soulsuckker1

[soulsuckker1]

Harsh steel.

Cregan Stark x Velaryon!reader

Summary: When King Jacaerys offers his sister as a wife to the Wolf of the North, he agrees. The Stark has loved her for years. But intentions get skewed, and the two must strive through the misunderstanding.

Warnings: talks of a trophy wife, arranged marriages, talks of hypothermia, Cregan rips a dress to prove a point

Bold italics indicate a flashback!

Masterlist

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"A what?"

"A wife. My sister."

Cregan, despite usually running dangerously warm temperatures, froze. A shiver ran down his spine at the mere thought that his best friend had suggested.

"You have met the princess, haven't you?"

Understatement of the millennium.

She was as honest and kind as her brother, yet quick witted and entirely unaware of her place in life. That often led her into trouble. 

And Cregan had loved her since the day he saw her. The idea of marrying her lit his heart on fire.

"She's fair and pretty, isn't she?" Jace asked. He frowned at Cregan's pale expression. "Lord Stark, is everything alright? This should be joyous. You look unwell."

"I… I am fine," he covered. He felt a bit breathless. "I just did not expect such a gesture. Thank you, your Grace."

Jace grew a toothy smile and patted the tough North man's shoulder.

…

Cregan spent the month after their talk pacing a path into the stone floors. He was to visit King's Landing in a few days to… have his bride.

Each thought of her made his stomach churn once over. His fears and his excitement mixed together to form a perfect stomachache. 

His mother had died when he was young, and he knew the castle needed a women's touch. How he longed for her to make his home her own.

But with her initial coming, he felt like he needed things to be just right. 

He knew it was foolish. Since when had Cregan Stark cared for which drapes went in the Lady's chambers? But he spent countless hours in there, staring and accessing things. Scrutinizing until it drove the servants mad. 

And he wished for more time. But he didn't have it. He was to leave, bring her back to her new home, and marry her, regardless of which bear-skin rug was in front of the hearth (He had many. He had killed many bears, after all).

He placed a gentle gift onto the furs of her future bed. A pretty necklace he'd had crafted weeks before. A final placement for her arrival. 

And he stepped out of the castle, beginning his long journey to retrieve the woman that had captured his heart long ago.

…

Cregan sighed and rubbed his forehead, trying to pull out the stress wrinkles he already had at the age of ten and seven. He had been Warden for five years now, and he was growing frustrated. 

So when he was summoned to King's Landing, it was the cherry on top of a splitting headache.

Lord Hand Hightower droned on about something, frankly, Cregan did not care about. But he let the man chatter while they overlooked the outer castle walls. The wind blew at such a height that the Hand had to widen his stance. Cregan was used to the harsh winds of the Wall. Southerners, he thought.

But something down below caught his eye. "Forgive me for my interruption, Lord Hand-"

Otto followed his line of vision and cursed under his breath. "That blasted girl. Excuse me."

The only daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen laid outside of the castle walls in a grassy field that had just began to die off. She looked rather comfortable, simply napping out in the hot sun like a lizard on a rock… or a dragon.

He was entranced from that day on. 

Especially when he got to feast with the entire royal family that night. He nearly dropped his spoon in adoration of the slight sunburn on her nose and cheeks.

…

When Cregan arrived at the castle, things were in disarray. Jace was in a state of worry, crinkled lines between his brows. "Forgive me, Lord Stark. It seems my dear sister has found herself… elsewhere."

"E-Elsewhere? What does that mean?"

The King shrugged. "I dunno. That's the problem. We've lost her."

Cregan laughed. Genuinely laughed. Of course, thought. Just my luck. But at the King's shock of it, he stopped himself. "I mean no offense. But… she is a free spirit. You cannot cage a bird that is best admired in the sky."

"Then what? You wish to call this off?"

"No! No. I only mean… that perhaps she does not wish to be with me."

"I assure you that she will be happy in Winterfell."

Cregan wanted to believe him. Deep down, he wanted that desperately. But this was an arranged marriage. And that was never how they worked. 

"I just do not understand where she could've escaped to," the King sighed.

"Allow me to join the searches, your Grace."

…

"Hiding away from your ugly toad of a husband?"

She gasped, sitting up and meeting the eyes of Cregan Stark.

He's knelt beside her and she's unsure of how he's done it so quietly. Perhaps it is only one of the many Northern gifts he has. 

"No," she answered softly. "I only wished to see if he'd search for me. And he has."

"So you hoped I would give up and leave empty handed?"

"I wanted to see if he cared enough to search for me himself."

"Well, you're quite lucky then."

She realizes that she's instinctively leaned forward to prove her point, and so has Cregan, leaving the two closer than she thought. 

"I am."

"If hard work is what it takes to have your attention, Princess," Cregan utters, leaning in a little further, "you'll find I'll never stop until my work is finished."

She looks away, struggling to keep the warm feeling from wandering to her cheeks. 

"You've been hiding for nearly five hours. And as pretty as your skin is, I don't wish for it to be ruined by the sun."

"I have spent many hours in this field, Lord Stark. My skin is not so easily ruined."

As she begins to walk back, he peers up at the castle, imagining his younger self there staring down at her. "Yes, I know," he whispers under his breath before following.

…

And with their first meeting, Jace let the two go to Winterfell. Love can be made, he just hoped that perhaps they could do it in Winterfell over what should be the spring. But in the North, every season is winter.

It had been a harsh adjustment at first. She had lived in the South her entire life. To suddenly be surrounded by snow, even on the warmest days, made her stir crazy.

When the future Lady of Winterfell came back to the castle from exploring one evening, a beautiful dress laid over the furs of her bed. Unlike some of her others, this one was built for the winter.

To protect from the lack of sun then. -C

That's all the note said. Cregan had thought it was clever. It was humorous, teasing her lightly about her words to him before. 

"He mocks me?" She asks her handmaiden, clearly distraught over it.

"Princess, Lord Stark is a kind man. I'm sure he did not mean t-"

"I understand he may feel like he must spoil a pampered princess, but I am not so. Please send it back as well."

…

Cregan sat at the table in his solar, utterly confused. 

He'd tried so hard. He'd sent dresses, necklaces of beautiful jewels, anything he could. He didn't want her to believe he wouldn't try to care for her, even if it was in ways he didn't understand- like fashion.

He'd have to do better then. If she was sending them back, then clearly, it was not nice enough for her standards.

Cregan was determined to get this right.

…

Where is my w-" the word died on Cregan's lips. It felt so natural to say it, but he couldn't. Not yet. "Where is she?" Is what he decided on.

The servants knew exactly who he was speaking of. He wasn't aware, but she was all he had begun to talk about.

He'd ask what she was doing that day. If she seemed happy. What she was wearing. If she felt safe. The times that she ate.

He couldn't seem to get satisfied. He wanted to know everything.

"She is out, my lord. Exploring, I'd suppose."

Cregan had initially panicked the first few times she had gone out, especially without his permission.

But he always had to calm himself down. She's alone. In a new place. With a man she has to marry. 

And why would she ever need permission from him to love the North?

So he pushed down the dread that bubbled in his throat every time. "Exploring. Do you know where, by chance?"

"I don't, my lord. But she didn't take a guard with her, I know that much."

That had been his one stipulation. A guard. He couldn't stop himself this time.

…

Cregan had spent his afternoon on horseback, frustrated when he could not pick up her trail. He was the Warden. A predator. And he could not pick up the trail of a woman not even trying to hide.

But it was worth the relief when he did find her.

"Have you gone mad, my love?" He huffed, voice raised over the sound of wind and snow.

She watched him throw himself off his horse, feet firm as they found the ground.

"What are you doing out here without a cloak?" He continued, clearly frustrated.

He slipped his own off, throwing it around her shoulders.

She almost made an audible reaction as the warmth enveloped her. "I was fine," she assured, nestled under a tree with a book.

He took a long, deep breath, interlocking his fingers behind his head to calm himself down. He took a few deliberate steps towards her, knelt down, and lowered his voice. "Do you not value your safety?"

"I…" she hesitated. "I value it fine."

"Clearly, you do not! Let me see your hands."

She only stared at his outstretched one. 

He rubbed his forehead with his other hand before grabbing her hands himself and pulling her to him. He began pouring all of his attention over her fingers like pieces of art. 

Once he was satisfied, he held them against his warm chest firmly. The feeling almost burned her, having such warmth return after a long time in the cold. "I rather like your fingers, too, you mad woman. Dare I wish for you to keep them."

"They would not have gotten that far! They're fine," she assured, voice raising.

He said her name lowly in a final warning tone, and silence fell over them.

She could only feel his heartbeat under her fingers, keeping track of its erratic beating.

"Do you believe that I could live with myself if something had happened to you?" He whispers.

She gawked for a moment before catching her loose jaw. "Are you truly so vain?"

He squinted. "What?"

"Are you going to… to lock me away just to keep me pretty? Is that what matters to you?"

His brow twitches at her words. She's the one sending back his gifts, he believes. "Excuse me, highness," he feels the anger return in his voice, "but who is the vain one between us? I have tried all I could to please you."

"Please me?" Her teary eyes widened in surprise. "Is that what you call dressing up your little doll?"

"Dressing up w-" he stops himself and sighs. "Get on the horse."

The snowflakes swirl around her. "I wasn't done-"

He's already grabbed her by the waist and picked up her, carrying her to the horse and placing her onto it. "We'll discuss this in front of a fire and not a moment before."

She glares, but keeps her mouth shut.

But when they return to Winterfell, she shuts herself in her room.

Cregan ordered more wood to be taken to her fireplace.

He didn't have to see to her himself, as long as she was cared for. He could live with that.

…

"Are you happy?" She seethed, stepping out into the dining hall.

She was dressed in the finest dress Cregan had given her. Her hair was perfectly done and her makeup must have taken far longer than he could ever guess. 

She did look beautiful, but the frown she carries only discouraged him.

"No," he answered. 

Her lips set in a thin line. "Even this is not enough for you? Or are you so greedy that you require even another woman to try to satiate the great thirst of the Wolf of the Nor-"

Cregan crossed the room in only a few steps, grabbing her chin. "Speak no more," he warned.

"Oh, so a quiet wife w-"

Cregan then rubbed a handkerchief over her lips, smearing the lipstick off of her lips and a bit down her chin. He folded the cloth and wiped it down her cheeks, catching all he could. 

"I don't care how you look."

When her makeup was properly smeared, he dropped the cloth and brought his hand up to her hair and began to tousle it.

Her shoulders instinctively tightened, knowing her handmaiden spent such time on it.

"And I don't care how your hair flows."

Then his hand lowered to her sleeve, maintaining eye contact with her. And he tugged harshly, ripping the outer fabric down her arm. 

Her eyes widened at his brute force. He'd spent so much money on all of this for her, every nice cloth. Every last coin used to make his perfect doll.

But it was carefully done. Like he'd studied the dress to know just where to tear it to avoid making her indecent. The under sleeve still covered her arm, but the outer was now ripped.

"And I do not care if your dress is made of rags."

She wasn't sure whether to feel embarrassed or proud for getting under his skin.

He held her chin tightly with a look she couldn't recognize. Studying. Analyzing. And he smashed his lips on hers.

She was too in shock to react at first. But she could recognize that his lips were soft. And his hands, though rough, were gentle. And he loved her.

He pulled away, determined to make her see his way. "Now, sit."

She chewed on her now swollen bottom lip. "I should go clean myself up."

"Sit, my love."

"Cregan-"

"You look wonderful," he breathed out like it was a thought he couldn't hold back.

She knew she didn't. All this work to spite him. And not only had he ruined it, but he created something better from it. Adoration. And vulnerability from them both.

So she sat.

And when he sat opposite her, it was if the entire encounter had not happened. He was calm, eating quietly to himself. "Tell me where else you explored today."

She ate in a state of shock, having a relatively nice conversation with the Northerner despite the fight they had only hours before.

He nodded along, chipping in, "Well, the eastern godswoods can be incredibly beautiful this time of year. Should you want to explore it."

She felt a slight embarrassment. "I'm not sure exactly where that would be."

"Well, if you're going towards-"

"Will you just come with me?"

The question uttered him speechless, and he knew that was somewhat of her aim. His heart soared and he prayed that she couldn't tell. "Um… yes. Should I find time to, I will."

He'd put anything aside if he had to.

…

With the misunderstanding finally passing, the two found themselves bonding. 

"No, no," she giggled. "The red ones are like the ones back home." She took another one of the berries, popping it into her mouth.

"They can be like your home," he grinned. "But the dark ones are best." He puts the berry of the same color into his mouth.

She huffs playfully, laying fully on her back in the snow. "That's a foolish thought to have."

Laying next to her, he props himself up on his elbow to look at her. "I don't think I have many foolish thoughts."

"Then you really are foolish."

He can't stop the laugh bubbling in his throat from that remark. She's far too quick for him. And he's enamored.

He may be able to block a physical punch, but he could never match her wit.

When his laugh dies down, he doesn't move. He just keeps his eyes on her until she looks to him. "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. And to say that's a foolish thought would be a lie." He leans over her. "I don't lie, my love."

She was in her riding gear, hair surely everywhere from a lack of upkeep while horseback riding and now laying on the cold ground.

There's no hint of a lie in his eyes. He means every word.

"I love you, Princess," he admits. "I have since I was ten and seven."

She's quiet for a moment, studying the sturdy man in front of her. If a Southern man is a fine silk, then Cregan Stark is harsh steel.

She never wanted to see silk again.

…

Jace found his way to Cregan at the wedding, clasping the man on the shoulder. "I see some sort of love between you two. I admit that I was worried."

"Well, she put up a fair fight."

Jace's entire face turned confused. His brows pulled together, his top lip pulling up in a sneer. "What?" He gawked. "No, she did not."

Cregan downed the rest of his drink. "Is that a jest, your grace?"

"You're suggesting that my sister did not want this?"

"Obviously, no. Not at first, anyway."

Then the King's confusion turned to pure amusement. "Forgive me for being blunt, my friend, but who do you think arranged this marriage? Not I."

It was the Warden's turn to be confused. His head tilted like a confused pup. "You s-"

Jace took the time to let him mull over it. He swirled the wine in his cup, enjoying the Northerner try to unwind the mystery. Finally, he gave in. "My sister wanted to be your wife. She stated so years ago."

"My wife? She…" His eyes flickered up in her direction, watching her giggle with her brother Joffrey in her lap. It made Cregan want a little silver headed child of their own. He had always imagined a northern child. Now? Now, he didn't care. As long as it looked like her.

"She's worn her hair down since the first time she saw you," Jace continued. "In that Northern fashion all the women do. Didn't you notice?" He plays the fool for just a moment with Cregan before grinning widely.

Cregan Stark, the man whose battle strategies had won them a war, had been outwitted since he was ten and seven by a girl who'd never had to scheme a day in her life.

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

Taglist: @alyssa-dayne @twinkletwinklenotastar @kidd3ath @yujyujj @misswynters @cosmosnkaz @sithapprentice @kaniromi @lovemesomevesey @its-jackie-bb @thorins-queen-of-erebor @kingdomzeldaquest @nyxbranwenn @callsignwidow @a1lexh-blog @ethereal-athalia @ashovertheriver @lost-in-fiction-like-ur-mom @dozcan123 @wangjiangelangel @kamitargaryen @aegonswife @lv7867 @helpmedecideaname @cherryheairt @classicsimpforaaronwarner @purple-1995, @itsaslaminak

[soulsuckker1]

I want you to know that even though you're divorced, ex husband Cregan is preparing gifts for you for Mother's Day because he loves you and will always be grateful that you gave him Rickon <3

[soulsuckker1]

cregan stark has a breeding kink. he had ten children. TEN. actually scratch that, every nothern lord has a breeding kink. the north is a harsh, and deadly place. they need something to keep their wives happy and warmed up. god forbid a man wants to continue his bloodline!!

[soulsuckker1]

Pov: when i catch y/n wearing something i would NEVER wear

[soulsuckker1]

I love these two. 😍

[soulsuckker1]

is tom using a filter in the newest instagram?

He's using his favorite "delete this as fast as I can" filter I guess 😅

[soulsuckker1]

would you like to fight or to yield?

[soulsuckker1]

~Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen; First of Her Name, Rightful Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms~

FINALLY FINISHED THIS WIP!!! School and family stuff was beating my ass, so I had to put a massive pause on this one, but it's finally done T_T I just had to rep my RIGHTFUL queen Rhae-Rhae, I love her to infinity and beyond!!! I rrly do need to draw her more tho... anyways, I think I'm going to draw more asoiaf portraits and make it a little series. idk who I should draw next tho, maybe Daenerys? Or another character from the dance? I'm open to request lmao

[soulsuckker1]

It’s disturbing how people always want to bring up Dany’s dead male ancestors, but never her female ancestors. They want her to be the scapegoat for the actions of long dead men whom she’s never met, but ignore the enduring tradition of suffering and suppressed Targaryen women, that she is actively subverting…almost all Targaryen women after the conqueror’s wives (and we can argue all day about how much power or autonomy even they had, tbh) were passed over in some way or another in favor of a man, many losing their lives in the process, or enduring sexual violence, forced birth, unimaginable horrors, and in Rhaenyra’s case a bloody, terrible war. All for the crime of being born women. Daenerys is not the sacrificial lamb that all of her male ancestors’ sins are transubstantiated onto, that is such a tired, lazy, and misogynistic way to look at her story…she is the breaker of generational chains for her female ancestors. She is the star after the tower. The empress of the dawn. She is hope and healing, not destruction and rage. Dragons plant no trees, true, but Dany does.

[soulsuckker1]

Oh?? My god????

[soulsuckker1]

shakira at the 2025 met gala 🧁🎀🐩👡👛⊹ ‧₊˚

[soulsuckker1]

Rhaenyra in her black coat 2x07 | 2x08 HOUSE OF THE DRAGON (2022-)

[soulsuckker1]

— Winter‘s Storm: Chapter I

pairing: cregan stark x fem!cerwyn!reader (oc)

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), mentions of blood, short description of a death person, lots of heartbreak/grief, loosely hinting at a friendship/love triangle, mentions of being in love with another woman’s husband, grammar (english isn’t my first language)

word count: 2,844

taglist: @cregan-starks @gotranting @deltamoon666

•••

Late summer snow fell quietly on the still green lands of the North, slowly wrapping it in its white cloak. The increasingly harsh winds heralded the approaching winter. The quiet crunch of the frozen grass giving way under the heavy hooves of the black stallion shattered the silence of the dusk day. The castle towers of Winterfell loomed on the horizon. Its rider pulled the grey cloak further around her body and spurred the animal on. Half a day's march already lay behind steed and rider.

Their arrival was already expected as the Lord of Winterfell sat patiently outside the gates on his own steed, his black cloak attached to his broad shoulders. His deep grey eyes mirrored the soon approaching storms winter would bring. The corners of his mouth twitched barely noticeably at the sight of his expected guest. His otherwise grim expression seemed to soften, a sight the northern lands had not seen for a long time. The black steed slowed down at the sight of him. "You live dangerously, Lord Stark. Without the protection of your loyal bannermen, all alone at the gates of your castle. I could have planned an ambush and within moments —", his guest carefully ran a finger along her neck before a cheeky smile spread across her narrow lips. "You wouldn't dare, Lady Cerwyn.", he pointed to the long sword sitting on his broad back, "You'd be dead in the blink of an eye." Her almond eyes narrowed as she softly tilted her head, "Don't underestimate me."

He did not return her smile and dismounted from his steed without a word. The animal snorted softly as he let one of his calloused hands glide almost lovingly over the light brown coat. Turning his gaze back to the black stallion, he took a few step forwards and grabbed the reins made of leather close to its head before allowing the horse to sniffle his hand. After a short moment, the animal lowered its head and let him pet its mane. "I would never underestimate you.", he spoke, his voice hoarse and low, before he offered a hand and helped her to dismount. The man was now towering over her. His hand, which had been on the leather reins only mere moments before, softly gripped her shoulder and he lowered his head so their foreheads were touching. Dark strands of hair fell across his face. A gesture he had already cultivated in their childhood. "It is good to see you, Wylla.", Cregan spoke softly. A gloved hand cupped his roughened cheek, "It is good to see you, too, old friend." She took in his familiar scent of pine needles, dirt, firewood and a hint of wild berries mixed with his sweat. Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand and cleared her throat. He released his own from her shoulder and straightened up before taking the horses by the reins and leading them through the open gates inside the castle. Wylla caught up to him and grabbed the fabric of her light grey dress to keep pace with her friend. "Feed and water the horses.", Cregan barked at the stable boy as he pushed the reins into his hands. The boy nodded in fright and quickly retreated to care for the horses. She sent an apologetic glance at the poor boy before hurrying after Cregan through the courtyard again who already set a heavy foot to disappear inside the brick Great Hall. "Can I not visit her first?"

Her request made him stop in his tracks. Wylla noticed how his hands formed to fists and his body tensed up. A short, dark glance towards her made her almost regret her question. "Supper is already awaiting us." His scowl would have intimidated her but she knew his grumpy moods were due to the occasion of the day. Her own heart grew heavy at the thought. She didn't want to imagine how he must have felt since the death of his wife. "Please.", the girl begged him.  A sigh left his lips before he gave in. "Then at last let me accompany you." Cregan stalked past her and she followed him to the crypts. It was a dark place, lit only by torches. The place was stuffy and cold. It was the first time Wylla had entered this place after her funeral. A cold shiver ran down her spine and the powerlessness that had almost driven her out of the mind a year ago threatened to take hold of her again. She clasped the cloak around her shoulders and pulled it further around her slender body. Tears took her vision and the deeper they went into the crypt, the more short of breath she became. An icy hand wrapped around her heart and squeezed until it hurt. She wanted to scream in agony. One of her hands found the safety of the wall to her right as they reached the grave of their childhood friend. Cregan's gaze was blank as he stared at the statue that was the spitting image of his wife. Neither of them said a word. The image of Arra laying in her own pool of blood, her teal eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling and the cries of small Rickon born mere minutes before, still haunted her to this day. "I am so sorry.", she whispered almost inaudible. It was a tragedy what had occurred to her.

He did not answer anything in return, but kept staring at his late wife's face carved in stone. Quiet sobs shook Wylla's frame as hot tears burned her from the cold winds reddened cheeks. A hand pressed to her mouth to silence the sobbing yet she miserably failed to. Cregan pulled her silently into his embrace, one hand soothingly resting on her back. She clung helplessly to him and pressed her face into the hard leather of his chest-plate. His scent along with the leather filled her nostrils. Several minutes of a comforting silence passed before her tears had dried up. The girl reluctantly broke away from him and looked at the statue. "I miss her every single day of my being.", the Lord of Winterfell cut the silence quietly. She did not take her eyes off the woman that had turned to stone. "As do I." Silence filled the air between them.

Half an hour later they decided to leave the crypts into the chilly night air and returned to the Great Hall to dine the prepared food. The hot fire in the hearth lighted up the Hall and fought off the chill inside her bones. Their cloaks were brought to their chambers by the servants when they had arrived. Fresh vegetables and potatoes along with venison was served. Wylla thanked the servants for the dished food before she loaded her plate and took a bite of each as a cup of clay filled with rich ale was placed in front of her. "It tastes heavenly.", her eyelids fluttered as the taste coated her tongue. Little Rickon was sat next to his father as a maid was unsuccessfully trying to feed him yet the small boy declined the vegetables served to him. Cregan watched him out of the corner of his eyes and decided he's had enough before picking the boy up and putting him on his lap. "He's grown so much.", Wylla spoke softly as she watched the boy. His dark hair and storm-grey eyes resembled his father yet his snub nose and full lips resembled his mother, a perfect mix of both of them. "Unfortunately he has inherited the boisterous thick skull of the Starks.", his father jested as he unsuccessfully tried to bring a slice of potato to Rickon's mouth. The boy knocked the fork away and tried to wiggle out of his father grip before he began to wail. One of the maidens quickly hurried to grab him but Cregan waved her off . "He has to eat before bed."

Wylla put her fork down and pushed the chair she was sat on across the wooden floor with a loud scrape before she stood up and rounded the table. She knelt down and bent slowly towards Rickon. "You have to eat or else you will never be as strong as your father.", his big eyes watched her as she softly spoke to him. "One day you will be Lord of Winterfell and all of the lands in the North will be yours. But if you won't eat, you'll never become big and strong.", she jested quietly before she began tickling him. The boy squealed and giggled before stretching towards her and Cregan let him climb into his friend's arms. Her rosy lips pressed a kiss to his temple before she arose and carried him towards her chair on the other end of the table to take a seat again. "Now eat, Rickon. If you behave yourself, I'll read you a tale before you go to bed.", she promised him and shortly glanced at Cregan, silently asking for his approval. A short nod of his was enough and she glanced back to the boy sitting on her lap. She carefully brought the fork to the child's mouth, who looked at her with wide grey eyes before reluctantly opening his mouth. Quickly shoving the vegetables inside, she told him to close his mouth and chew. The boy obeyed and swallowed the food down his throat. Quickly opening his mouth again, Wylla was just about to spear a piece of meat on her fork as he slid restlessly back and forth on her lap. She quickly shoved another bite down his throat feeding him until he fully refused the food. "Are you fed?", her voice was soft and sweet. Rickon nodded and buried his head in her chest. She put an arm around him and gently brushed over his side. The sight of the little human snuggled up to her warmed her heart. She hurried to finish eating and then pulled the boy up onto her shoulder to carry him to bed. "Do you mind if I put him to sleep?" Cregan nodded shortly before he arose from his chair and planted a kiss on his son's dark hair. "Good night, boy. Sleep tight." The child reached out to him sleepily before letting his hand hang loosely again. "Do not fall asleep next to him. We have still have a lot to discuss.", Cregan's breath brushed her ear as he leaned in not to startle to boy in her arms. His sudden closeness caused her body goose bumps. She nodded shortly and left the room with Rickon's handmaiden.

While the handmaiden, Gilly, prepared the boy for bed, Wylla laid down on the furs on the bed with a book in hand about the mythology of 'The Children of the Forest'. She opened the book and looked at the drawings. Children with disproportionately large and expressively like green eyes and a pale gray-green skin with apparent rough to wrinkly texture, similar in appearance to plants. The tale was already read to her when she had been a child until she could read it herself. Rickon was placed next to her, covered into the furs and she moved over to him so he could see the drawings. Gilly lit the firewood in the hearth to keep the chamber warm before she left them alone inside. Wylla opened the first page and began reading to him, showing him the drawing as he pointed to it from time to time. After a while, the boy fell asleep cuddled up to her. She watched him for a short moment before she closed the book, planted a soft kiss on the crown of his head and tried to detach herself from the boy as gently as possible. The book was placed back on the shelf on the wall next to the wooden door before she left him in his peaceful slumber.

Cregan was already awaiting her in the Great Hall as she joined him an hour later. She shot him an apologetic glance before she took a seat next to him on the wooden table and took a sip of the ale she had not touched earlier. "Apologies, Rickon wanted to know everything about 'The Children in the Forest'." A deep chuckle rumbled in Cregan's chest and took a long sip of his cup of ale. "Wasn't that our favorite story when we were children?" She smiled gently and placed the cup of clay in front of her. "Yes, of course." A comfortable silence filled the room before she set to speak again. "What was it you wanted to discuss earlier?" The man next to her sighed heavily and sternly furrowed his thick brows. She noted he had taken off his leather chest protection and had rolled up his tunic sleeves to his elbows. His muscles were drawn visible underneath the thin fabric and she had to press her legs together in order to ignore the aching throb under her garments to concentrate on their conversation. She quickly took another sip of the ale to hide her heated cheeks.

"My council urges me to remarry. Yesterday, a raven from King's Landing has arrived reporting of the death of King Viserys I. and the usurpation of the throne through his firstborn son, Aegon II. The rightful heir, his daughter Rhaenyra, is said to be residing on Dragonstone. There is talk of war. Without securing my bloodline and position as Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell my council fears that the lords of smaller vassal houses sworn to House Stark will turn against me and peace will be destroyed.", he paused shortly to take another sip of ale, "Besides, the harvest of this summer must be taken, winter's coming."

She swallowed thickly, fright began spreading through her. "The King is dead? Why did the Hightowers put an usurpator on the throne when your father and nearly all lords of Westerosi noble houses have sworn their loyalty to his heir Rhaenyra?" Cregan sighed deeply as he locked eyes with her for a moment. His stormy grey met her deep brown-black. "They must have been planning it for a long time. The King was already ill during my father's time as Warden of the North." She turned her gaze back to the cup of clay in her narrow hands so as not to drown in the depths of his grey. "Arra is dead for barely a year and they're already forcing you to remarry." His features darkened at the mention of her name. His heart had only begun healing itself when it was already supposed to belong to his next bride. Wylla watched him out of the corner of her eyes, the warm light of the fire dancing across his handsome features. It was improper of her to desire the husband of another woman; regardless of the woman dead or alive, loyal friend or hated enemy. Yet she had been secretly in love with him since he had reached manhood seven years ago at the age of four and ten.

"I have mourned long enough. I must make my decision wisely. This marriage must be chosen political strategically.", his voice firm and yet broken. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "You should probably discuss such matters with my brother. I am in no position to —". He interrupted her rather harsh. "You are to help me to lead the lords of our vassal houses back onto the right path. Bind them to us again by offering them gifts and my hand in marriage to their daughters. Find me a suitable bride while my council and I plan the defence of the North." Wylla had to digest his words firstly. He would obviously never consider her as a bride. Confusion and embarrassment spread through her. She was ashamed to ever have formed the thought he would ever see her as anything more than the little girl she used to be. "Cregan, I am not sure if I am the best choice for this. I am not part of your council and —". Once again the man interrupted her, this time a little softer as he cupped her narrow hand with his own big, almost massive, hand and stared at her with an intensity she wasn't sure she would be able to withstand. "You are, who knows me best." Her eyes flickered between his before she pushed his calloused hand away in anger and arose from her chair. "I am not your fool riding across the north to pick the next best woman to warm your bed while you and your stupid council plan the war.", she spat angrily before she turned to leave him. Just as her hand touched the wood of the large door leading to the courtyard, he arose from his chair. "I need you as an ally." Anger made her tremble yet she didn't turn to face him. "Acknowledge me then as an ally." With that she pushed the door open and left into the icy embrace of the night.

[soulsuckker1]

UHH HELLO?!

[soulsuckker1]

when it was bad, your face kept me alive

pairing: cregan stark x fem!reader

summary: you and cregan stark were bound by a betrothal forged in childhood. he was your first love, the boy with a wolf’s grin who promised you a life of warmth amid the cold of winterfell. you grew up dreaming of a marriage filled with tender moments, only for war to tear him from you before the vows could be spoken.

warnings: emotional angst, themes of war and loss, slow-burn, mild depictions of grief and trauma, heavy emotional weight.

author notes: currently listening to ‘goodbye brother by ramin djawadi’, and the melody is just so sad yet warm at the same time, it’s making me want to write something truly heartbreaking at the start, with just a flicker of warmth at the end. also, i’m considering opening a taglist! not sure when, but would you want to be tagged in my latest works whenever i post? my requests are open now, so if you have any ideas, don’t be shy and drop them in my ask! i only accept requests through asks, and don’t forget to read my rules too!

“my lady, they’ve returned.”

the guard’s voice cracks through the stillness of the hall, rough like the scrape of steel against stone. you’re seated by the hearth, a half-finished embroidery in your lap, the needle stilled between your fingers. you look up, slow, deliberate, as if moving too fast might shatter the fragile hope you’ve nursed for years.

“who?”

your voice is a whisper, barely audible over the pop of the logs.

“the men from the warband. survivors.”

the guard shifts, his boots scuffing the floor, his eyes avoiding yours.

“lord cregan… they say he’s not among them.”

the needle slips from your grasp, a tiny sound that echoes like a thunderclap in your chest. you stand, the embroidery tumbling forgotten, your hands trembling as they clutch the edge of the table. many moons of waiting, of staring out frost-rimed windows, of tracing the lines of his letters until the ink blurred beneath your fingertips. they’d stopped coming so suddenly, and with them, the rumors of cregan stark, lost in the south, cut down, burned, drowned. dead. they’d said it a thousand times, in a thousand ways, but never with proof. never with his body. and so you’d held on, stubborn as the ice that clings to winterfell’s walls, believing he’d come back to you.

“not among them?”

you echo, your voice sharper now, cutting through the haze.

“then where is he?”

the guard hesitates, his jaw tight.

“they… they don’t know, my lady. they saw him fall, they say. in the thick of it. no one could reach him. the field was chaos, in fire, blood. they’re certain he’s gone.”

gone.

the word lands like a blade between your ribs, your breath catches, and for a moment, the room tilts. but then you straighten, your chin lifting, your eyes burning with something fierce, something stark.

“no,” you say, quiet but firm.

“no, he’s not gone. not until i see him. not until they bring me his bones.”

the guard opens his mouth, then closes, nodding once before stepping back. you don’t cry. you don’t scream. you turn to the window, pressing your palm against the icy glass, and stare out at the snow-dusted courtyard where the survivors will soon stumble through. your reflection stares back—older now, sharper-edged, but still the girl who’d promised her heart to a boy with a wolf’s grin. he’s out there, you tell yourself, as you’ve told yourself every night since he left. alive. waiting.

five years bleed into six, and winterfell grows quieter, heavier, as if the stones themselves mourn him. you move through the days like a ghost, tending to the keep, smiling thinly at the servants, deflecting the lords who whisper of new betrothals.

they don’t understand.

they didn’t see the way cregan looked at you the day he rode out, his hand warm on your cheek, his voice steady, promising he’d come back to make you his wife. you’d been children when the betrothal was sealed, two small figures beneath the heart tree, giggling through vows you barely understood. but it had grown into something real, something that rooted deep in your soul. he’d been your first love, your only love, and you his.

his chambers remain untouched, a shrine to that promise. his furs still draped over the chair, his sword rack empty but polished, his letters stacked neatly on the desk. you sit there sometimes, late at night, running your fingers over the parchment, imagining his voice in the words.

“i dream of you, even here. keep the fire lit for me.”

you do. you always do.

the sixth winter is the harshest yet, you’re in his chambers again, wrapped in one of his old cloaks, when the horn sounds low, mournful note that reverberates through the keep. you freeze, the cloak slipping from your shoulders. footsteps pound outside, voices rising, and then the door bursts open.

“my lady!”

it’s the same guard, older now, his face flushed beneath his helm.

“he’s here. lord cregan, he’s alive. he’s at the gates.”

your breath stops, your knees buckle, and you catch yourself against the desk, his letters crumpling under your hand.

“alive?”

you rasp, the word tasting of snow and hope.

“half-dead, maybe, but alive. he came alone. on foot. gods know how.”

you don’t wait for more.

you’re running, the cloak forgotten, your boots slipping on the stone as you tear through the halls. the courtyard is a blur of torchlight and snow, men shouting, horses snorting, but all you see is him standing by the gates.

he’s taller, broader, his hair longer and matted with dirt, his face carved with scars that weren’t there before. his armor is dented, caked with mud, and he leans on a sword like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

but it’s him.

cregan.

your cregan.

you stop a few paces away, your chest heaving, tears burning behind your eyes. he sees you then, his gray eyes lifting, dull, haunted, nothing like the bright spark you remember. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just stares as if you’re a dream he’s afraid to believe in.

“cregan,”

you whisper, stepping closer, your voice trembling with six years of longing.

“you’re alive.”

he flinches, almost imperceptibly, his jaw tightening.

“i shouldn’t be,”

he says, his voice rough, scraped raw by time and war.

“i didn’t think i’d…”

he trails off, looking away, as if the words are too heavy to finish.

you close the distance, reaching for him, your hands shaking as they hover over his chest.

“you’re home,” you say, soft but fierce.

“you came back to me.”

he doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t meet your eyes either.

“i’m not… i’m not what i was,”

he mutters, so low you almost miss it.

“you shouldn’t have waited.”

the words sting, but you shake your head, tears spilling now, hot against the cold air.

“i knew you weren’t dead. i knew it. i’d have waited a hundred years.”

he looks at you then, really looks, and something in his gaze, something that remembers you, that feels of what you once had. but it’s buried deep, smothered by shadows you can’t yet name. you take his hand, cold and calloused, and lead him inside, past the stunned guards, past the whispers, into the warmth of winterfell. into his chambers.

the door creaks shut behind you. he stands there, a stranger in his own space, his eyes sweeping over the room, the furs, the desk, the letters. it’s all the same, frozen in time, just as he left it. you watch him, your heart aching at the way he moves, slow and deliberate, like he’s afraid to touch anything.

“you kept it,”

he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. he steps toward the desk, his fingers brushing the edge of a letter, the parchment yellowed with age.

“everything,”

you reply, stepping closer.

“every piece of you. i couldn’t let it go.”

he turns, and for the first time, you see the weight he carries the lines etched into his face.

“out there,” he starts, his voice breaking,

“when it was bad… your face kept me alive. i’d close my eyes and see you, hear you, telling me to come home. but i didn’t think i’d ever…”

he stops, swallowing hard.

“i didn’t think you’d still be here.”

“where else would i be?”

you say, your voice soft but steady, the tears streaming freely now.

“you were my home, cregan. you still are.”

he shakes his head, stepping back, his hand falling from the desk.

“i’m not him anymore. that boy you loved... he’s gone. i’ve done things, seen things… i’m not worth waiting for.”

you move before he can retreat further, grabbing his arm, your fingers digging into the leather of his sleeve.

“don’t you dare say that,”

you hiss, your voice raw with desperation.

“you’re still cregan stark. my cregan. i see you, even if you don’t see yourself.”

he stares at you, his breath uneven, and for a moment, you think he’ll pull away. but then his hand lifts, tentative, trembling, and brushes your cheek, wiping away a tear.

“you’re too good,”

he murmurs, almost to himself.

“too good for what’s left of me.”

“then let me remind you,”

you whisper, leaning into his touch.

“let me show you what we had, what we still have.”

the days stretch into weeks, and he doesn’t leave, but he doesn’t fully return either. he’s a ghost in his own keep, sitting silently by the fire while you talk of the years he missed. you tell him of the winters you endured, the letters you wrote and never sent, the nights you sat in his chambers praying to the old gods.

he listens, always listening, but his responses are clipped, guarded, as if he’s afraid to let himself feel too much.

yet there are small, fleeting moments, where the boy you knew peeks through. when you catch him staring at you across the table, his eyes soft with something like wonder. when his hand lingers on yours after you pass him a cup, the touch warm despite the cold. when he laughs at a story you tell of a clumsy servant, and the sound cracks something open in your chest.

you’re patient.

you don’t push, don’t demand. you simply stay, a constant presence, a tether to the life he left behind. and slowly, so slowly, he begins to thaw. he starts to seek you out, sitting closer by the fire, asking questions about the keep, brushing his fingers against yours without pulling away.

one night, he finds you in his chambers again, reading one of his old letters aloud, your voice trembling with the memory of him.

“stop,”

he says, but there’s no anger in it, only a quiet plea. he’s standing in the doorway, his shadow long against the floor.

you lower the letter, your heart pounding.

“why?”

“because it hurts,”

he admits, stepping inside, his boots heavy on the stone.

“hearing you… it’s like hearing a life i don’t deserve anymore.”

you stand, crossing the room to him, your hands reaching for his face. he doesn’t flinch this time, doesn’t pull away.

“you deserve it,”

you say, fierce and certain.

“you deserve me. us. everything we dreamed of.”

his hands cover yours, holding them against his skin, and his eyes close, a shudder running through him.

“i thought of you every day,”

he confesses, his voice breaking.

“every damned day. i fought to come back, but i didn’t know if you’d still…”

“i’m here,”

you cut in, pressing your forehead to his, your tears mingling with his breath.

“i’ve always been here.”

he kisses you then, sudden, desperate, his lips rough against yours, tasting sorrow and six years of longing. it’s not gentle, not like the shy kisses you’d shared as children, but it’s real, raw, a reclaiming of what war tried to steal.

you cling to him, your fingers tangling in his hair, and when he pulls back, his eyes are brighter, alive in a way they haven’t been since he returned.

“marry me,”

he says, breathless, his hands still framing your face.

“marry me now, before anything else tries to take you from me.”

the godswood is silent, the snow falling soft around you, the heart tree looms above, its red leaves stark against the gray, its face watching as you stand before it, cregan at your side.

you wear a simple gown, gray and fur-lined, a cloak of stark colors draped over your shoulders. he’s in his armor, cleaned and polished, but still bearing the scars of battle, a mirror to the man he’s become. the vows come slow, each word a promise carved into the air, into your souls.

“i am hers, and she is mine,”

he says, his voice strong now, unwavering, his eyes never leaving yours.

“from this day, until my last day.”

“i am his, and he is mine,”

your voice trembling not with fear, but with joy, with love so deep it aches.

“from this day, until my last day.”

he slips a ring onto your finger, a simple, silver, etched with a direwolf and you do the same, your hands shaking as you bind yourselves together. t

he septon steps back, and cregan pulls you close, his lips finding yours beneath the tree, the gods as witness. it’s softer this time, a vow in itself, and when you part, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“i’m home,”

he whispers, and you feel it, the boy you loved, the man he is, finally yours.

"welcome home, my cregan stark."

[soulsuckker1]

After a long day

Pairing: Cregan Stark x wife reader.

Warnings: none.

Author's note: so, I know I said it would take a while to come out but in these two days I had some time to manage to write this short thought. I hope you like it!

If you want to make any requests, feel free to do so! I will try to accommodate you according to my guidelines.

English is not my native language so I ask you to have a little tolerance :)

Under the fur blankets you nestled next to Cregan, resting your small hand on his bare chest. You could feel his heart beating and his body was so warm it made you forget you were in the North, in such a cold place. With your fingers you curled his dark hairs slightly, huffing.

"What is it my love?" Cregan murmurs, moving a lock of hair from your face and looking at you softly. His voice was like a lullaby, making you close your eyes for a few seconds. "I'm tired" you whisper, stilling the movement of your fingers. All the weight of the day seems to magically vanish when you're with him.

"It's been a hard day, you know?" he caresses your face, before moving his thumb over your lower lip. "I can imagine..." of course he can imagine, what you do can never be on his level; being Lord of Winterfell. His calloused fingers move higher, touching your eyebrow. "You have such beautiful eyes..." he always repeats it to you, whenever he can.

You place your hand on his "I love you" you say as he gets so close that you can feel his breath on your face "Me too". You lick your lips, feeling the skin become soft and a moment later his lips are on yours. He pulls back smiling "My beautiful wife" he says before getting more comfortable against the pillows. He waves you over "Come here" so you rest your head on his chest and he strokes your hair until you fall asleep.

[soulsuckker1]

finished my old rhaenyra wip