s face of the day’s makeup before covering each mark upon his skin with acetum and honey. It kept the bond between you strong as you were the only person he allowed to care for him in that way.

Coming face to face with the mirror, you did your best to avoid your reflection, but ignoring it was nearly impossible. Your fingers wrapped around the pitcher as you poured it into the empty bowl that sat in the center of the flat surface. The motion was done on instinct giving you time to assess your injuries personally.

A deep purple swath had formed around your eye, seeping down below the slash that marked your cheekbone. The bruise throbbed with every flick of your eye, but it was the deep cut that truly pained you. A thin line of dried blood sat in the wound creating a gruesome visage. Nothing could hide the terrifying mark of the fingers that had closed around your throat before the final attack. Even in the light of day, you could feel their presence as though the hand remained heavy against you.

Glancing dead ahead into the mirror, the most terrifying part of all was not the injuries, it was not knowing who would wake up and rejoin the world when Caracalla rose. The pitcher clanked against the stone as you sat it down to grab the cloth. Dampening the thin fabric, you wrung it out and collected the vial of acetum and jar of honey to soothe his sores before returning to the emperor. There was just enough space on the edge of the bed for you to sit near his head. With gentle strokes, you cleansed his face, being sure to give extra care to spots of broken skin. Free of the mask, the progression of his illness became more apparent. Using the same rag, you dabbed the acetum on each of the marks before following with the golden liquid in the hope that it would provide some relief.

It took only minutes for you to finish caring for the emperors’s needs, but it felt like an eternity. Part of you hoped he would wake as you worked but another part of you prayed he would continue to rest. Discarding the rag and other supplies nearby, you found yourself gravitating toward Caracalla’s slumbering frame. A deep ache radiated deep in your soul, gripping you tightly in an unrelenting hold. No matter how far he’d fallen, no matter the faults of his mind, this man would forever be yours. He’d forever be the one who captured your heart first and for that, you were eternally grateful.

The bridge of your nose burned as you fell into his presence. The clean scent of his robes mixed with the bitter tang of wine that clung to him. Fearful of letting him go, you wrapped an arm around his side and hauled yourself close. Your fists twisted into the flowing fabric at his back as you hid your face in his chest. Shrouded in him, your lungs hitched, tears streamed in searing lines down your cheeks, stinging the raw skin around your wound. But that was secondary to the hole that grew in your heart every time you allowed yourself to contemplate Caracalla's remaining time.

Hours slipped away unnoticed, leaving the pair of you to while away the minutes in each other’s arms. In time, the gods must have favored your first desire, for as the blinding rays of early morning crept toward midday, Caracalla stirred beside you. Uncertain of what was to come, you kept your visage concealed.

“Good morning, my love. How does the new day find you?” Your voice trembled with worry as you watched him push to sit beside you. A hazy fog slowed his mind and his speech, forcing you to be patient as he reached out to touch your cheek. His brows pulled together in concern at the sight. The soft brush of his fingertips over the cut sent fresh lances of hurt zinging down your neck. Still silent, Caracalla watched the way you recoiled from him before attempting to speak.

“You are injured. Who hurt you?” There was so much innocence in his eyes. Without question, there was no memory of the previous night, and for that you were thankful. Caracalla knowing that he’d caused you this pain would have done nothing but burden an already fragile man with more turmoil.

You shook your head, hoping to shove off the worry as best you could. “No one hurt me. I decided to venture to the baths after too much wine. I lost my footing and slipped. It is my fault.” With what little strength you could muster, you sat up fully beside him.

“Does it hurt terribly?” He took your hand and held it in his lap.

“No, not terribly.” Your free hand rose to hold his cheek, “I promise.” Quiet fell over the pair you allowing Caracalla to trace the map of bruises that marred your neck. Even he noticed the odd shape of the marks low upon your throat. You could see the thought teeter on his lips for a moment before the words tumbled from him so childlike and sincerely. Nearly the same words his brother had spoken to you just hours earlier.

“I will always protect you, you must know that.” He held your gaze tightly in his, running his thumb over the back of your hand while he waited for you to respond.

“I do. I do.” And the falsehood of your reply brought fresh tears to your eyes. Despite the many factors that stood between you and the happy life you'd once thought possible with Caracalla, you loved him beyond reason. Even though you were losing your best friend in real-time to an illness that was as mysterious in its origin as in its timeline of destruction, you trusted him. He’d stood by your side, welcoming you into the fray all those years ago. Never did he shame your lack of knowledge about the way things in the upper crust of Roman society worked. He was a good man at his core.

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Chaos had taken over Caracalla’s chamber as the day’s newest adventures in the Colosseum grew nearer. Dressed in an opulent stola, you chanced a glance at the fiery-haired many who sat behind you. Nearly done being dressed, only a crown of laurels remained. Seated in a low chair, he fiddled with the jewelry that adorned his hands and neck. Taking advantage of his distraction, and unable to ignore the desire to be near him, you made your way across the cavernous room to Caracalla. Stepping between his legs you reached back to grab the golden crown in your delicate fingers. With great care you placed it upon his head, fixing his disheveled hair as it poked out in awkward angles. From his spot, he watched in awe, his eyes never leaving your face.

“There, now you are ready to face your adoring public. May the gods make their will known in the arena this day.” You stooped to place a gentle kiss on the middle of his forehead. The gesture was one of trust and friendship.

Overwhelmed, you stood upright and took a step back from the emperor. You’d only just begun to turn around when a gentle hand clasped around your wrist forcing you to turn back to Caracalla. His voice was barely more than a whisper as he spoke to you, “Promise you’ll stay with me.”

“Always.” Caracalla brought your knuckles to his lips before letting you go.

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The journey to the arena was relatively short. Inside the emperor’s box, the brothers took their seats and were followed in by General Acacius and Lucilla. You watched from the back, observing the pair with keen eyes and a skeptical mind. The two seemed stiff and out of place, their eyes shifting from side to side as though they were about to crawl out of their skin. Pressured to speak, the general stood before the cheering crowd, commanding attention, but something about his words left you feeling ill. The look on his face as he turned around to join his wife was enough to confirm your suspicion. Something was wrong. Long past were the days when Rome’s general was faithful without question to the throne. And now had come the time when enemies were around every corner, to be found most slyly in the people who were meant to be trusted confidantes.

Commotion filled the arena pulling your attention away from Acacius and Lucilla and permitting you to step into the space between Geta and Caracalla. Chancing a glance at each of them you found Geta’s eyes were already on you, following your approach like a hawk. He raked over your frame, admiring the way the fabric draped over your body, and followed the swell of your chest. Not wanting to risk unwanted attention, you met his gaze for only a moment before turning to engage with Caracalla. A guileless smile turned the corners of his lips as his high-pitched laughter bounced through the air.

Trusting in the power of the gods, you watched with rapt attention as the foreign gladiator made a fool of the man from the emperor’s stables. Spared by the gods the man tempted fate before ending the fight altogether. Blood pooled beneath the decapitated fighter, painting the sandy ground in a sickening shade of red.

With the fight over, everyone of note retreated inside where the festivities were sure to continue late into the night. Yet, as you turned to make your way across the room, you noticed the look on Lucilla’s face. She held firmly to the bundle of lavender propped beneath her nose, her face was pale as though the life had been drained from her veins. Her eyes darted from Acacius to the young gladiator that stalked across the sand toward the fighter’s cells. There was a hint of something more there that you failed to place, but it did little to settle your growing suspicions.

Unable to address it at this moment, you trained your attention back on Caracalla who was chatting away about the fight, retelling the tale to those around him as though they hadn’t just watched it unfold. Stepping into his side, you laced your arm through his, holding tightly to his bicep, and tucked yourself into him. Geta, caught in a conversation with some verbose senator, tracked your movement toward his brother noticing every detail of you. His concern grew stronger as he watched you press your nose into the voluminous material of his brother’s elaborate toga hiding your countenance before pressing onto your toes to whisper in the emperor’s ear. A chaste peck was placed upon his brother’s cheek, earning you a wondrous grin.

Caracalla nodded, before letting you fall away from his side. The young man turned back to the small group that had formed around him and continued his elaborate story. With his blessing, you were free to pick your way through the crowd toward the plethora of wine and food that covered the table at the center of the room. Admiring the choices, you meandered your way from one end to the other sampling every dried fruit and cured meat before settling on a deliciously dark cup of wine. The steady throb in your cheek had you wish for something a bit more potent than alcohol, but alas, that would have to wait.

Refilling your nearly empty glass, you wandered the space, keeping a keen eye on both Caracalla and Geta. Each remained wrapped in conversation but their demeanors couldn’t be more dissimilar. Where Caracalla continued his lively storytelling, basking in the unwavering attention of his growing entourage, Geta’s face grew increasingly pinched at whatever meaningless drivel the senators believed required the prompt and full attention of him alone. You knew this has become commonplace, the passing over of Caracalla when discussing politics, and yet it rolled your stomach to see it happening so blatantly in public.

Finished with your lap, you swooped by the table to collect another glass of wine. On a mission to relieve Geta of his trap, you made your way to him, confidently plucking your way through the sea of people. You could feel the burn of jealous and questioning eyes on you. Your presence amongst these circles had become expected long ago and yet it never prevented people from casting judgment upon you. The tender mark upon your face only added fuel to the fire, giving the people exactly what they wanted… more about which to gossip about.

You closed the last few paces between you and Geta, reveling in the horrified look on the senator's face as you reached for the emperor’s shoulder. Gently, you placed a hand on him, drawing his attention away. “Here, some wine, to fortify your political endeavors.” Ignoring the hanging jaws and scoffs of the other men you carefully handed Geta the drink soaking in the entrancing way his eyes seemed to glow in the light. Their depth fell away to a brighter almost amber hue. But it was not just his gaze that held the knot in your chest, but the emotion that sat heavy in every fiber of his being.

Desire darkened across his face as he memorized the stillness of your features. Geta’s ringed fingers brushed your own bare skin, taking far longer than was necessary to receive the beverage from you. A distinct cough of indignation erupted from one of the older politicians forcing you to step back. Geta gave a slight nod, silently passing you permission to fall away knowing that he judged you not for wanting to escape the calloused opinions of those he was forced to surround himself with. The swish of your stola accented your departure. Behind you, the conversation returned in hushed tones, but the swell of the crowd did little to mask the biting words.

“That woman has grown far to forward with you and your brother, Geta. It appears it may be time to let her go, and replace her with someone more docile… refined. Perhaps now the pair of you should consider proper marriages, for the future of Rome.” The old man’s voice croaked grating into the momentary silence that fell after he finished speaking.

With your back turned to Geta you were unable to see the vicious sneer that came over the emperor’s face. Far enough away now, his words were lost to the crowd in which you disappeared. Only the need to maintain peace for your sake kept him from exploding. A deep breath filled his chest and shook through his nose as he tested the surety of his voice. “That woman belongs to my brother, and to m- to the household. Her actions are neither unexpected nor uncouth. And may I suggest senator, that you keep her out of your filthy whoring mouth or you may find your own midnight wanderings publicized for all to discuss. Am I clear?”

“Yes.” The older man murmured. His eyes dropped to the ground, uncertain of how to proceed.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me. I believe there are others far more worthy of my time to which I must attend.” Geta bowed out hastily, the venom in his voice dripped from every word keeping the other tongues silent.

Heavy footfalls pounded across the stone toward you, following your path away from the crowd in search of temporary solitude. Nearing a quiet alcove, you pressed yourself into the chill of the marble. Exhausted and aching, you felt your legs tremble, forcing you to slump down upon the unforgiving bench that lined the wall. The distant rumbling of the crowd was accented by the approach of another. Unsure of what to say, you let your eyes fall shut, keeping out the world around you, and perhaps buying you some time to come to grips with your thoughts.

The steps slowed, and yet you didn’t bother to open your eyes. “You mustn’t listen to them. They are feeble-minded old men. They matter matter not.” Geta spoke, hoping you would look at him.

Concern masked as anger flashed hot over your nerves, forcing you to stand and crowd into his space. Your open palms found his chest, shoving his sturdy frame away as you worked to control your volume. “You cannot say those things, Geta. You need them, whether you care for that reality or not. Without the Senate, Rome is nothing. In a heartbeat, they have you and your brother deposed. There are snakes in the water, Geta. Do not let your loose tongue be what brings about your ruin!”

Geta’s hand came to hold your wrists in place against him, the feeling of your touch the only thing that kept him from giving into the dizzying spin of his head. “What are you saying?! You of all people-”

“I’m saying take great care with what you say and to whom you say. There are those within your inner circle who wish to see you and Caracalla fall, no matter how that happens. The ends would justify the means in their eyes. The senators are only part of your problem.” You choked on the end of your confession, the reality heavy in your chest.

Geta’s hold on you changed. One hand skimmed along your curves finding home at the nip of your waist while the other cupped your injured cheek, tipping your face to his. “Do not be afraid. Tell me what you know.”

“I’m not afraid, not for myself. But for you and Caracalla… that is an entirely different story. And as far as what I know... it is nothing, it has to be nothing. Just my anxious mind getting the better of me.”

“Do not keep this inside, it will only eat away at you.” He spoke deeply, understanding the truth behind what he’d spoken despite often leaving this advice alone for himself.

“You expect more of me than of yourself when it comes to honesty.” Lingering frustration gave way to weariness. Struggling to keep yourself together, you rested your brow against Geta's chest. The silk of his clothing soothed your nerves. Held carefully in his arms, you could feel the feather-light touch of his lips as he kissed your temple.

“Nothing gets past you.” A soft smile wrapped around his words. Pressed together in the relative seclusion you'd managed to find, Geta inhaled the warm scent of wine and perfume that swirled around you. The beautiful bouquet went to his head, adding to the hazy buzz he cultivated through a touch too much to drink.

"Pay no mind to the anxious ramblings of a palace whore. I know little of what I fear. I should never have voiced my concern, it is not my place. Forgive me." You kept your face buried in the elaborate folds of his toga, letting the sturdiness of him continue to calm your body.

"Do not call yourself that." Geta leaned back, forcing you to look at him. Tenderly, he held your face, taking extra care to avoid your wound. "You are not. You never have been."

"No, I am. They are right. A real marriage. A wife… children… a son to bear the family name. That is what you both need. What you deserve."

"You are avoiding your worry. Deflecting. You may speak freely with me, you know this. There are no others here to judge or condemn. You have my ear and my heart." Geta captured your mouth with his, earning him the ghost of a whimper. Breaking away before things could escalate, he waited patiently for your response. "Now tell me what you fear so that I may carry that burden with you."

"I will not speak of it here. Not where prying eyes and ears shift all around. I know the palace is no better when it comes to the fiery spread of rumors and lies, but this place… it thrives on blood. It screams for it. It makes me ill. Not here. Meet me tonight, at the baths. I promise… I will share everything."

You reached for Geta, needing to feel him close once more. Slotting your lips together, you felt the fine strands of his hair between your fingers.

"Tonight." He mumbled against your lips.

Part III

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