#minor robb stark x reader

[nyrasvoid]

In the Heat of Battle ⚔︎

♡︎ Gwayne Hightower x Fem!Reader

𖤓 Summary: Lady Caswell defies her family to become a healer in the war of the Stepstones. Amid the violence, she forms a bond with Ser Gwayne Hightower.

⚝ Warnings: violence, sexual assault attempt (nothing happens), includes themes of war and injury and explicit sexual content

♜ Things you should know: reader is from a minor house of the Reach (House Caswell), when the news of war are spread the ladies are given the choice to serve as healers. Reader prefers to serve as a healer in the battle camps than becoming a septa or marrying.

⚝ A/N: this is a bit like the relationship between Robb stark and his wife in GOT, just a reminder that my requests are open 😊

- Word count: 6k words (ik I went a bit crazy this time)

The hall of your family’s keep is quieter than usual, though tension hangs in the air.

You sit at the long table, your hands resting om your lap, trying to keep calm as your mother and father exchange worried glances from across the room. The fireplace is the only sound that fills the room. Your sisters sit nearby, their faces show their concern, while your two brothers stand at the back of the room.

You know why you’re all gathered here. It’s a conversation that’s been pending for weeks, ever since news of the war of the Stepstones reached your lands. You and the rest of the ladies were given a choice, but it’s clear that your family doesn’t see it as one.

Your father clears his throat, breaking the silence. "My daughter, you are the youngest of House Caswell. You must understand the choices before you. There are...expectations. It is time to think of your future."

Your mother nods. "We’ve spoken of this before. You could marry, my dearest. There are lords who would gladly take a girl like you. Or, if marriage isn’t your path, the septas will gladly take you in."

You’ve heard this all before. Marriage or the Faith. Those are the only options anyone sees for you. But they don’t understand. You don’t want to spend your life praying in a sept or playing the dutiful wife. You want something else.

“I don’t want to be a septa,” you say firmly. “And I have no interest in marriage, not right now. The war… they need healers. I can help.”

Your father’s brows furrow. He sits back in his chair, eyeing you with a mix of disbelief and frustration. "The battlefield is no place for a woman, especially not a daughter of mine."

“I agree,” your sister, Melissa, interrupts from across the table. She’s always been the dutiful one, her nose always buried in the books of history. “The gods have plans for us. You could do good in the Faith, sister. Don’t let the horrors of war tempt you from a safer path.”

“Safe?” You scoff. “The Faith doesn’t call to me, Melissa. I’m not like you. I do not hear the call of the Seven like you do.” You look at your sister. “I want to do something that matters, to help people. People who are suffering because of this war.”

“Being a septa helps people,” she tries to convince you, “you’d bring the Light of the Seven to those in need.”

“But that is not what I wish for,” you insist, “I want to help with my hands. Healing those who are wounded. Saving lives.”

Your older brother, Ser Arthur, steps forward, his voice firm. “Do you know what you’re asking for, sister? You’ve never seen war. It’s not some grand adventure. It’s blood and death, and it will haunt you long after the fighting is over.” He pauses briefly. “If you think healing will spare you from that, you’re wrong.”

Your younger brother, Theo, who’s barely old enough to hold a sword, speaks up, his voice shaky. “He’s right. I’ve heard the stories from the soldiers who’ve returned. The screams, the smells. The battlefield is no place for a lady.”

You turn to them. “I am not asking for a knight’s life. I know what war is. I’m not foolish.” You glance between your siblings and your parents. “But I will not stand by while men die if I can do something about it, let me help. It is my choice.”

Your father slams his hand down on the table, startling everyone. “And what of your duties to this house? You think you can just abandon them, throw yourself into the mud and blood of battle?”

Your mother’s eyes fill up with unshed tears, and she whispers, “You’re our daughter, sweetling. We just want you safe.”

You swallow hard, trying to fight back the tears that threaten to spill from your eyes. “I know you want what’s best for me. But I need to do this. Not because I want to run away from my duties, but because I want to make a difference. If I can save even one life out there, then that’s worth it to me.”

Melissa stands up, coming closer to you and resting her hand on your shoulder. “Please, sister. You’re smarter than this. You don’t have to go looking for death. The gods have other plans for you, if you’ll just listen.”

You turn to her, “I love you, Melissa. But I can’t live my life praying every single day, locked up in a sept.”

Everyone turns quiet, you could only hear your mother’s sobs and the fireplace.

Finally, it is your father who breaks the silence, his voice rough. “If this is truly what you want…” He shakes his head, sighing. “Then go. Serve as a healer. But do not say I didn’t warn you.”

You meet his gaze, nodding. “Thank you.”

Melissa looks like she wants to keep trying to convince you, but she just sighs in defeat. “May the gods protect you, sister.”

Arthur steps forward, resting a hand on your shoulder. “I hope you know what you’re doing”

“So do I,” you murmur, though you know this is the path you must follow, you still have some doubts in your mind.

As you rise from your seat and begin to make your way out of the hall, you feel the guilt of not listening to them, but you’ve made your choice. The battlefield may not be a place for most women, but you are not most women.

You will go, and you will help. No matter what anyone else says.

The morning you leave for the war, the sky is heavy with clouds, as if the gods were trying to tell you it was the wrong path. Your family stands around you, silent in disappointment.

Your mother is the first to approach you. She takes your hand, into hers. Her eyes are still red from the tears she shed last night. "Please, my dearest, be careful," she whispers, her voice cracking. "I know you think this is the right choice, but I can’t bear to lose you. You’re still my little girl."

You feel a bit of guilt but gently squeezed her hand in return. "I’ll be careful, mother. I promise. I’ll write whenever I can."

Your father stands a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest. He hasn’t spoken to you since you made your choice.

"My daughter," he says, "If you find that this is too much, if you wish to come home, there will always be a place for you here."

You nod. "Thank you, Father. But I won’t be coming home until I’ve fulfilled my duty."

Your sister Melissa approaches next, she’s spent the entire night in prayer. "I will pray for you every day," she says softly. "May the gods guide you and keep you safe."

You smile at her, grateful for her words even if you no longer share her faith in the Seven. "Thank you, sister. But I will be relying on my own hands to keep me safe."

Arthur steps forward as he pulls you into a firm embrace. He doesn’t speak, but the hug says enough. "You’re braver than I thought," he says. "I just hope you know what you’re getting into."

"I do," you reply, meeting his gaze. "and I will come back, brother. Do not worry."

Your younger brother Theo, looks up at you with sadness in his eyes. "If I were old enough," he murmurs, "I would be going with you."

You ruffle his hair, "Well, I am glad you’re not. Stay here, and keep the family safe for me, all right?"

His smile turns into a pout, but he nods, "Fine," he mumbles. "But you better come back in one piece so we can play like we do."

You give him a small smile, although you want to do this, you do not like the idea of leaving your family behind. “I will come back in one piece, I promise.”

With one last glance at your family, you get on the back the carriage. You know this journey will change you. There’s no denying that. But you also know you’ve made the right choice.

As you ride away, the gates of your family’s keep slowly close behind you, and the view of your home begins to fade.

Your journey to the Stepstones begins, it is a long trip, longer than you expected, and after just a few hours on the ship, you’ve already had enough of the sea.

It’s uncomfortable, and filled with rough men, mercenaries, and knights—making their way to the battle in the Stepstones. Among them, you are one of the very few women, and the looks you get remind you of it.

But you are not alone. On the second day of the journey, you meet Lysa, a fellow healer, although her skills lean more towards battlefield survival and self-defense. She is very brave and before long, the two of you find yourselves sticking together, watching each other’s backs.

One evening, you and Lysa sit on the deck, talking about your families and why you both chose to leave them behind for war.

“So,” Lysa says, “you chose to be a healer instead of a septa. I have to say, I would have done the same, given the choice.”

You smile at her. “I couldn’t bear the idea of spending my life in a sept. Too quiet, too… restricting.”

Lysa laughs. “I get it. I couldn’t stand being tied down either. I’d rather be out here, risking my life, than sitting at home waiting for a husband.”

As you share stories, the bond between you strengthens. You find that you trust her in a way you’ve trusted few people in your life. It’s comforting to have a friend, especially on a ship full of strange and dangerous men.

But not everyone aboard the ship is as decent as Lysa.

That same night, as you make your way to your shared quarters, a man blocks your way. He’s an older knight, his face scarred, his breath stinking of ale.

“Now what’s a pretty thing like you doing in a place like this?” he slurs, leaning in too close.

You step back in disgust. “I am a healer, here to tend to the wounded. Nothing more.”

The man chuckles, his eyes roaming over your body. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll be doing plenty more. A pretty girl like you… I’m sure the men will find other uses for you.”

You feel sick to your stomach at his words. “I’d rather be eaten by sharks than entertain men like you.”

The man’s smile fades, “You ought to watch your tongue, girl. Do not forget your place.”

“Trust me,” you say loud enough for the surrounding men to hear, “I know my place. It is not in your bed, and certainly not besides a man who reeks like a wet dog.”

You can hear the laughter from the other men around, and the knight’s face flushes with embarrassment. You ignore his presence and go inside your shared quarters.

Lysa claps you on the shoulder when you reach her, smiling widely. “That was brilliant,” she says. “You put that dog in his place.”

You shrug, “I just hope he takes the hint.”

Unfortunately, the old knight doesn’t. Later that night, while you’re asleep, you hear footsteps in the darkness. Before you can react, a rough hand covers your mouth. Your heart pounds in your chest as you struggle to break free, kicking around as hard as you could.

But before the man can do anything more, he’s pulled away from you, and you hear a familiar voice. “Get your filthy hands off her, or I will slice your throat myself.”

The man growls, but Lysa doesn’t back down, she presses the knife to his neck and slightly cuts it.

“You’ve got some nerve,” Lysa whispers, standing over him. “Try something like that again, and I’ll throw you overboard.”

The knight, humiliated and angry, mutters something under his breath before retreating back into the shadows.

“Are you all right?” she asks, turning to you.

You nod shakily, your heart still racing. “Thanks to you.”

She sits down beside you, her expression softening. “Us women have to stick together out here. There aren’t many people you can trust on a ship like this.”

You take her hand, squeezing it. “I won’t forget it.”

The rest of the journey passes with fewer incidents, though the tension never quite leaves. You and Lysa keep a careful eye on each other, making sure that no one else tries anything again. When the ship finally reaches the Stepstones, you’re relieved to set foot on solid ground.

When you arrive at the healers’ tent, you’re greeted not by the woman you were expecting but by an old maester. He introduces himself as Maester Aegred, and though he is kind, you could see the surprise in his eyes the moment he saw you.

“You’re the healer?” he asks, raising his brow slightly.

“I am,” you reply, straightening your back, “Lady Caswell, sent by my family to serve here.”

Maester Aegred nods slowly, though he seems uncertain. “You’re one of the only women in this camp, I’m afraid. It will not be easy for you.”

“I’m not here because I thought it would be easy,” you say firmly. “I’m here because I want to help.”

The maester gives you a small approving nod. “Very well. Welcome to the Stepstones, Lady Caswell.”

He gives hands you a basket filled with herbs and bandages. “You’ll be starting with the fevered men,” he says, “Boil these herbs for teas, and keep their wounds clean. Watch for signs of infection.”

You get to work without hesitation, the first man you attend looks barely conscious, his face wet with sweat. You dip a cloth into cool water, before placing it gently on his forehead.

“There now,” you whisper, “Rest easy. I’m here to help.”

You prepare the herbal tea as the maester instructed, bringing the it to his lips. He barely sips it, but you’re persistent, bringing him to drink more. His skin is hot to the touch, and you pray the fever will break soon.

As you continue tending to the soldiers, the hours pass by. There’s little time for anything else besides cleaning wounds, applying creams, and offering them tea.

Days pass like this—hard work from dawn until dusk. You grow more accustomed to the sight of blood. Your hands become more skilled.

One afternoon, after days of dealing with nothing but fever and infection, you’re called to tend to a knight who’s been brought in from the front lines. His armor is dented, and his face is pale beneath a layer of blood. His men carry him into the maester’s tent.

“Bring water!” the maestro yells at one of the younger healers before turning to you. “Caswell, I need you over here!”

You rush to his side and assess the knight’s condition. His leg is badly wounded, a deep cut through the muscle. Blood keeps coming through the wrapped bandage.

“I’ll need to clean this and stitch it closed,” you say. The sight of such a severe injury would have once made your stomach turn, but now, you see only the work that needs to be done.

The knight’s eyes flutter open as you begin to work, and he lets out a low groan of pain.

“You’re… the healer?” he rasps, his voice rough from pain and exhaustion.

“Yes,” you reply, your voice calm as you clean the wound. “Stay still, and I’ll cure this soon.”

He’s in pain but does his best to remain still. “Not what I expected,” he murmurs, a hint of amusement in his tone despite the situation.

“And what were you expecting?” you ask, keeping your focus on his leg.

“An ugly old maester with cold hands,” he says gritting his teeth. “Not… someone like you.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” you say in amusement.

He lets out a weak laugh before groaning in pain. “I’m not disappointed… just surprised.”

“You’re lucky to still be alive,” you say as you finish cleaning the wound. “The cut was deep. If you hadn’t been brought in when you were…”

The knight nods weakly. “Thank you… for saving my life.”

“I haven’t saved it yet,” you reply, threading your needle. “This will hurt, but it needs to be done.”

He grits his teeth and nods again, preparing himself for the pain. You work as quickly as you can, stitching the wound closed. Despite his discomfort, the knight bears, only grunting occasionally.

Once you finish, you sit back, wiping the sweat off your face. “There you go. It should heal well if you keep off it and give it time.”

The knight exhales, “Thank you… Lady—?”

“Caswell,” you say simply, not offering your full name. There’s no need for it here.

His brow lifts as if trying to place your family name, and you see the moment he realizes that your house is one of little significance. “Ah,” he says simply, “a Reach girl, then. Far from home.”

“I go where I’m needed,” you reply “as do most of us who serve.” You pause before you realize that you still don’t know his name. “And you are?”

“Ser Gwayne Hightower,” he says, giving you a small smile. “Of Oldtown.”

You pause at the name. You’ve heard of him before, of course—who hasn’t? The eldest son of Otto Hightower, the hand of the King.

You nod, standing up to gather your supplies. “Rest, Ser Gwayne. You’ll need your strength.”

As you turn to leave, he calls after you. “Lady Caswell?”

You pause, turning around. “Yes?”

“Will I… see you again?”

You can’t help but slightly smile at the question. “Only if you’re foolish enough to get yourself injured again.”

With that, you leave the tent, though his words linger in your mind.

The days pass on, and Ser Gwayne Hightower stays in the maester’s tent, recovering from his wounds. Despite the chaos and demands of the camp, you find yourself drawn to him more often than you’d expected. Every time you pass his bed to check on other patients, his eyes follow you. Sometimes, he even offers a tired smile.

You tell yourself it’s nothing. Just another soldier in need of care. But there’s something about him that keeps him in your mind.

One morning, as you tend to another patient, you hear his familiar voice call out from across the tent. "Lady Caswell!"

You sigh, trying to focus on the soldier’s arm, but Ser Gwayne does not give up.

“Lady Caswell,” he says again, this time louder, "I am dying of boredom over here. Come and put me out of my misery."

You finish your task, shaking your head, but you can’t help but smile. This has become routine, Ser Gwayne calling for you whenever you pass by, always with some comment or complaint. You try not to encourage him, but the man is relentless.

As you approach his bed, you find him sitting up on the bed, looking far better than he did when he first arrived. The color has returned to his face, and his leg, still bandaged, seems to be healing well.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” you ask, crossing your arms as you look down at him.

He shrugs. “Resting is boring. I’ve been staring at the ceiling for days now. I think I’m going mad.”

“And what would you have me do about it?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

“Talk to me,” he replies, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You’re the only one in this place with anything interesting to say.”

You roll your eyes, but the truth is, you like speaking with him. “And what exactly do you think is so interesting about me?”

He leans back against his pillow, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “For one, you’re the only woman I’ve met who’d rather patch up wounds than sit in some lord’s castle or pray to the gods.”

You tilt your head slightly, furrowing your eyebrows. “Is that your way of saying I’m strange?”

His smile widens. “Strange? No. Unusual, perhaps. A good kind of unusual.”

You suppress a laugh. Despite his status, he doesn’t seem to carry the same arrogance as some of the other knights you’ve tended. Still, you remind yourself why you’re here. You’re a healer, not some maiden looking for a knight’s attention.

“Well,” you say, “I’m here to heal wounds, not provide entertainment. If you’re well enough to chat, perhaps you should be focusing on getting better so you can leave the tent.”

“Leave?” Gwayne looks offended. “And abandon the finest healer in all the Seven Kingdoms? Never.”

You smirk. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Ser Gwayne.”

He chuckles but falls silent as you reach for the bandages around his leg. Carefully, you peel the cloth to examine the stitches. The wound looks clean—no signs of infection, and the stitches are holding well.

“You’ve been keeping your leg high, I hope?” you ask, meeting his gaze.

Gwayne nods, “Mostly.”

“Mostly?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugs, “A man can’t lie around forever. I’ve been getting up—only for a short walk around the tent, of course.”

You sigh, “You’ll undo all my hard work if you push yourself too soon.”

“Aye, but how else am I to win your favor?” he teases.

You shake your head, standing up. “You’d better focus on getting well before you concern yourself with winning anything.”

As you turn to leave, he calls after you again, this time more serious. “My lady.”

You pause but don’t turn around. “Yes?”

His voice is softer this time. “Thank you. Truly.”

You nod once before continuing on your way, trying to push the thought of him from your mind. You don’t have time for distractions, not with so many lives depending on you.

Over the next few days, Ser Gwayne’s persistence doesn’t fade. Every time you pass his bed, he finds some excuse to speak with you, to ask you how your day is. You try to remain professional, to keep your distance, but it becomes harder and harder to ignore the way his presence makes your heart skip a beat, even if only for a moment.

One evening, you find yourself alone for the first time in what feels like weeks. You’re sitting outside the maester’s tent, the cool breeze making you feel relieved at least for a moment. For a second, you allow yourself to close your eyes and breathe.

But, as if summoned by your thoughts, Gwayne appears, limping slightly as he approaches. “Lady Caswell,” he greets you.

You open your eyes and look up at him, surprised to see him outside of the tent. “You shouldn’t be walking,” you say.

He lowers himself onto the ground beside you, groaning as he does. “I needed some air,” he says quietly. “And I think you could use some company.”

You sit beside Ser Gwayne in the quiet of the night.

“You know,” Gwayne begins, his voice soft, “this is the longest conversation I’ve had in a while that didn’t revolve around injuries or strategy.”

You chuckle lightly. “I can imagine. It’s not easy finding moments of peace in a place like this.”

Gwayne nods. “I’ve been thinking about what you said before. About how you came here to make a difference.”

“Yeah?” you reply, looking at him.

Gwayne meets your eyes, “You’re doing more than most of us, you know. You’re saving lives, giving hope.”

You blush slightly, “It’s not always easy. Sometimes I wonder if I’m making any real difference.”

“You are,” he insists, reaching out to gently touch your hand. “I see it. I’ve seen the way you care for everyone, how you give everything you have.”

You feel a shiver at his touch, the warmth of his hand against yours.

Gwayne leans closer, his eyes searching yours. “I know this isn’t the place for… this,” he says softly, “but I needed to tell you how much I admire what you’re doing. And how much I appreciate you.”

Before you can say more, he gently closes the distance between you, pressing his lips to yours. You respond, feeling the passion and longing in the moment.

But as the kiss deepens, a wave of realization hits you. This isn’t the time, and it’s certainly not the place for such feelings to complicate matters. You pull back gently, your breath quick.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, standing up. “We shouldn’t… We’re both here for important reasons, and this—” you gesture between you, “—isn’t right.”

Gwayne looks at you with understanding, his expression a mix of regret and affection. “I understand,” he says quietly. “It was a mistake.”

“No,” you correct him, “not a mistake. Just not the right time. We both have too much to focus on right now.”

He nods, his eyes filled with warmth and a touch of sadness. “Goodnight, Lady Caswell.”

“Goodnight, Ser Gwayne,” you reply, offering him a soft smile before turning away.

As you walk back to your tent, your mind is a whirl of emotions. The kiss was a moment of connection, but the reality of your situation settles in. You need to stay focused on your duties and not let personal feelings distract you from the important work ahead.

The next morning you found Lysa outside the tent, sitting on a barrel.

“You know,” she said as you sat down besides her, “I’ve seen the way that knight looks at you.”

You sigh, not in the mood for this conversation. “He’s recovering, Lysa. His mind is clouded with fever and pain. He probably doesn’t even know what he’s saying.”

Lysa chuckled, shaking her head. “No, his fever broke days ago. Trust me, that man knows exactly what he’s saying.”

You glance at her. “It’s nothing.”

“Is it?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “I see the way you talk to him. You like him.”

You roll your eyes, “Lysa, I didn’t come here for this.”

“Maybe not,” she said, leaning back, her gaze shifting to the distant horizon, “but sometimes life gives you things you didn’t expect.”

You and Lysa were still talking near the tent when the distant thud of footsteps reached your ears. The sound wasn’t normal. It was too loud, too fast. Then, the shouting started.

“Attack!” someone yelled from the other side of the camp.

Soldiers were rushing to grab their weapons as a group of enemy soldiers burst through the camp, moving with terrifying speed.

You turned to Lysa. “We need to get the wounded out of here, now!”

Together, you rushed into the tent where the injured men lay, Ser Gwayne among them. He was awake but clearly in no condition to fight.

“What’s happening?” Ser Gwayne asked, struggling to sit up.

“The camp is under attack,” you replied quickly, moving to help another soldier out of his bed. “We need to move everyone before the raiders get here.”

Ser Gwayne tried to get up, but his leg gave out, and he collapsed back onto the bed. You hurried over to him, “You’re coming with us. No fighting.”

He frowned but didn’t argue.

More healthy soldiers rushed into the tent, and together, you began lifting the wounded onto a cart that had been brought to the entrance. You worked quickly, heart pounding, as the sounds of the attack grew closer.

One of the soldiers, helped you carry Ser Gwayne onto the back of the cart. “Let’s get them out of here!” he shouted.

The man climbed onto the driver’s seat, grabbing the reins of the horses. You and Lysa jumped up on the cart sitting with the wounded.

The horses raced forward, pulling the cart through the camp. You could see the flames now, the camp had been set on fire.

The wounded moaned and shifted with every bump, but there was no time to stop.

“We’re almost there,” the man muttered, his eyes scanning the horizon. You could see the cliffs that bordered the camp, and just beneath them, the mouth of the cave you had mentioned earlier.

The cave was deep enough to hide in, and for now, it was your only chance of getting everyone to safety.

As you neared the entrance, one of the soldiers riding beside the cart let out a sharp scream. You turned to see him clutching his side, an arrow protruding from between his ribs. He fell off his horse, but you couldn’t stop.

“No!” Lysa screamed in disbelief.

“We need to hurry!” you yelled, gripping the edge of the cart.

With a final burst of speed, the cart entered the cave’s mouth.

“We made it,” Lysa breathed, her voice trembling with relief.

You jumped down from the cart to help unload the wounded. The soldiers who had made it into the cave with you began pulling the injured men off the cart, laying them down on the cool stone floor. Ser Gwayne was the last one off, his face pale.

“Thank you,” he said quietly as you helped him to his feet.

“You can thank me when we’re safe,” you replied. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of fighting in the camp, but for now, the cave was safe.

“We need to stay quiet,” Lysa whispered, moving to stand beside you. “If they find us here…”

“They won’t,” you said. You turned to Ser Gwayne, who was leaning against the cave wall. “How’s your leg?”

“I’ll manage,” he replied through gritted teeth. “But what now?”

You looked around the cave, your mind racing.

“We wait,” you said after a moment. “Just long enough for the fighting to stop. Then we move again.” See Gwayne nodded, although you could tell he wasn’t convinced.

The wounded soldiers groaned softly as they tried to make themselves comfortable on the rocky floor. Lysa sat beside one of them, her face tight with worry as she tended to their wounds.

The night dragged on, and the once distant sounds of battle now sounded closer every moment. You and Ser Gwayne sat at the back of the cave, listening to the clashing steel and the cries of men in the distance.

You stared up through the small opening at the top of the cave’s ceiling, where you could perfectly see the moon high in the sky. You glanced at Gwayne, who was leaning against the wall, his face pale and tense as he listened to the battle. His leg was stretched out in front of him, still causing him pain despite the bandages. Every now and then, you saw his hand twitch toward his sword, as though he were ready to fight again despite his injuries.

"They're not going to stop," you said softly, breaking the silence.

Gwayne looked at you, "No, they won't."

The battle was drawing closer. You had been hiding for hours, and the hope that the fighting would stop had vanished. Even if you went back, the camp would likely be destroyed, the supplies either burned or taken. There would be no help, no rescue.

"We might not make it through the night," you whispered.

Gwayne's gaze softened. He reached out and took your hand, squeezing it gently. "We might not," he agreed, his voice quiet.

“You ever think about how strange it all is?” Gwayne whispered after a moment. “One minute you’re fighting for your life, the next you’re here… staring at the moon.”

You smiled. “It is strange. But I suppose that’s life. Never quite what you expect.”

He laughed softly at that. “You’re far too calm about all of this. Most people would be panicking out of their minds.”

“Trust me, I’m frightened,” you admitted, meeting his gaze. “I just hide it well.”

He reached out, his hand brushing against yours, the touch sent a shiver down your spine, and you found yourself shifting closer to him.

“You’re something else,” he said softly, his voice low. There was an edge to his tone, something raw and unguarded.

You felt your pulse quicken. “Is that a compliment, Ser Gwayne?”

“It might be,” he replied, a teasing glint

You looked down at your joined hands. "I never thought it would end like this," you murmured, "In a cave, with nothing left but a few wounded men and no chance to save them."

Gwayne’s grip tightened. "It's not the end yet," he said, "But if it is…"

You took a deep breath, "If this is it… if this is the last night…" You said with a shaky voice, but you forced yourself to meet his eyes. "I don't want to spend it in fear."

Gwayne looked at you, he gave you a small chuckle. "You know… I've thought about that too. If we're going to die, why waste the time we have left in misery?"

You look at him, your gaze fixated on his lips "Then let's not."

Gwayne's eyes searched yours, and then, without another word, he pulled you toward him.

His lips met yours in a kiss that was both desperate and tender, filled with a need that went beyond mere desire.

He pulled you closer with his good hand. The kiss deepened, growing more desperate. You pressed yourself against him, your heart racing as his lips moved down pressing soft kisses against your neck.

He looked back up to you, “My leg’s no good for much, but I’m not about to let that stop us,” he whispered.

You smiled, “Then let me take over.”

Gently, you guided him down to the ground on his back, careful of his injured leg. He watched you with desperate eyes as you sat on top him, adjusting yourself carefully so as not to cause him pain. His hands instinctively slid to your hips, his touch firm but gentle.

Your hands rested on his chest, you could feel his heartbeat racing, matching the wild rhythm of your own. You leaned in close, pressing your lips to his with a tenderness that contrasted with the fierce urgency you both felt.

You broke the kiss for just a moment, sitting up to pull your shirt over your head. His eyes roamed over you with raw hunger, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing across your sensitive nipples.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, leaning up to press his lips against your collarbone, kissing his way down.

You gasped softly as his lips found a tender spot on your neck. Your hands moved to undo the ties at your waist, slipping out of your pants, leaving you completely bare before him.

With his help, you shifted slightly to tug his trousers down. He was already hard, his length pressing eagerly against your thigh as you settled back atop him. The tension between you both was almost unbearable as you pulled yourself up, the tip of him brushing against your wet entrance.

He groaned softly as you lowered your body and began to roll your hips against him. His hands gripped your waist tighter, helping to guide you as you moved.

“Does it hurt?” you whispered breathlessly.

He shook his head as he looked up at you. “No… it feels good. Don’t stop.”

“You’re perfect,” he breathed, his voice filled

with pleasure. He tilted his head up, capturing your lips in a kiss. Your bodies moved in sync, the sound of your panting breaths and the sounds of your bodies clashing filled the cave.

Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging gently as you kissed him harder, your hips rolling harder. You could feel yourself nearing your climax.

“Gwayne…” you gasped his name, breaking the kiss.

He groaned again, his eyes locked on yours as he thrust up into you with what strength he had,“I’m right here,” he whispered, his voice low.

That was all it took for you to come. Your body trembled as you reached your peak, your head falling back. You felt Gwayne follow moments later, his grip on you tightening as he came too, his body trembling beneath yours as he filled you.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, your breaths in uneven gasps. You collapsed against his chest, your bodies still connected.

His hands moved lazily up and down your back, a gentle, reassuring touch. You lifted your head, pressing a soft kiss to his jawline.

“That… was worth it,” Gwayne murmured, his lips quirking into a tired but satisfied smile.

You chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “I think so too.”

“I think I can die at peace now.” Gwayne sighed gazing at the moon.

“I think so too.” you nodded smiling at him.

Pt.2???

[mrsdarkandyandere7]

(Dark!) Robb Stark as a husband

Pairing: Dark Robb Stark x (female) Reader

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

SCENARIO: How Robb Stark is as a husband.

WARNINGS: Toxic Marriage.

Please, reblog and give me feedback.

A little treat cause tomorrow college starts and I'm nervous :) hope you guys like it.

--

Robb married you for duty but he fell for you in the most passionable way there is.  

How smithen he is by you soon becomes obvious, not just by you but even to his family. His siblings taking great pleasure in teasing him for being so whipped for you already. 

It’s endearing to have such a handsome, kind spouse and you couldn’t be any happier, thanking the gods for granting you such a fortunate destiny, one that not many women receive.

Not only did you receive a wonderful husband but also supportive in-laws.

Life is nice. 

A good husband, a caring family, you have food in your belly and a warm castle to live in. What else could you possibly ask for?

Each day you fell deeper for Robb, your heart content with the love that quickly blossomed between you two.

Maybe that’s why you remained blind for so long. 

Robb's devotion quickly becomes overbearing, completely enraptured by you. Your love for him doesn’t allow you to see it clearly but there are few instances that leave a bitter memory. 

Like when Theon hugged you out of contentment. It was a brotherly gesture, no lust behind it yet it didn’t stop Robb from landing his fist in the poor man’s face. The guilt you felt as Theon’s eye bruised into a black eye in the following days had eaten you away.

Peace was soon restored, Eddard Stark would never allow the boys to remain upset with each other, but it bothered you that a simple touch could arise such an angry reaction from your gentle husband.

You remember it when you had difficulty adjusting to the freezing winter and the constant snow, you asked Robb if you could visit your parents. Only for a few days, you assured him. 

You felt homesick so seeing your family and the warm weather from your hometown would definitely cheer you. Your wishes were left unattended, an apologetic kiss being pressed to your temple as innumerous apologies come out of his lips.

He couldn’t leave Winterfell at the time being.

His family needed him.

He had too many responsibilities at that time.

Robb promised you that he would take you there one day but that’s a promise that never came to fruition.

The mantle of ignorance slowly starts to disappear as the months drag by, the realization that Robb wasn’t nearly as perfect as you painted him to be. 

Constantly hovering by your side, keeping an attentive eye on who you talk to, restraining the places you’re allowed to go. The lack of privacy and power gradually bothers you more and more, feeling yourself getting smothered by your husband’s protectiveness. 

His family notices it, his protective behavior. But all of their reasonings and pleas fall under deaf ears. 

Robb doesn’t listen to them.

He does what’s best for you, without needing the meddling of his parents. He knows what’s best for your marriage, not them. 

And right now, Robb thinks what it needs is something to reignite the flame of love between you, just like it was when you married him, less than a year ago.

He does need an heir, after all.

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

.⋆｡Of The Wilds｡⋆.

Robb Stark x plus size reader

Robb forgets his roots, his wife guides him back

Warnings: Robb lives au, fluff, smut but not greatly described, mention of war and arranged marriage, public sex WC: 1.3k

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

The change in the air was thick, like a blanket of fog settling over Winterfell. And with it came the responsibility of winter. Robb had seen his father bear this burden and now it was his to carry. Stoke up the stores of dried meats from the autumn hunts, ensure the battlements were armed, the townsfolk had adequate wood for their hearths, and make sure that what remained of his family would be warm and fed for what he was expecting to be the longest winter the North had experienced since his forefathers. At least he would not have to journey to what remained of the wall.

He constantly questioned if he was doing things correctly, if he was doing enough. The cold nipped at his soul, a warning of what was to come and what would happen if he failed. Jon and Sana offered their help but Robb refused. He wanted them to recover and enjoy the last freedom they would get until the snows slowed and the sun returned. 

“You’re going to work yourself to death before winter is really here.” 

“I will rest when everything is done.” He replied, earning him an indigent huff. 

“You are being stubborn, my king.” His quill stopped. He could almost feel your smirk.

“I am doing my duty, there’s a difference.” The smell of lavender invaded his senses as you curled yourself around his shoulders, as did the hint of wine upon your breath. Your soft hands delved into the cut of his shirt, seeking out the warmth of his body so shamelessly it made a longing begin to stir in his gut.

Your lips fit perfectly into the crook of his neck, kissing softly at the small scar right by his pulse. “What about your duty as a husband?” He suppressed a shiver when your touch travelled lower.

“I would say that I fulfilled that this morning.” Your nails dug into his stomach and Robb couldn’t help but release a groan. You smiled against his skin, pressing your soft body as close as you could to your husband’s back.

“That was yesterday my love, dawn will break soon. You need to get out of this room, for my sake at least.” You pulled back, keeping contact with his skin until the tips of your fingers rested at the nape of his neck. Suddenly, the chill of the room seemed much colder. Robb finally turned to face you.

The horizon was lined with a pale pink, illuminating your figure just so that he could see the outline of your curves through your night dress. Your eyes were bleary with exhaustion but your smile was just as bright as it had ever been. Just as it had been on your wedding day; in the mud of a field in the South, right before his army stormed King’s Landing. Something throbbed in his chest.

“Come.” You ordered, holding out a hand for him to take. He slipped from his seat and the warmth returned to his bones. The halls of Winterfell were still sleeping as you led him down past the tapestries and stones. Robb knew he should turn you down, that he still had so much left to do but the feeling of your hand in his, the way that you moved, all he wanted to do was drag you into bed and make due on his promises. 

Robb’s brows pulled together as you guided him towards the narrow staircase he knew led outside. “And where are you taking me, wife?” You just looked back at him and smiled.

It was colder at the bottom of the stairs, little flakes of snow drifted in from where the heavy wooden door had been propped open by a familiar paw. Robb could’ve scoffed as you pulled the door open the rest of the way, revealing the light grey fur of what was supposed to be his loyal companion.

“I thought I had ordered that he was to remain in the kennels at night.” Greywind’s tail thumped against the snow as you stroked the top of his great head, almost looking sheepish.

“You said that yes but you seem to forget that I am queen, and more importantly, he is a very good boy.” The direwolf stood and walked off into the snow, glancing back at you a couple times as he followed the path to the Godswood. Robb looked at you just in time to see you pull two fur cloaks from behind a wood pile.

“How long have you been planning this?” He asked, taking the offered cloak from your hand with a playful scowl. 

The fur wrapped around your shoulders, concealing your body from Robb’s hungry gaze. He shook off the snowflakes from his curls and followed suit. “How do you think I got everyone to leave you alone today?” 

“Sansa.” He answered, now acutely aware of how his little sister had been steadily stealing some of his duties for the past week. Your fingers tangled with his once more.

The dark silhouettes of the trees called to him, a wolf’s howl that he was compelled to return. And though the sky was growing lighter, there was no colour that accompanied the sun, leaving the King and Queen of the North wandering the still landscape as if in a dream. Greywind vanished between the branches and trunks, his footsteps creating a trail for them to follow. 

Robb was grateful that his wife remained silent as you walked, as much as he loved you and worshipped you, you were a symptom of what rested upon his shoulders. Your marriage, while now carved from love, was originally from duty— your father had an army and you had support. Your children would be princes and princesses, the legacy of your house would be carved into stone rather than paper.

Your touch kept him grounded, your voice the sound of reason, your smile the guiding light through the storm of politics and war. He let you pull him through the woods until the familiar sight of the Godswood revealed itself to you.

You came to a stop at the base of the great tree, where Greywind was already waiting for you both, his blue eyes observing you with a human understanding. The snow shifted as you turned to Robb. “What are we doing here so early in the morn?”

“You’ve forgotten yourself, Robb Stark. You have conquered Westeros, paved the path for a new, fair dynasty. You’ve defeated the strongest and most well-armed army that has ever existed using only your wits and your charm.” Your grip on his hand tightened and you stepped closer. Your breath fogged up between you. “You became Warden of the North, then King. You helped the right woman regain her throne while giving freedom to your people.”

Your cold hand cupped his jaw, stroking the stubble that he let grow far longer than he should’ve. “But above all of that; you are a Stark. A wolf, a man who upholds his vows. You were forged from the winter and ice yet you blaze like dragon fire for those you love and I find myself so lucky that I get to be one of those rare few. So, we are here to remind you of just who you are.”

The kiss began slowly, your lips brushing against his but when Robb grabbed your wide hip with a crushing grip heat exploded within you. His tongue licked at your bottom lip as you both sank to your knees. You planted a hand upon his shoulder, encouraging him to lay back but Robb refused to budge, instead he gently laid you down, the fur keeping the snow from freezing your body.

Your legs parted, letting your husband nestle his hips against yours. You undid the ties of his trousers with an adeptness that betrayed your desperation. “So needy my love? One might think you enjoy being taken in the snow like an animal.”

“Like a wolf.” You moaned back, letting out a gasp as he breached you. Pleasure shot up his spine. 

Robb rut into you like a dog, desperate, wild, right. It felt so raw but he couldn’t stop, he wouldn’t, because you were right. This was who he is. You pulled him closer, your lips fitting to his ear.

“My wolf.” Your cries vanished into the dawn.

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[asa-do-your-thing]

Helloo, could you do a Theon Greyjoy smut were the reader is a mermaid? Ty ♡♡

Swim to me; let me enfold you

18+ MINORS DNI Theon Greyjoy x Selkie!Reader 5.8 k Warnings: P in V sex, porn w/o plot, smut, oral sex, kind of orgasm denial? soft smut, theon's a bit of a misogynist but that was to be expected, sub theon thank you for the ask, I couldn't fall asleep so I had to write this, I hope you like it <3 oh and I might've gone overboard with the sea alliterations. whoops!

Leaning against an old oak, Theon shivered and took another sip of his mead, staring off into the distant darkness on Bear Island. Lord Stark had something private to discuss with Lady Maege Mormont, leaving him to his own devices. Robb, ever the good heir, had decided to go to bed early and the Mormont ladies - if one could even call them thusly - had fun with their friends.

Sighing, he slowly walked closer to the sea, watching the dark waves crashing and gurgling menacingly against the slick, black stones of the shoreline.

The sea… Something he used to see on a daily basis but now was as strange to him as the concept of being close to Mother, talking to Asha, being on Pyke.

He kicked a small stone into the dark waters and turned, cursing Lord Stark for choosing to come to this desolate place. Why couldn't they have gone to White Harbour? There, he could have his pick of whores without any worries. But here, he had to be careful not to get picked up by one of the women and dragged into their makeshift huts.

"What a pretty boy," one had said with a wide grin and strong arms, eyeing Theon up and down at the feast. "His hair looks so soft, and I'm sure he moans just as softly."

Theon shuddered at the memory, quickly draining the last of his mead to wash away the taste of disgust that lingered in his mouth. The empty horn dangled from his fingers as he cast one last glance at the churning sea, its inky blackness now seeming to mirror the void in his chest. With a resigned sigh, he turned and made his way back to the Mormont's hall, his footsteps muffled by the damp moss beneath his feet.

The hall was mercifully quiet as he slipped inside, the earlier revelry having died down to a low murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of cups. Theon's eyes darted around, searching for any sign of the she-bears that had made him so uncomfortable earlier. Seeing none, he quickly made his way to the large oak barrel in the corner, filling his horn with fresh, golden mead that glowed warmly in the flickering firelight.

Clutching his prize, Theon hurried back outside, the cool night air a welcome respite from the stuffy interior. He paused for a moment, allowing his eyes to readjust to the darkness, before making his way back towards his earlier perch by the old oak tree. As he approached, however, he noticed a slender silhouette standing where he had been just moments before.

Drawing closer, Theon's breath caught in his throat. There, bathed in the soft silver light of the moon, stood a young woman. Her long, slick hair looked strangely damp and her skin had the same light colour as her strange cloak. Squinting, Theon could make out that it was a sealskin - what was this girl doing here with a skagosi coat?

“If I knew you would return I would have asked for a horn as well,” she whispered gently and turned around, giving Theon a small, shy smile. “I’ve never seen such a man as yourself here.”

With an overexaggerated bow, Theon offered her his horn. Gods, she was stunning - Theon did not know if he had ever seen a woman with such a natural beauty as her, even if she looked as if she just came out of a bout of rain, her plain dress clinging to her. “Take it, my Lady. I can always just get myself a second one.”

Studying her closer, he raised an eyebrow and leaned against the tree once more, his arm above her. He had not seen her during the feast, yet she looked far too gentle, too soft to be a servant or a fisherman’s wife, not to mention being a warrior. “So you’ve been watching me then, huh? Then how come I haven’t seen you?”

The woman's smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed to gleam unnaturally in the moonlight. She accepted the horn with a graceful nod, her fingers brushing against Theon's as she took it. A shiver ran through him at the touch - her skin was cool and slightly damp, like the mist rolling in from the sea.

"Perhaps you weren't looking in the right places," she replied, her voice as soft and alluring as the gentle lapping of waves against the shore. "I prefer to keep to the shadows, away from the noise and chaos of your feasts."

Theon found himself drawn in by her mysterious aura, unable to look away from her mesmerizing gaze. Her eyes were the color of the sea at twilight, deep and unfathomable. Whatever did she mean with ‘your feasts’? Surely such a lovely thing could not be low-born. She didn’t look like she was from Bear Island either. Was she a bastard? Maybe Jorah Mormont’s?

"And what brings a lovely girl such as yourself out here on a night like this?" Theon asked, his usual cocky grin spreading across his face. "Surely not just to admire the view? The winds are cold and the feast is almost over. Or are you waiting for someone…?"

The woman took a sip of mead, her eyes never leaving Theon's. "I come here often, to listen to the sea and feel the wind on my skin. It calls to me, you see."

She gestured towards the churning waters with her free hand, and Theon could have sworn he saw webbing between her fingers for just a moment before she lowered it again. Although… didn’t the Sistermen have that as well?

"But tonight," she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper, "I sensed something different. Something... foreign. I was right,” she said, giving him the horn back. “You are of the drowned islands, are you not? Your sharp face tells me so, ‘tis a handsome one. It would have been wrong of me not to find you tonight.”

Theon laughed and gratefully took a sip of mead to try and calm his beating heart and the hardness in his breeches. She spoke plenty strangely, surely, yet she was so beautiful and spoke so frankly, yet so sweetly… and it seemed like she was truly eager to spend time, if not even the night, with him.

His laugh faded as he studied the mysterious woman more closely. Her words stirred something deep within him, a longing for home he usually tried to bury beneath bravado and drink.

"Aye, I'm from the Iron Islands," he admitted, his voice rougher than he intended. "Though it's been many years since I've seen those shores."

The woman's eyes seemed to glimmer with an otherworldly light as she stepped closer to him. The scent of salt and seaweed clung to her, intoxicating and familiar.

"The sea never forgets her children," she murmured, reaching out to trace the line of his sharp jaw with cool fingers. "Even when they're taken far from her embrace."

Theon shivered at her touch, desire and an inexplicable sense of danger warring within him. "And what of you?" he asked, trying to regain his composure. "You're clearly not from Bear Island. Where do you call home?"

A sad smile played across her lips as she gazed out at the dark waters. "My home is everywhere and nowhere," she said softly. "Wherever the tides take me. Like… what do you call them… a salt wife, but I have no master. My mistress is the sea. "

She turned back to him, her hands searching his. Something about her made him so wild, he did not even know what it was. Her quiet confidence? Her Beauty? The mystery in her voice? "But tonight, I'm here with you, my Theon of the Iron Islands. Would you like to feel the sea's embrace once more? My hut is not like the Lord Bears’ big one, but it is warm and the sea is oh so near.”

Theon hesitated for a moment, his mind racing. This woman was unlike any he had ever encountered, and something about her both thrilled and unnerved him. But the mead coursing through his veins and the ache of loneliness in his chest pushed him forward.

"Lead the way, my mysterious lady," he said with a roguish grin, offering her his arm.

She smiled, a secret dancing in her eyes, and took his arm. As they walked along the rocky shore, Theon noticed that her feet seemed to barely touch the ground, moving with an otherworldly grace over the uneven terrain. The sound of the waves grew louder, drowning out the distant noises from the Mormont hall.

Soon, they came upon a small hut nestled among the rocks, so well-hidden that Theon would have missed it entirely if not for his guide. It was a simple structure, made of driftwood and covered in seaweed, looking as if it had grown organically from the shore itself.

The woman pushed open the door, revealing a cozy interior lit by the soft glow of thick, brown candles in jars. The scent of the sea was even stronger here, mixed with something else Theon couldn't quite place – something ancient and primal, but drink and fatigue made him careless, so as soon as she closed the door behind herself, he pressed her against it and kissed her hungrily.

He could feel her smiling against his kiss. "Welcome to my humble home," she said, her voice barely audible over the crashing waves just outside as she broke away. "Would you mind if I take my coat off first and light a fire? It would be a bit more… comfortable.”

Theon reluctantly pulled away, his breath coming in short gasps. "Of course, my lady," he said with a playful bow. "Allow me to start the fire for you. It's the least I can do for such gracious hospitality."

He moved to the small hearth, gathering driftwood and kindling from a neat pile nearby. As he worked to coax a flame to life, he couldn't resist stealing glances at the mysterious woman. She stood with her back to him, slowly unfastening her sealskin coat.

"So, tell me," Theon said, his voice husky with desire, "do you often lure handsome strangers to your hidden abode? Or am I a special case?"

The firelight danced across her pale skin as she carefully folded the coat and placed it on a nearby chair. Theon's breath caught in his throat as she began to unlace her simple dress, the fabric sliding off her shoulders to pool at her feet.

She laughed softly, a sound like waves lapping at the shore. "You are indeed special, Theon of the Iron Islands. It's not often I meet someone who understands the call of the sea as I do."

She turned to face him, now clad only in a thin shift that clung to her curves like sea foam on the shore. The flickering flames cast a warm glow on her features, softening the otherworldly quality that had first captivated him.

In this light, she looked more human, more real, yet no less beautiful.

Her long hair, no longer seeming damp, cascaded down her back in waves that rivaled the sea itself. Her eyes, which had appeared so dark and fathomless outside, now shone with a warm, amber hue that reminded Theon of the mead they just drank.

"And what of you?" she asked, turning to face him. "Do you often follow mysterious women into the night?"

Theon grinned, rising from his crouched position by the now-crackling fire. "Only the exceptionally beautiful ones," he quipped, “and ones that do not wish for my gold before they have even spoken to me.”

The girl laughed and stepped closer to him, untying his own cloak and unbuttoning his black doublet. “Gold means nothing to me.”

“Really? I think you are the first woman I’ve ever heard saying something like that,” Theon muttered, trying to keep his breathing calm as her hands came to the bottom buttons of his doublet, accidentally brushing over his hardness.

“Hm,” she muttered and looked up, giving him a grin that was as coy as his own as she slipped it off him with almost unnatural grace, before she stood before him once more, gently pushing him onto her bed so she stood over him, her chest dangerously close to his face.

“On the drowned islands they also do not talk of gold. They talk of iron, my Theon. Although… it seems like you know the hardness of it. So, in turn, for tonight, I shall wish for it to mean something to me. Do you think you can do that?”

Theon's breath hitched as he gazed up at the mysterious woman, her beauty almost otherworldly in the flickering firelight. His hands found her hips, pulling her closer as he leaned in to press his lips to her stomach through the thin fabric of her shift.

"I think I can manage that," he murmured against her skin, his voice low and husky with desire. "Though I warn you, my lady, I may ruin you for all other men."

She laughed softly, running her fingers through his hair. "Oh, my sweet Theon," she whispered, "I don't think you quite understand what you've gotten yourself into."

With surprising strength, she pushed him back onto the bed, straddling his hips in one fluid motion. Theon gasped as she ground against him, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through his body. He reached up to caress her face, but she caught his wrists, pinning them above his head.

"Tell me," she purred, her lips brushing against his ear, "do you know the old stories of the sea folk? The ones who lure unsuspecting sailors to their doom?"

Theon's heart raced, a mix of excitement and unease coursing through him. "Aye," he managed to say, his voice strained. "But those are just tales to frighten children."

She pulled back slightly, her eyes meeting his. In the dim light, they seemed to shift and change, one moment they were human and the other… bigger. Darker. Just like a seal’s. “At first the tales will scare you, then they will make you long for us, before you forget them. But, my dear Theon, we exist,” she whispered, grinning widely, her hand reaching down to untie the laces of his breeches.

“Do not fear, though… I won’t bite. Not unless you ask me to, at least,” she mumbled, pushing them down, freeing his hard member, on which she sat down with a wicked grin, rubbing her moist slit gently against him, sighing contentedly. “You are of the sea - you are sweet. I will not hurt you, no, you’re too pretty for that.”

Theon's mind reeled, torn between desire and a growing sense of unease. The woman atop him was unlike any he had ever known, her beauty both alluring and terrifying. As she moved against him, he felt as if he were being pulled into the depths of the sea itself, helpless against the tide of pleasure threatening to overwhelm him.

"What... what are you?" he gasped, his hips involuntarily bucking upwards, seeking more contact, seeking to enter her, yet he was under her, he was trapped.

She leaned down, her lips brushing against his as she spoke. "I am the foam on the waves, the salt in the air, the call of the deep that echoes in your blood," she whispered. "I am what your people call a selkie."

With nimble fingers, the selkie tugged at Theon's breeches, sliding them down his legs and tossing them aside. Her eyes roamed over his body, drinking in every detail as if committing him to memory. Theon shivered, feeling exposed and vulnerable under her intense gaze.

"Beautiful," she murmured, her voice like the whisper of waves on sand. "You are a true son of the sea."

She rose gracefully, her movements fluid and hypnotic. Slowly, deliberately, she pulled her shift over her head, revealing skin as pale and smooth as polished seashells. Moonlight from the small window danced across her curves, casting her in an otherworldly glow.

Theon's breath caught in his throat as she crawled between his legs, her hair cascading around her shoulders like a waterfall of dark silk. Her cool fingers wrapped around his shaft, stroking him with a touch both gentle and confident. He gasped, his hips lifting involuntarily off the bed.

"So responsive," she purred, her eyes gleaming with approval. "Your body remembers the sea's embrace, even if your mind has forgotten."

Her thumb circled the tip of his manhood, spreading the moisture gathered there. Theon moaned, torn between the pleasure of her touch and the lingering fear of the unknown. The selkie continued her ministrations, alternating between long, languid strokes and quick, teasing caresses.

"You're even more desperate than I am,” she muttered, glancing up at him before slowly, almost shyly, licking a stripe over his cock, taking it carefully in her wonderfully soft, warm mouth.

Theon gasped as her mouth enveloped him, warm and wet like the sea itself. His fingers tangled in her hair, silky strands slipping through his grasp like water. The selkie's tongue swirled around his length, teasing and exploring with an expertise that left him breathless.

"Gods," he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow. The pleasure was intense, almost overwhelming, yet there was something else - a strange tingling sensation that spread from where her lips met his skin, flowing through his veins like the tide.

She hummed in response, the vibrations sending shocks of pleasure up his spine. Her hands caressed his thighs, nails lightly scraping against his skin. Theon's hips bucked involuntarily, driving himself deeper into her mouth.

The selkie pulled back slightly, releasing him with a soft pop. Her eyes, dark and fathomless as the deep sea, met his. "Patience, my iron prince," she murmured, her voice husky with desire. "The night is young, and I wish to see if you understand."

She crawled up his body, her skin cool and slightly damp against his. Theon reached for her, pulling her close and capturing her lips in a passionate kiss. He could taste salt on her tongue, along with his own musk.

As they kissed, she laid down next to him, evidently waiting for his next move. But what was he he to do with a girl, a woman, a being like her? Whores usually quickly satified his needs but with her… he just couldn’t bring himself to use her in such a way.

Theon hesitated, his hands hovering uncertainly over the selkie's body. She was unlike any woman he had ever been with, and he found himself at a loss. Her otherworldly beauty and mysterious nature both thrilled and intimidated him.

"What's wrong, my iron prince?" she asked, her voice a soft whisper that seemed to caress his skin. "Are you not used to a woman who knows what she wants?"

Theon swallowed hard, his pride stung by her words. "I... I've been with plenty of women," he said, trying to sound confident. "But you're different. I don't know what you want from me."

The selkie's laugh was like the tinkling of sea glass in the surf. She took his hand in hers, guiding it to her breast. Her skin was cool and smooth, like polished stone worn by the sea.

"I want you to touch me," she murmured, her eyes locked on his. "I want you to explore me as if I were uncharted waters. Can you do that, Theon of the Iron Islands?"

Her words ignited something within him, a mixture of desire and curiosity that overwhelmed his hesitation. Slowly, reverently, he began to caress her body, marveling at the way her skin seemed to shimmer in the dim light.

His fingers traced the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist, the swell of her breast. She sighed contentedly, smilig into the dimness of the hut. “More, Theon, I will not break… Show me your strength…,” she whispered.

Emboldened by her words, Theon's touch became more confident. He cupped her breast, feeling the weight of it in his palm, his thumb brushing over her nipple. The selkie arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping her lips.

Theon leaned in, pressing his lips to the curve of her neck. He could taste salt on her skin, reminding him of sea spray on a windy day. His kisses trailed lower, across her collarbone and down to her breast. He took her nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the hardened peak.

The selkie's fingers tangled in his hair, holding him close. "Yes," she breathed, her voice husky with desire. "Just like that."

Encouraged by her response, Theon's hand slid lower, tracing the curve of her hip and thigh. He hesitated for a moment before dipping between her legs, finding her already slick with desire. The selkie gasped as he explored her folds, her hips rolling against his hand.

"You're so wet," Theon murmured against her skin, his fingers circling her most sensitive spot.

"I am of the sea," she reminded him, her voice breathy. "Always ready to embrace those who seek me."

Theon groaned at her words, his own desire mounting. He kissed his way down her body, pausing to nip at the soft skin of her inner thigh, before he parted her soft curls with his fingers, settling between her thighs just as she had done before.

Her scent - gods - he had not even fully tasted her, yet he did not wish to part with her already, his tongue slowly touching her cunny.

The selkie gasped as Theon's tongue made contact with her most intimate place. Her fingers tightened in his hair, urging him closer. Theon obliged, his tongue exploring her folds with growing enthusiasm.

She tasted of the sea - salt and brine mingled with her own unique flavor. It was intoxicating, and Theon found himself lost in the act, his world narrowing to the sound of her soft moans and the feel of her beneath his lips and tongue.

His hands gripped her thighs, holding her steady as he worked. He traced patterns with his tongue, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on her most sensitive spots. The selkie's hips rolled against his face.

"Oh, Theon," she breathed, her voice thick with pleasure. "You truly are a son of the sea. You know just how to please me."

Her words sent a thrill through him, spurring him on. He redoubled his efforts, sucking gently on her pearl while his fingers teased her entrance. The selkie cried out, her back arching off the bed.

Theon could feel her trembling beneath him, teetering on the edge of release. He quickly sat up, kissing her like a starved man, before pushing himself into her.

The selkie's eyes flashed with a mixture of pleasure and frustration as Theon entered her. In one fluid motion, she hooked her leg around his waist and flipped him onto his back, pinning him beneath her with surprising strength.

"Tsk, tsk," she chided, her voice a low, dangerous purr. "So eager, my iron prince. Did you forget that the sea demands patience?"

Theon gasped, overwhelmed by the sensation of being sheathed within her. Her inner walls pulsed around him, cool and slick like the embrace of the tide. He tried to thrust upward, seeking more friction, but the selkie held him firmly in place.

"I... I'm sorry," he managed to stammer, his hands instinctively moving to her hips.

The selkie caught his wrists, pinning them above his head with surprising strength. "Oh, you will be," she whispered, a wicked gleam in her eye. "The sea is patient, Theon of the Iron Islands. And so am I."

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she began to move. Her hips rolled in a hypnotic rhythm, rising and falling like the swell of waves. Theon groaned, his hands grasping at her hips, trying to urge her to move faster. But the selkie was unyielding, setting her own pace.

She rode him with the patience of the eternal sea, each movement precise and deliberate. Her skin gleamed with a faint, otherworldly luminescence in the dim light, like moonlight on water. Theon watched, mesmerized, as droplets of moisture beaded on her skin, rolling down her body like rivulets of seawater. He longed to taste them, to run his tongue along the curves of her body, but she kept him pinned beneath her, at her mercy.

"Please," Theon gasped, his voice hoarse with need. "I need... I need..."

The selkie smiled, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "What do you need, my iron prince? Tell me."

"More," he groaned. "Faster. I need to feel you."

She leaned down, her lips brushing against his ear. "The sea gives and takes as she pleases," she whispered. "And tonight, I am the sea."

With those words, she began to move faster, her hips undulating in a rhythm that matched the crashing waves outside. Theon moaned, lost in the sensation of her around him, the cool silk of her skin against his, the intoxicating scent of salt and sex that filled the air.

The selkie's movements grew more frenzied, her breath coming in short gasps. She released Theon's wrists, bracing herself against his chest as she rode him. Freed from her grip, Theon's hands roamed her body, caressing her breasts, her hips, her thighs.

"Yes," she hissed, her head thrown back in ecstasy. "Touch me, Theon."

Theon's hands roamed the selkie's body feverishly, tracing the curves and dips of her otherworldly form. Her skin seemed to ripple beneath his touch, as if tiny waves were coursing just beneath the surface. He could feel the power of the sea thrumming through her, wild and untamed.

The selkie's movements grew more frenzied, her hips rolling and crashing against his like storm-tossed waves. Theon felt himself being pulled under, drowning in sensation. His entire world narrowed to the feel of her around him, the salt-sweet taste of her skin, the sound of her gasps and moans mingling with the distant roar of the sea.

He was close, so close. The pressure built within him like a tide ready to break. His fingers dug into her hips, pulling her down harder onto him. The selkie's inner walls clenched around him, pulsing with a rhythm that seemed to match the beating of his heart.

"Oh gods," Theon groaned, his back arching off the bed. "I'm going to-"

Suddenly, the selkie stilled. In one fluid motion, she lifted herself off him, leaving Theon gasping and desperate. He reached for her, but she evaded his grasp with a teasing smile, instead laying down on her stomach with a wicked little smile.

"Now you know what it feels like," she purred, her voice low and husky. "I am not done and neither are you."

Theon groaned in frustration, his body aching with unfulfilled desire. The selkie's eyes glimmered with mischief as she looked back at him over her shoulder, her hair cascading down her back like dark seaweed.

"Come, my iron prince," she cooed, arching her back invitingly, wiggling her full buttocks. "Show me the strength of the storm."

Theon didn't need to be told twice. He moved behind her, his hands caressing the smooth curve of her hips. The selkie sighed contentedly as he positioned himself, teasing her entrance with the tip of his manhood.

"Don't make me wait," she breathed, pushing back against him.

With a low growl, Theon thrust into her, burying himself to the hilt. The selkie cried out in pleasure, her fingers gripping the furs beneath them. Theon set a punishing pace, driven by his earlier denied release and the intoxicating power of the creature beneath him.

The sound of flesh meeting flesh mingled with their gasps and moans, creating a primal rhythm that seemed to echo the crashing waves outside. Theon's hands roamed her body, caressing her breasts, her stomach, her thighs. Every touch sent sparks of pleasure through him, as if her very skin conducted the raw energy of the sea.

The selkie met him thrust for thrust, her body undulating like the tide. She turned her head, capturing his lips in a fierce kiss. Theon kissed her back hungrily, tasting salt and desire on her lips. His hands tangled in her hair, pulling her closer as he continued to drive into her. The selkie moaned into his mouth, her body trembling beneath him.

Breaking the kiss, she gasped, "Yes, Theon. Just like that. Be good for me, please… give me… just like…."

Her words ignited something primal within him. Theon's thrusts became more forceful, more desperate. He could feel the pressure building again, a tidal wave of pleasure threatening to overwhelm him.

The selkie's inner walls clenched around him, her body shuddering with each thrust. She buried her face in the furs, muffling her cries of ecstasy. Theon could feel her climax approaching, her muscles tensing beneath his hands.

"Look at me," he growled, surprising himself with the command in his voice. "I want to see your face when you come undone."

The selkie turned her head, her eyes meeting his. In that moment, Theon saw the vastness of the sea in her gaze - deep, mysterious, and utterly wild. It was terrifying and exhilarating all at once.

With a final, powerful thrust, Theon felt himself tipping over the edge. The selkie cried out, her body arching beneath him as her own release crashed over her. Theon groaned, burying himself deep inside her as wave after wave of pleasure washed over him. It felt like he was being pulled into the depths of the sea itself, drowning in ecstasy.

As the intensity of their shared climax began to ebb, Theon collapsed onto the selkie's back, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He could feel her heart racing beneath him, her skin cool and slightly damp against his chest. For a long moment, they lay there, intertwined and breathless.

Slowly, carefully, Theon rolled off her, falling onto his back beside her on the narrow bed. The selkie turned to face him, her eyes now soft and warm like the sea on a calm summer day. She reached out, tracing the line of his jaw with gentle fingers.

"You have pleased me well, my iron prince," she murmured, her voice rich with satisfaction. "The sea will remember you fondly."

Theon chuckled weakly, still trying to catch his breath. "I don't think I'll ever forget this night," he said, turning his head to meet her gaze. "Or you."

The selkie smiled, a hint of sadness in her eyes. "Perhaps," she said softly. "But the memories of men are often as fleeting as seafoam on the shore."

She leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips before rising from the bed. Theon watched, mesmerized, as she moved about the small hut, her body glowing faintly in the dim light. She retrieved her cloak, fastening it around her shoulders, and gave him a sad, sorrowful little smile. “Go back to the bears now, my kraken. I’m sure you are missed.”

“But… can you not just… stay here? For a while at least?”, Theon asked, quickly gathering up his own clothing. Normally he would’ve left just as quickly as she was about to, yet she was no Ros, no Wintertown whore.

The selkie paused, her hand on the door. She turned back to Theon, her eyes softening with a mixture of fondness and regret.

"Oh, my sweet iron prince," she said softly. "Your words warm my heart, but I cannot stay. The sea calls to me, as it always has and always will."

Theon felt a pang in his chest, a longing he couldn't quite name. He stood, still naked, and took a step towards her. "Then let me come with you," he said impulsively. "Just for a while. I... I miss the sea."

The selkie's smile was sad and knowing. She reached out, cupping his cheek in her cool hand. "You are not ready for my world, Theon of the Iron Islands. Your path lies elsewhere, at least for now."

She leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. Theon could taste the salt of the sea on her breath, feel the pull of the tide in her touch. When she pulled away, her eyes seemed to shimmer with unshed tears.

"But know this," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crashing waves outside. "The sea never forgets her children. When the time comes, if you truly wish it, you may find your way back to us."

With those words, she slipped out the door and into the night. Theon rushed after her, but as he stepped outside, he saw only the empty beach and the vast, freezing waters, the selkie’s figure retreating into the waves.

Theon stood on the shore, the cool night air raising goosebumps on his bare skin. He watched the waves crash against the rocky beach, searching for any sign of the mysterious selkie, but she had vanished as completely as if she had never existed. The only evidence of their encounter was the lingering taste of salt on his lips and the slight ache in his muscles.

With a heavy sigh, Theon turned back to the small hut. The interior still smelled of sea and sex, and for a moment, he wondered if he had dreamed the entire encounter. But no, his clothes were strewn about the floor, and he could still feel the ghost of her touch on his skin.

Slowly, he began to dress himself. His fingers fumbled with the laces of his breeches, his mind still clouded with the intoxicating memory of the selkie. As he pulled on his tunic, he noticed it smelled faintly of seaweed and brine. He wondered idly if Lord Stark would notice, then dismissed the thought. The old wolf rarely paid him much attention anyway.

Theon retrieved his cloak from where it had fallen, shaking out the sand before fastening it around his shoulders. He ran his fingers through his hair, trying to tame the wild locks that the selkie had so eagerly mussed. As he did so, he felt something caught in the strands – a single, iridescent scale that gleamed in the dim light. He stared at it and reverently tucked it into his satchel.

Stepping out of the hut, Theon took one last look at the sea. The moon hung low on the horizon, its reflection shimmering on the dark waters. For a moment, he thought he saw a seal's head bobbing in the waves, watching him with knowing eyes. But when he blinked, it was gone. The sea had claimed him, he thought, and he would honour it.

[novaursa]

Hello, Novaursa,

Can I request a Petyr Baelish x Stark reader where Littlefinger is rewarded for his betrayal of the Starks by being given the eldest Stark daughter as his wife following the events of the Red Wedding? Since he's lost Cate, he's planning on turning her daughter into a replacement goldfish. Probably helps that she resembles her a fair amount.

Also, autocorrect thinks Littlefinger betrayed the sharks, lol. That WOULD be an interesting story.

Thank you

The Shape of Her Face

- Summary: A story where Petyr gets what he wants. You.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Petyr Baelish

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @idenyimimdenial

- A/N: Game of Sharks does have a nice ring to it. 🤣🫶

The solar in Harrenhal reeked faintly of old stone, blood, and damp rot—the smell of a castle built on ruin and ash. Tywin Lannister stood at the long table, a map of the Riverlands splayed before him like a wounded beast. His gloved fingers traced over the charred remains of Riverrun’s banners, pressed between weighted stones and sealed fates. Behind him, torchlight flickered against the ancient blackened walls, casting elongated shadows across his crimson doublet and the golden lion clasp at his throat. The room was silent but for the crackling hearth and the quiet rustle of parchment as Lord Baelish stepped forward.

Petyr Baelish’s steps were soft, deliberate, his face carved into a polite smile that never reached the eyes. He wore dark green trimmed in silver, the mockingbird sigil gleaming at his throat, modest in size but gleaming enough to catch light. His eyes, ever calculating, rested on Tywin as if the old lion were yet another board on the game of cyvasse he played endlessly in his mind. Yet even he dared not speak first—not to Tywin Lannister.

“Your work in the Vale was commendable,” Tywin said without looking up, as if discussing some minor task like accounting grain. “Convincing Lysa Arryn to remain neutral until the proper time. We owe much to your careful tongue, Lord Baelish.”

Petyr inclined his head just slightly. “I serve the realm, my lord.”

Tywin’s mouth twitched—something between a smile and a sneer. “You serve yourself, Baelish. Let’s not insult one another with pretense.”

There was no offense taken, not truly. Petyr’s smile only deepened, thin as a razor. “Perhaps. But sometimes the realm and I have overlapping interests.”

Tywin finally turned. The fire behind him flared as if in emphasis, gilding his pale, gaunt face in flame. “Your ambition is limitless. That makes you dangerous. But even danger can be… useful. You asked for a reward.” His gaze narrowed like a trap springing shut. “And you shall have it.”

Petyr’s hands clasped behind his back. He didn’t breathe too quickly, though his chest tightened in anticipation. “I have always been a man who knows his place. And the value of rising above it.”

“Yes,” Tywin said. “You were born the son of a petty lord with nothing but coin tricks and a clever tongue. And now you shall be Lord of Harrenhal. With a bride fit for a king.”

He did not need to say your name. It lingered between them like a ghost. The daughter of Eddard Stark. The firstborn. The one who favored her mother so keenly that whispers claimed Catelyn Tully had risen from the dead and walked again beneath Winterfell’s godswood. Your grief had been quiet, they said. A stillness in the storm of loss. Not the wild screaming of a girl torn from home like your sister Sansa, nor the wolfish anger of Arya Stark, whose bones no one had yet found. You had remained behind. Captive. Mute. Watched. Preserved.

“You have her?” Petyr asked, though he already knew. Of course Tywin had you. The Lannisters owned everything now—Winterfell in ruins, Robb Stark’s corpse rotting at the Twins, and the North in chaos. There had never been a better time to pluck a Stark rose.

Tywin nodded. “She has been in our custody since before the wedding. It was necessary to keep her unaware until the outcome was secure. She will be yours by week’s end. The contracts are being drawn.”

Baelish’s tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth, a flicker of something unnameable passing behind his eyes. He folded his hands tighter behind his back, nails biting into skin. It was not joy he felt, but a deeper, older hunger. You had haunted him once, as a girl in the shadows of the Red Keep, standing beside your mother like a specter returned from his youth. He had watched the tilt of your head, the exactness of your voice, the delicate grace of your fingers when you adjusted a pin. He had swallowed the ache and told himself it was admiration. But he’d known the truth long before he asked for you. It had never been about what was just. It was about what was owed.

“She is of noble blood,” Tywin went on, turning back to his map. “The last valuable Stark maiden, aside from the girl who vanished. You’ll wed her and bring her name into your house. And in time, her claim. The North remembers, Lord Baelish. But memory can be rewritten.”

Petyr gave a shallow nod. “I will be a gentle husband, my lord.”

Tywin did not look up. “See that you are. A broken woman is useless to me.”

The moment lingered, the fire spitting sparks behind them, as if protesting the quiet violence of the bargain struck. Baelish stepped closer to the map, eyes darting over your name written beside his in ink not yet dry. There it was—final, inevitable.

Your life had already been traded. Sealed with blood not your own. Promised by the men who killed your kin and smiled over the ashes.

Petyr Baelish looked down at the parchment, and imagined your face as it had once been, lit with Northern sunlight and touched with frost, the echo of Catelyn in your every glance. His mouth curled softly.

“You will be well-guarded, my lady,” he murmured, almost to himself. “And well-loved.”

Tywin said nothing. He had already moved on to the next matter. But Petyr Baelish stood there, eyes fixed on your name, already weaving futures in his mind where you sat beside him at Harrenhal, draped in silver and green, your mother’s fire tamed at last in your soft, uncertain hands.

The fire behind him roared louder.

The skies above Harrenhal were thick with looming gray, the clouds pressed low as if mourning silently for something that had already been lost. The lake beyond the keep sat still and glassy, unmoved by wind, a mirror reflecting nothing but gloom. Beneath the rusted portcullis, the air was damp and chill, clinging to the walls like the scent of rot and secrets. Ravens circled above the towers in slow, ominous spirals, as if they too knew what was coming.

Inside the great hall, Petyr Baelish stood alone, waiting.

The hearth blazed high in the corner, fed by blackened logs and sweet-smelling pine, but he made no move to warm himself. He wore black velvet today, high-collared and close-fitting, with his silver mockingbird brooch glinting at his throat. His hair was combed neatly, trimmed just so, and his beard was sharp and deliberate. No detail was out of place. It could not be. Not today.

He had spent years polishing his power behind smiles and half-truths. Years building ladders from shadows and knives. And now, at the top of one such ladder, he was to be rewarded with the one thing he had never been able to manipulate or seduce into his grasp: you.

Footsteps echoed through the high corridor, the scrape of booted men leading something—or someone. Petyr’s heart did not quicken, but there was a particular stillness in him, an anticipation that curled like a cat ready to spring. When the doors creaked open, they revealed two Lannister men clad in crimson and gold, flanking a girl cloaked in gray.

You.

You stepped into the hall like a ghost, your figure held upright by instinct rather than intent. They had dressed you well—plain but clean, your hair brushed and braided with care, your hands folded tightly in front of you. The wool cloak you wore was clasped at the throat with a small direwolf pin, one of the last fragments of your house they had not stripped from you. Your eyes, so like Catelyn’s—clear, cool, carved from northern waters—met Petyr’s as if through glass.

“My lord,” said Ser Ryman, the taller of the two guards, bowing stiffly. “As promised, the Lady Stark.”

Petyr did not answer him. His gaze was wholly fixed on you. Not with lust, not yet. Something deeper—older. A yearning calcified over years of denial, rejection, failure. He stepped forward slowly, as if you were a rare piece of glasswork newly delivered and not yet unwrapped.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. He imagined you might scream, claw, spit—but you didn’t. That, in some ways, unsettled him more. The stillness in you was not submission. It was frost.

“You’ve grown,” Petyr said at last, voice soft as parchment being turned. “So much like your mother. Gods, it’s uncanny.”

Your eyes flickered, but you said nothing.

“Lady Stark,” Ser Ryman prompted, nudging you with a gloved hand. “Greet your lord husband.”

You turned your face slightly, jaw tightening. “He is no husband of mine.”

Petyr’s smile twitched, but he covered it with a mild expression. “Not yet. That will be remedied before nightfall. The septon waits.”

You inhaled sharply, as though bracing yourself against a storm that had already broken. Petyr stepped closer, dismissing the guards with a single flick of his fingers. They bowed and backed out of the hall, leaving the two of you alone in the cavernous space. The iron chandeliers overhead swung slightly in a breeze that had no business there, casting dancing shadows across the stones.

He didn’t touch you. Not yet. He studied you as one might study a long-lost painting—trying to remember every line and hue that once haunted him. The curve of your mouth, the arch of your brow, the pale column of your neck. You were not Catelyn, and yet you were. And he had failed her. But he would not fail you. Or so he told himself.

“I asked for you,” he said, his voice growing more intimate, like a secret slipped between sheets. “And Tywin gave you to me. You’re a gift, my lady. One I intend to treasure.”

Your silence was a blade. Cold. Clean.

“I know what you think of me,” he continued, circling slowly behind you, his hands folded behind his back, voice velvet-wrapped steel. “A traitor. A snake. A man without honor. But what has honor brought your family? Ruin. Death. A king’s head sewn to a wolf’s body. Your brothers murdered or scattered. Your sisters lost.” His voice dropped. “Your mother’s throat slit open.”

You flinched, just slightly, your shoulders stiffening beneath the cloak. That pleased him. It meant you could still feel.

“But I—” He leaned close, breathing beside your ear. “I will keep you alive.”

You turned your head just enough to glare at him. “Alive. In a cage.”

He smiled, slow and measured. “Harrenhal has many chambers, my lady. Some warmer than others. I suggest you choose your words carefully. You’re not in Winterfell anymore.”

You looked away again, gaze fixed on the flickering hearth as though it might show you a path home.

Petyr stepped around to face you once more, extending a hand. “Come. There are things to prepare. Dresses. Vows. A feast. The bedding will be private, I assure you. I’m not unkind.”

You did not take his hand. But you followed him when he turned, because the alternative was worse.

And behind you, the great doors of Harrenhal slammed shut.

[rheanyraaaa]

WaterLilly Part 6

Enemies To Lovers

Robb Stark x Frey Reader (F)

warnings: child death, mentions of miscarriage, angst, very very rushed

A/N: Omg i rushed this so badly, and it’s not proof read, just had time to launch a chapter and went for it.

(y/n but with backstory)

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Robb woke early, the soft morning light filtering into his tent. The previous night’s conversation with his mother weighed on him, lingering in his mind like a shadow that wouldn’t fade. He dressed, strapping on his cloak and sword, and made his way out into the crisp morning air to clear his head. As he walked through the camp, he spotted a familiar figure in the distance, Y/N astride a horse, her hair loose and catching the morning sun as she rode in slow, careful circles.

Impulsively, Robb decided to join her. Grabbing his own horse, he mounted up and approached her, noting the ease and confidence with which she handled the reins. She gave him a curious look as he came up beside her.

“Out for a morning ride?” he asked, falling into step with her pace.

You nodded, offering a polite, if surprised, smile. “Yes, I wanted some air… it clears my head.” There was a pause before you added, “I like to take in the view, think things through. It helps… especially with so much when i’m anxious.”

They soon fell into a conversation about the coming battles, discussing strategies and the rumors of troop movements. Robb found himself surprised by her insights, the way she thoughtfully considered the options. For the first time, he could see what his mother had meant about her intelligence and dedication.

Then, as they rode further out, a thought struck him. “Are you sure you should be riding?” he asked, casting a glance down at her abdomen, his tone uncharacteristically gentle. “With the baby and all…”

You gave a small laugh, waving off his concern. “I’ll be fine. I’ve ridden all my life. Besides, the maester said light riding is perfectly safe.”

But as you spoke, a sudden look of discomfort crossed her face, her hand drifting to your stomach. Your breathing quickened as a frown of pain creased her brow.

Robb’s heart leapt in alarm, and without hesitation, he reached out, steadying you by the arm. “Are you alright?”

“It’s… it’s nothing,” you murmured, though your face had gone pale. But the pain seemed to grow, and before you could protest, Robb dismounted and moved to your side, helping you carefully down from your horse. His hands held you firmly as he guided you to sit on a nearby log, his expression creased with concern.

“Stay here. I’ll get the maester,” he said, his voice steady but edged with panic.

A few moments later, the camp’s maester arrived, examining her as Robb stood nearby, tense and watching. After a careful check, the maester reassured them both that it was only a minor cramp, a normal part of early pregnancy. You gave a small, relieved smile, and Robb, though still visibly tense, managed to let out a breath, his shoulders loosening.

“Thank you,” You whispered, looking up at him with a quiet gratitude that surprised them both. He nodded, his hand lingering briefly on your shoulder before he excused himself.

The following days slipped into routine, and despite moments of gentleness with You, Robb still found himself drawn back to Talisa, seeking comfort and familiarity. He spent his nights with her, sharing her bed and letting himself forget, if only for a while, the strain of duty and loyalty.

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One night, Y/N lay alone in her tent, a strange unease curling in her stomach. She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Her breathing quickened, her heart racing with a fear she couldn’t explain. And then, without warning, pain stabbed through her abdomen, sharp, relentless, unlike anything she’d felt before. She clutched her stomach, gasping for breath as the pain intensified.

Moments later, her cries brought Catelyn rushing into the tent. The older woman’s face went pale as she took in the scene, moving quickly to Irene’s side.

“My lady, hold on,” Catelyn said firmly, her hands steady as she supported Irene. “The maester is on his way.”

The pain was overwhelming, a blinding ache that tore through her, and she felt a deep, primal fear settle in her chest. As the maester finally arrived and examined her, his expression turned grave. He murmured to Catelyn, and Y/N, though dazed, caught the words the baby was lost.

The news hit her like a blow. She choked on a sob, her chest heaving as grief crashed over her. She clutched at Catelyn, burying her face against her shoulder as tears streamed down her cheeks. Catelyn held her close, her arms strong and unyielding, her own expression pained yet comforting.

“I’m so sorry, child,” she whispered, her voice barely above a murmur. “I’m so very sorry.”

Your sobs echoed through the tent, the loss settling heavily in your heart. The pain, both physical and emotional, was unbearable, and as you clung to Catelyn, as you felt an emptiness unlike any you had known. All you could do was cry, your grief uncontained, as the world outside continued in silent, indifferent motion.

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Tags!! (tell me who wants to be tagged!!)

@samieree @maysileeewrites

[fourthcrow]

Thot thoughts about the Stark men? Don’t mind if I do 🌝

I don’t have many thot thoughts about Robb or Jon (a said from the obligatory Stark breeding kink), but I will die on this hill, just hear me out

Cregan Stark is touch starved. I will die on this hill! It’s sort of logical if you think about it! Listen, he’s described as cold and guarded, a rough northern man. He lost his brother, mother and father, at a VERY young age. Then he lived under his uncle’s rule, a cruel man who tried to usurp him. I don’t think he got many cuddles from that BARELY there childhood

And then! His wife just fucking dies. He lives in medieval Westeros, as a man, with a man as a best friend. You won’t get many soft touches aside from your wife, especially if you’re northern. And the only love you’ll get, is from your family (in his traumatized mind), AND, he’s traumatized from losing literally everyone he loves. So! He’s touch starved (and probably overprotective over his loved ones, let’s be real)

So! Imagine Cregan x unladylike!reader. He likes people who go against the norm, who are unapologetically themselves. So imagine unladylike!reader, who’s smart, likes to hunt, swears, is quick witted, fearless, likes to ride long and hard, etc. And! Someone who isn’t prudish. Imagine Cregan x unladylike!reader who’s maybe led charges into battle plenty of times, who’s seen injured men change in front of her, who’s seen naked men many times, who’s helped patch them up

Cregan x unladylike!reader who touches him like it’s second nature, maybe tying back his hair if it’s bothering him, fixes his collar, his armor, patches him up shirtless (or maybe even pants-less 👀) touches his bare skin like it’s normal, and Cregan just melting at her touch. Unladylike!reader who’s touching Cregan’s bare skin while joking and laughing, and Cregan melting like ice in summer. Maybe even Cregan finding excuses just to have her touching him again… like getting married 🌝

(Sorry for the ramble, but this has been cooking in my mind for a damn WHILE now. If you don’t agree with any of this then that’s cool. Stay safe and have a nice day 🫶)

ANON I LOVE THE WAY YOUR BRAIN WORKS!! don't apologize because I loved reading all of this. unladylike!reader is very much giving mormont vibes and I fear I may be working on a small fic for this. but. here are my immediate thoughts just to get them out and said shajidifofocooconqmqm

like you said, cregan is sickeningly touch-starved and he probably wouldn't even realize it until he's faced with it directly. a passing brush of your fingers against his neck when you reached for his cloak to adjust it as it began to slip from his broad shoulders. it was only accidental, but gods. it drove him crazy and he can't stop thinking about it. after that he seeks out more — asks for help for the most foolish of things, things that he could definitely handle on his own, like fastening his armor or fixing his hair. after a while, he even catches himself seeking you out for injuries, however minor they may be, over the help of a maester or healer. such people only touch because it's their duty, but you touch him because you can and because you want to. the way you clap him on the back as you jest and laugh with him and the other men, or the way you run to hug him after long days apart, it makes him realize his ache, his need for that basic human contact. there's a certain roughness to it in the beginning, when feelings are just blossoming, but the way you handle him is laced with affection.

his initial desire is not rooted in any sexual desires (though those surely develop once you both are married, and possibly beforehand) but the simple desire to feel.. seen. not as the warden of the north, not as lord stark, but simply cregan. a man. there's a comfort in knowing you can handle yourself, in the ways you don't shy away from even the most gruesome or perverse scenes. it takes a small weight off his shoulders when you're they're to command his armies. at the end of the day, cregan knows you're there for him. there to be a strong voice, to be a comrade, a warrior, a healer, a woman to call his own. it's a strange kind of love, one that he hadn't known existed. you're the one he wants to protect and cherish, and never let go of.

[snow-blower]

Snow's Intro Post !!

⋆˚࿔ Snow ° 19 ° bisexual ° shey/they pronouns ࿔˚⋆

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❥ Minors DNI, occasional NSFW posts ahead.

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[rise-my-angel]

Heart of the Great Wolf

67 - Memories of a Dead Past

Pairing: Jon Snow x F!Baratheon!Reader, Robb Stark x F!Baratheon!Reader (Past)

Length: 13k

Warnings: angst/hurt comfort, past character deaths, descriptions of blood and violence, disturbing imagery, mentions of traumatic childbirth, minor trauma flashbacks

Notes: A character is properly introduced finally in this chapter, while they are canon to the books, their book counterpart is dead so this is a mostly orignal interpretation of the character. Previous Chapter Here, Series Masterlist Here

He had not considered that she would not be here. He had not thought when walking the steps into the great building that he would not truly find what he was looking for. Only anger, and then disappointment. Much of his life in this thought had been spent attempting to avoid the worst of it, not wishing to consider the harsh truths and yet standing there it was plain as day. The blood he belonged to on one end was no true family. He had wanted to know if his mother was buried here, but now he felt a fool for thinking she would be.

Too though, did he feel that disappointment through the fact that his sister was buried here. Rhaenys was said to be the one born to look just as their mother, her skin, hair, and eyes all darker just like their mother. The more he had been here the more he heard the stories that painted a picture of the past never before explored to this degree for him. His grandfather had stood in the throne room and denied holding his first grandchild all because little Rhaenys had “smelled too Dornish.” A splitting image of her mother, they should’ve been buried in Dorne together. Not here. Not beside him.

Aegon hadn’t even known he was buried here. Or that his remains were found and brought back. Perhaps he thought, they shouldn’t have been. Here his name was etched in stone forever, and buried beside his daughter. The one he abandoned. The one who the men all spoke of horrors, that Ser Amory Lorch had dragged the little girl out from where she had been hiding under her parents bed and ignored her screams as he stabbed her near fifty times. But father, then daughter, one more name was etched into the stone that made him feel unsteady on his feet.

A tanners son. That’s whom Lord Varys had said was buried there. But the more he thought about it, the more the anger returned. It did not matter whose remains were in that tomb. It was him, whom his mother had ripped from her breast. It was him whom had his head smashed in, whose blood covered her body as she was raped and murdered. It was her son she watched die before she died in the worst manner she could’ve been forced into. And through all that horror, where was her husband to protect her? Where was his father?

With his remains beside his dead children, he knew Rhaegar had died at the Trident in a war which was his fault for starting.

None approached Aegon as he stood alone in the Sept of Baelor. He needed space, and no guards had been allowed to enter passed the doors. Facing his family, the one he wanted to see, Elia was not there. And neither was anyone else. If his eyes glanced further he might too have seen the name of his grandfather as well where he was buried, but his father and grandfather did not deserve to have him stand here now to mourn them. It was their fault Aegon stood all alone, and surrounded by a family that felt nothing but strangers too him. He wondered to himself, was it too late to take the remains of his sister Rhaenys, and bring her to Dorne. Here, his sister and mother rest together away from this city, this wretched family Aegon held the name too, so one day he too could be brought to them to rest finally as well.

Aegon stood in a Kings Landing now belonging to him. Not yet crowned, but still in his control, all alone with nothing but the name of a family whom he conquered in the name of. Cousins and an aunt out there, they did not truly count. Aegon stood alone, the last of his true family. The silence only grew even heavier. Yet, for the secret Aegon did not know of, it was the exact opposite of alone. The only blood of his true family that still existed, felt the same sorrow of loss, but not the feeling of standing amongst strangers.

Thousands of miles away, Jon Snow stood with the remains of his family, right where he belonged.

Orders were similar, guards stood far outside the entrance and none were allowed down for the time being. This was specific, this was not to be shared by all. Unlike what he did not know was taking place so far south, the light of day did not shine bright here. It was dark, crackles of fire from the only light of torches to guide the way but it was not silent and the lack of silence was not heavy and weightful.

Jons rasp was low, even in such vast corridors, it could only be heard were one mere feet away from him as he stood with the bundle in his arms. His infant son not yet old enough to truly even grasp at things easily, let alone something so delicate. Jon had brought it down with him, before saying a word, gently using his grasp to fold little Eddard’s fingers around the edge of the feather.

Stepping forward, his voice was low in his sons ear as he moved with him, placing the feather in the open palm of the stone stature before them. “Just like that, careful.” Wide green eyes watched as Jon let his hand go, both grips allowing the feather to lay perfectly in her hand, before both eyes turned bright and wide looking up to the face of whom they stood before.

Jon knew he had spent his whole life in Winterfell wishing he knew who his mother was. Wishing to know anything about her, and only to realize that she had been here watching over him his entire life but he felt an overwhelming need to make up for it. He would never let his mother feel forgotten or unseen by her son ever again, and too would he ensure she knew her grandson and any others she would have, knew their grandmother.

Keeping the baby laid in his arms, Jon could not stop the gentle smile from his face when he looked back down, his sons face still up at the statue did he let what he could of his hand to run along the top and side of his head, not obscuring his vision. “She’s your grandmother. Lyanna Stark.” A small babble came from the baby as if a response, as if Jon knew it meant an ask of more to tell him. Which Jon swallowed heavily, his brows furrowing a little as the heaviness entered his heart with a clearing of his throat. “I was only a month younger then you when she died. I didn’t even know until a little less then a year ago that she was my mother.”

This was why no one was allowed down here. He wanted to give his son full honesty, but not just anyone could hear Jon tell this story. Yet there was almost an innocent childishness in the way he told it, wanting to be gentle for his sons ears so soon.

“A very bad man took her from her family, and forced her to have me. Your grandfather came to rescue her, but she died anyways.” Just like he thought, was what Ramsay tried to do to you, and Euron still was out there wishing to do to you now. “She’ll never get a chance to hold you, but you will always be able to come see her whenever you want.” Finally did a small smile come over him, “If your mother was right and you were born a girl, we would have named you after your grandmother. We’ll have to save that for your sister.”

The second part spoken in a jesting whisper, as if in on a secret between the two his son did not understand. Forming a small smile looking back up, Jon reached a finger to run down the side of his face across his cheek. A small squirm came about as if the sensation tingled against the little one’s skin and Jons smile grew to a grin as his son watched the expression best he could so naturally.

“I still wonder if she’d like me. Be proud that I’m her son, but I know she’d like you.” Grins brighter and wider, Jon looked up with that smile yet sorrow bright in his eyes looking to the smooth face of a mother he never knew. His whisper speaking to his son or mother he was not sure, but he was fine with both hearing his heart as he let it out so rarely. “I don’t know if I should tell him. Who my father was, my real father. Maybe it will only hurt if I do, or he’ll grow up angry the way I don’t know if I’ll ever stop being.”

An arm reached out, as if yearning to come close to the grandmother he would never truly know. Stepping close, every carved detail was within Jons clear vision and he shifted. Allowing his sons hand to trace over the hand of hers now holding the feather. Tiny even against the stone he was, but keeping him firm and close in his grip did Jon too almost reach out without much thought. The side of the statue which acted as Lyanna’s cheek did Jon gently cup.

Wondering if he would ever stop thinking of it when down here. Why? Why did no one protect her, why did none of the so called noble and valiant knights around her whisk her away to safety? Why did they leave her dying in a bed of her own blood? But still he continued to push passed it, to tell little Eddard with all his honesty.

“Your great grandfather and great uncle Brandon, they rode to Kings Landing. Demand the King they give them Lyanna back safe, but they were killed for it. My father was at war for over a year trying to rebel against the family that was destroying ours.” He dared not look over to where Jon could see the statue of his father. “My mother had me, and the men keeping her there let her die instead of getting her help. Her brother fought to get to her, and found me. She begged him to promise to keep me safe, to hide me from those who would find out I was hers, who my real father was...So he brought me here. Raised me as his own son. From the moment my mother died, he was my father.”

Was he truly even speaking to his son, or was Jon letting the thoughts flood outloud now that none were around to hear him. Looking back up, Jon let his hand linger on the cheek of his mothers statue a little while longer before mimicking the same position with the same hand now just on the cheek of the baby in his arms. He didn’t know how much of this he would ever be able to say outloud to his son, but Jon needed his mother to be known, to be remembered.

No one protected her before it was too late, so he would protect her memory. Father and son stood there in the silence for a while. That was the thing about the crypts beneath Winterfell. Few understood why the Starks could spend such time down here, or in the godswood. But it was a harmony. In the godswood he could be one with the old gods without judgment, and here he could be a Stark.

No matter his name, Jon could stand down here and be a Stark. His son named a Snow, because you had refused to let his bastard name be that of shame in this new life built together. Some days he looked down to his son and worried he was doing wrong by him. Doing wrong by the father he was named after by not calling him Stark. But it was one of the last things his father ever said to him.

“You are a Stark. You may not have my name, but you have my blood.”

Again Jon told himself not to look over at the statue of his father. But he didn’t stop thinking about it. It was irrational you could tell him, to be fearful of this. But he stood at his mothers tomb and refused to leave yet. Jon was afraid. He did not want to stand in front of the tomb and statue of Ned Stark and fear that he was ashamed of who Jon had become.

Before Jon had thrust his sword through the chest of Qhorin Halfhand, Jon had prayed in silence to the gods watching him. To tell his father that he was not an oathbreaker, that he was not trying to do his our of dishonour. But Jon did far more then murder a brother of the Nights Watch. He had done wrong. He had done plenty wrong. More then he could say his father would be proud for.

He had named his son after his father without a second thought. He had many names he wanted to repay with, but his father had to be first. Almost a message. That it did not matter to Jon that the fathers blood in his veins was of Rhaegar Targaryean. He did not name his child after the silver prince, he named his son after Ned Stark. The father who raised him, and loved him. Who sacrificed everything, his reputation and even his marriage to protect Jon.

A man does not put that much lies at risk for a child he does not care about. No, Jon knew that it was because he was still, and always would be Ned Stark’s son. Somewhere out there, Jon knew he had a half brother, he knew he once had a half sister, but it felt unlikely Jon would let himself consider them. He was a man of the North, he was a Stark. Nothing else. A Stark named Snow, just as his son.

The sound had been increasing in the back of his mind, but senses so keen Jon paid no mind to it. He knew the pace, the speed and the pattern. He knew when it was you coming and Jon stood with his son in his arms in front of the statue of Lyanna Stark and allowed you to approach at your own pace.

You hadn’t expected for Jon to still be there when you approached. You knew he wished for time alone, seeing his mother, introducing her to his son. It was a very personal thing and without a doubt whatever painful emotions were to arise he simply did not wish for you to see them. Jon struggled with that you knew, you were allowed to know of the pain but he hated you seeing the pain. He had told you that once you were done checking in on Olly after the previous night’s events, that he wished for you to join him.

The poor boy did not mention what was told, more spat at him. The threat of making him watch, but it was a rare moment between you. You had sat him down in his chambers, and let him stutter in breaths trying to get out the truth of how scared it had made him. Almost taller then you on two feet, but sat down as you pulled him into your arms, Olly still was little more then the boy you met in Castle Black. Interrupting to ask if you were alright and what he could do while trying to collect himself, you simply assured him that you had survived the morning without his service, and you could last another day as well.

Giving him the day and the next a break from your command, Olly almost had stood confused for a moment. “What should I do?” You nearly had not answered, or given a non committal one in it’s place but then it came to you with a smirk and a raise of an eyebrow playfully.

“Gendry worked late into the night, most likely needs much sleep to catch up on. Would be a rather shame if someone were to interrupt that.”

Olly had matched your smirk, a small bow with a held back amused tone. “Your Grace.” A nudge of his arm as you both had gone to leave the room. It was near a ritual by now. Either you and Gendry spent time together with a barrage of snide insults and snarking banter, most of which was far more enjoyable then others of your blood you knew. Gendry being lowborn meant he did not have a single care if he was being mean. He would hurl insults towards you and follow it with a formal title as if that hand waved the behaviour.

Those working in the armoury and with the blacksmith were familiar with their Queens odd dynamic with the southern lad who had shown up with you after Moat Cailin. None had put it together despite you both looking more and more like twins the longer Gendry was in the North. It was nearly a laugh, that no one figured out your secret. You would look in a mirror and see Gendrys reflection, and he in reverse of you. You spoke alike, your banter was alike, your tempers were alike and you let him get away with far more that no one else did.

Gendry had once while making a blade, had suddenly turned in response to a comment you had made, the pointed end a few inches from your face as he hadn’t even thought about what it looked like. All fell silent in watching as Gendry realized, but you had nonchalantly pressed a finger to the flat edge and tossed the blade in his grip away from your person with a bemused but judging look as if to be condescending. “Careful where you point that thing.”

You could already see the flat, unamused expression in his face when he realizes you had all but sent Olly to him to keep him company for the day, knowing that it would look disrespectful to not accept the orders of a Queen. Perhaps the only time such a status amused you, knowing you could annoy Gendry endlessly and he had to come up with far more creative ways to get back at you.

But you knew that sort of feeling was not to last long. But a small reprieve in such a chaotic short few hours, which was going to get no better. There was much to do, and yet now you also could add an attempt on your life to the list. Some women famous in the history books were spoken of such beauty that men from all over would seek them out asking for their hand in marriage.

You appeared to attract the opposite effect. In all walks of life, did many and all look at you an enemy, whose only conclusion to get out of their way is death. Descending the steps down to the crypts, death was all which was around. Starks and their dutiful direwolves and yet the closer you came the less the direwolves were. Strange it seemed, three hundred years ago was when such wolves became less and less common until another hundred years from then did they stop being scene south of the Wall entirely. As if the direwolves left the Starks to stay in the North and they travelled far away.

Six then appeared from nowhere and what that meant you did not know. Other plans the gods had which you were not to be part of, but as you passed the now wolf lacking Starks, did signs of life begin to appear once more. But in the form of sounds. The muffle of words and as you turned the corner to the next corridor you knew rather well did you see just that.

Holding his son in his arms, Jon stood in front of the statue of Lyanna still. He had wanted to confront that alone, and you let him but how long had he not been able to bring himself to move away from her, or more accurately, how long had he been afraid to see his father now that he too was one. You knew Jon could hear you, and the fact that he made no move to shy away from which Stark he was in front of meant he too knew it was you for a fact. Any else and he would have made it less obvious which he was so tense and vulnerable in front of.

Neither of you ever rushed the other, slowly making your way more behind him could you hear his mumblings to the baby snuggling closer to his fathers warm torso. “It’s starting to feel like you’re looking for excuses to take time away from me being alone with her, you know.” So natural he looked, and yet you could flash your mind back six years.

Two scared people who did not feel ready to share that degree of love with one another so physically, and yet after all you went through apart here Jon stood with a son in his arms, murmuring gently like he most certainly had been doing so for quite a while. Not saying a word yet, the strain in his rasp giving away that he was smothering much emotion he had been displaying so raw before your arrival.

Instead one hand grasped at his waist. Circling around to his back, you had to stand up somewhat on your toes to properly get into a more comfortable position, your other arm rising up to rest against his bicep as you grasped somewhat at the top edge of his tunic. Your front pressing close as your head tried to find more of the dip between his neck and shoulders to rest against.

Both of you stood there for quite a while, never rushing him to speak. Allowing him to hold his son while you clung onto Jons from the back, attracted to his warmth. Even down here much closer to the hot spring, it still ran cold. The chill from outside would rush through the corridors with no mercy and yet Jon did not feel anything but warm, your eye fluttering closed before rushing them back open to keep your mind from settling too much into a relaxation. Much like little Eddard, Jons warmth made it easy to fall asleep just about anywhere as long as he was touching you in some way.

By the time any words were spoken, they were little more then a mutter. Low and thick in his manner of speaking, just as a great sigh was left out. You could imagine his eyes had closed as he had exhaled to pull his thoughts to the forefront. “When I watched my Uncle Benjen meet him,” There was no need to elaborate on the he in question. “I was afraid of what he’d say. Not what he would say in front of you, he’s always liked you. But to me, when no one else was awake to hear it.”

“Jon,”

Gentle and soft and without judgment or impatience you said his name with, but Jon cut it off. “It’s not the same for you, darling.” Your brows furrowed in question, but your hand up around his arm and shoulder grasped more tightly so you could almost nuzzle the back of his neck as his curls remained up and back. “You’ve seen me, you know the things I’ve done. What it took to get here. But he doesn’t. He last saw me about to swear my vows, and then he saw me years later. A King, a husband, a father..I was afraid all he’d do is look at me and see an oathbreaker.”

Tone light, Jon caught onto the attempt at humour to keep him from slipping. Even if he did not return the jest, he appreciated it all the same. “Those same vows do say, it shall not end until my death.”

Thumb running over the side of his sons face, you felt a twitch in his arm, the one by where you grasped at his waist as if wishing he had the spare hand to grab yours, and wrap it more around his front where he could keep hold of you. “I fought, and I lost.”

Lips barley able to reach the skin at the back of his neck, you lingered as you kept up on your toes to murmur against the now phantom kiss. “We both did. And now we’re here.” Affirming the same, an unsure exhale on his breath now you both were here. Your hand left his waist reaching up to run along the hair at the back of his head, not able to run through his curls but almost a sort of petting motion, as if you could to Ghost. “Having honour only means something if you can protect the ones you love with it.”

Rough his voice ran, but clearly you heard it through the mumbles all the same. “My father gave up his honour to protect my sisters, he died being called a traitor to protect them.”

You knew right where that was going, and you pressed a longer more lingering kiss to his neck before nuzzling against him once more. “And you gave up your honour to protect your family and your people, and you also died for it. You have much more in common with your father then I have mine at the least.”

Jons chuckle was low, but vibrated against you. “I think you have more in common with King Robert then you do Stannis.” You took a pause with an intrigue in your eyes, asking that you assumed he would be put off by that, but Jon only breathed another laugh. “You get used to it. And you’re prettier.”

Your laugh and Jons joined together in a quiet harmony, his only increasing to something much more free and bright in his expression when you said rather dryly, “And far, far less fat.” Readjusting your hold in his arm and shoulder once more, you spoke much more with something loving behind it that time. “We’ve all broken oaths and vows and promises by now, Jon. What matters is what we do after that. That’s all that matters now. You broke your vows to the Nights Watch, but you’ve also taken back your home, protected your people, protected your brother and sisters, and more then once, you’ve saved my life. I’d say that alone is much worth not following a few mere words you spoke once when you thought you had nothing else for you.”

Finally, it seemed you had cut to the core of what was on his mind. “It worries me. That I’ll see him, and see nothing but disappointment.” Murmuring with a softness that he won’t, you too heard a small sound from the baby as if to confirm your own point of view. Your breath was heard as it’s laugh, Jon letting a small smile out looking down to the bundle. “Do you ever worry? That he looks at you and is ashamed?”

Your nod against him said all that needed to be said. Letting out another sigh, Jon suddenly pulled from you, turning in place as you found his grey eyes. Wide and bright and as much sadness glossed deep within them did an affection overtake it’s most prominent beauty. Your hands at his waist to simply stand close with your son now squirming a bit between you both for the enclosed warm space he desired.

Leaning forward, Jon gently let his nose brush against yours, murmuring down to you. “He’s had enough of me for now.” Shaking your head with a grin, you didn’t bother arguing against what was such a foolish notion, but little Eddard transferred into your arms. Turning almost instantly to try and hide his face in the fabric of your dress, he no doubt did not feel fussed being passed back and forth as long as it was between father and mother.

A hand pressed to your lower back, Jon guided you to his final destination. Both looking to the tomb and statue of Ned Stark, it was the first time you suspected that Jon allowed himself to feel what he needed to feel looking at him. The sensation of Jons arm worming its way around to your waist, he pulled you close to his side, your head resting against his shoulder as he leaned somewhat the same manner to feel you as well.

Running through his head, dare he broach that subject? But yes, Jon would. Wife and mother of his child there was no use in hiding from his name in front of you, whats done was done and there was no taking it back. “I was jealous of Robb my whole life.” There was a strain in your heart, but it never would go away now. Thus you lived with it, and listened passed it’s ache. “The way my father looked at him? I wanted that. I always wanted to hate him, and I could never bring myself to. From the moment we met, it was Robb and me. And all that time I wanted to hate him for how much I wished I had with my father what he had. He was the oldest, he was the heir, he was a true Stark. He could give our father everything I never even dreamed of. What would he like about me more when Robb was right there?”

You wanted to say something, and Jon too knew it. But your silence said more to heal that strain in his heart then any meaningless words of comfort you could’ve attempted to flower his torment with. Instead he pulled you closer if possible.

“But it’s different now. Robb was born before me. He was Lady Catelyn’s firstborn son, but in my own way, I was my fathers first child. He took me as his son, maybe even before he knew Robb existed. He kept me by his side, taught me everything he taught Robb even though I wasn’t going to inherit anything to use it. And we spent more then enough nights in his study to know we had more in common then Lady Catelyn ever wanted to admit.” Your smile was small and subtle, but you knew without having to see it, Jon felt it.

Those nights were Jons favourites with his father. The two of them as the moon came over the dark sky, some wine between them and much more free jokes and laughs shared then either of them felt the entire day. It was those nights Jon had felt like a true son. Just a father bonding with his son, and Jon never had reason to doubt it in those nights. It was why he never doubted Ned Stark was his father at all, it was obvious in those moments. It was so obvious that hearing those words come out of your mouth that night felt like you had torn down that memory as if it was nothing but an illusion Jon had made up in his grief.

It was right in that very spot you both stood too that it happened. Facing one another, Jons hands cupping your cheeks as something gutted inside of you to force the words out only to have him tear away as if you burned him through his skin down to his bones, not realizing the force which he pulled away from you had nearly pushed you back physically. Those tears started right away that night, and the panic and terror that you no longer held a place in his life for saying the truth he deserved to know.

Remembering it, wishing that if only the truth did not need to come with the pain to tell him of his mother. But both came hand in hand, and yet now, months had passed and both of you stood in front of Ned Stark and yet now a son was there too. Both your eyes gazing down to the baby, your voice was mostly a whisper, but with undertones Jon knew all too well. “He should arrive early tomorrow.”

Jon didn’t need clarification, you had been dreading it. In his own way, Jon wasn’t looking forward to it either. He held much respect for Stannis Baratheon in many ways, but with you here once more and everything in between what you’d been through, it left more then a bitter taste in his mouth. The way you interacted with his family had brought it out into the light so much more. How you were practically the only thing keeping the peace between Sansa and himself, or even Sansa and Arya. He had no doubt Arya was more on edge around her because of the truth she knew.

Jon wanted to tell her, she was his sister too. He had a strange feeling Bran knew, but he truthfully didn’t know how to ask and he sensed Bran didn’t know how to bring it up either. But Sansa? It was hard to tell how she would react and he knew Arya was worried about it. If it were only up to her, Jon should never tell her, but he wanted too. He just knew there was no good time to broach that now, let alone with tension between them still unresolved. But you kept peace, you got along with all his family. His Uncle Benjen even had spent more and more time with you now that you were truly part of the family.

But it made your relationship with Stannis stick out. How cold and unloving it was. It was not as if you’re relationship with Selyse was simple, but she had been here and trying to right that. She played grandmother to little Eddard with a happiness seldom found on the woman otherwise. But, a month had passed since you all arrived back and until now, there was no word of Stannis coming to see his daughter or grandson. Something within you always reverted back to quiet and stubborn and troubled when your father came around and Jon struggled to sit that aside anymore.

You left with him to the far north, you returned over six moons passed with a newborn and he did not think until now to come see either of you. He knew much would be discussed between the two men, but he hoped that coming to see you and the baby was the main priority of the visit. If Stannis spent more time with Jon then his daughter or grandson once arriving, Jon would have quite a large problem with that.

Both of you making your way back, it was a guard taking you both by surprise, the night already growing dark as overtop of you, it was the last thing you both expected when being told there was a visitor for you specifically in the main hall. Your eyes flickered to Jon, almost a question in them only to have your answer found simple. His head nodding for you to move forward, him close beside you.

It seemed he was not taking any chances, despite anything occurring within the main hall where there was the most likely chance of getting caught or captured. Before you both could even walk in however, Jon murmured towards you, turning you to face him as you could see instantly a tenseness within him. Reaching carefully up, you cupped his cheek, letting a thumb run over his facial hair. “Jon what’s the likelihood someone will try anything in here?”

Grasping your hand, Jon turned to press a kiss to the skin on the back before letting it return to the baby, currently teetering in falling asleep in your arms it was so late for him. “What’s the chance someone attacking you in our own bedchambers?”

Your head tilted a bit to the side, as if attempting to convey that he was worried about nothing, but his resolve did not waver. He remained firm as he pulled you with him by a hand at your lower back, entering first into the large and now mostly empty hall.

He stood tall in the middle of the room. Arms crossed over his chest as he looked up and around, the night not the best to take in Winterfell but it was lovely all the same, to you at least. He still looked the same, yet different. Hair still thick and lush, the way you remembered just as much as recalling his father joking that he’d be balding in no time and loose it, only that had yet to come close to coming to fruition, even now. Last you’d seen he was clean shaven, fitting better into Kings Landing even though they could almost sense the lowborn on him, not that he cared much to hide it. Only now he had a thick beard covering his face with what you could see where plenty of greys within it that matched the greys in his brown hair.

Even now you could see the bright blue in his eyes. Lucky his mother and father both had them and it had been joked no wonder with his looks he had many, so called girlfriends all over the known world waiting for him. You had little doubt the five or six years apart had done much to drastically change that, nor did the lines growing around his face in age feel as if women would not still be charmed by it.

But you you, it was not that manner which his appearance felt. It was something warm in your heart, something that had your own eyes lighten up right away. Jon glancing between you both right away noticing no doubt how much more happy you looked without a second thought, like you had so many years ago.

The hall was silent until he spoke first, the accent so familiar to both of you know. Quick and unrefined, as lowborn sounding as his fathers and it was easy you suspected for Jon to start putting it together just by that alone. A bow to both of you, he started more formal then he would’ve years ago in front of you. “My King, my Queen.”

You watched him for a moment, trying to summon any words to express how seeing him again felt, but it was truly like no years had passed. A cleverness left you in the form of a breathy insult in place of what most would speak as gratitude to see them again. “Seven hells, have the years not been kind to you.”

A grin came over him, still attempting to keep a formality for likely Jons sake but you knew you looked as you had when you reunited with another not quite blood in front of Jon. A relief filled with a pain on both sides much like when you had reunited with Maege Mormont. The man spoke once more, raising a brow as he nodded towards you. “I don’t imagine you’re ready to start that game.”

Jon only interrupted as long as it took to gently mumble in your ear to let him take the baby, transferring him gently to his arms, you looked up. Almost wondering if you needed permission, but Jon’s eyes only gazed down softly at you. A promise no such thing was needed for you to even ask as he pulled back, a very tender rocking to ensure little Eddards eyes thus far stayed closed.

You and he took no time in moving towards the other. His large height pulling you into his front as you held him back tightly. Almost a girl again in how your heart felt so tight. A hand ran down the back of your hair as he muttered only for you to hear, “I missed you too, tiny doe.”

Your eyes closed for a moment, desperate not to let any tears fall. He wouldn’t have ever let you live it down, but you stayed there for a good long seconds as he held the same back. It had been many years for you not knowing if he’d see you again, but you also knew that he had once thought you dead. Pulling back he ran his hands down your upper arms with a sort of snark on his tongue to cover up what you felt was something relieved, being able to see for himself that you truly were alive beyond whatever he knew from stories alone. “I knew leaving you alone in that city was a mistake, look how much trouble you’ve gotten into since I left.”

A smile left you, with a huff of a laugh. “You’re right. I could’ve kept you by my side, ensure you were arrested too, or worse.” The worse was the more likely choice, any of the household not named Stark had been slaughtered that day, and you knew Allard would’ve just been another casualty of that. Turning around, you found something a bit more collected within you, trying to put up more of a proper front you should’ve despite the two men in the room being the last ones to ever judge you for your emotions in that moment. “Allard, this is my husband, and my King. Jon Snow.”

He gave a small bow, with a bit of something shining in his eyes you knew he was trying to keep back. They had scarcely interacted in the times Allard would accompany to escorting you from Kings Landing to here, but they had seen each other many times over those years regardless. “It’s an honour, your grace.”

Allard followed your lead, as you walked back over to Jon who was mostly still trying to keep the baby from waking up. You both knew if the little one awoke now, it would take hours before he’d settle again at this hour. Jon didn’t need to fake anything, not that he would but perhaps you suspected Allard assumed he as a King meeting a near stranger from his wife’s past would be met with more animosity, but after everything that happened since coming home, all Jon could ask for was the gods giving you just one more thing to bring a bit of brevity to your heart again. Holding a hand out, Allard and he shook firmly.

Part of you could only hope Allard at least had manners enough not to do what he liked to do when shaking mens hands for the first time. In Kings Landing, countless times when he would meet a new lord or knight that clearly looked down on such a lowborn being your own sworn shield, he would return their gesture of a handshake usually with a grip that took many of the more feeble men off guard. Once twice did you ever encounter men who caught on in amusement.

Jon seemed content to keep holding the baby, a sight no doubt not usual. The King being the one to let his Queen stand there and chat as he cared for the child without any negativity towards the matter as their grips let go. Still polite as he always was, “I’ve heard a lot about you from her.” It was common to say as a positive sort of joke, but your eyes peeled over to Allard as soon as Jon said it. “All good of course.”

Any other man might’ve responded like a normal person, but you knew Allard far too well. Raising a brow he let his head flicker between you and Jon before landing back on the later. “Then I know she’s been lying through her teeth to you about me.” Saying his name in a flat warning, Allard only grinned before looking much more genuine to Jon. “And I’ve heard more then a few interesting stories about you over these past few years. Not often I meet nobility that I’m fairly certain isn’t about to turn their nose up at breaking bread with the lowborn likes of me.”

Your expression was flat as you looked at him, it had taken little to no time for him to become as comfortable as he always was. “You do recall you have been in nobility for more then a few decades now.”

He only gave you an expression you knew far too well. One that spoke that you were as a child needing to be explained the world. “Aye, and yet I was a smuggler before I came into your fathers service. And my family before that were crabbers. You think it’s common I meet another lord or king that is going to understand my position the way a bastard would?”

There was no hesitation in the way your hand came up to rest against your face as you wished to shake it with a sigh. Jon only reassured you by way of reassuring Allard, “I spent time in the Nights Watch, if being a bastard didn’t teach me not to judge another man for his place in life, working along side mostly criminals and farmhands certainly did.” Allard as if only noticing then, glanced down to the baby and back, asking if that was the little prince, as he called him. Jon nodded, only answering with his name instead, the only thing he considered of import. “Eddard.”

You and Jon both were grateful Allard was not the man to offer his sympathies for Ned Stark’s passing just because his name was brought up. At this point, he experienced enough of loss in his own family and life that he knew other men did not need reminders at every opportunity. Coming up close, Allard looked at the sleeping baby. An honesty on his lips as he shook his head in a bit of disbelief, “And I thought my mother giving birth to half her sons in that tiny shack we called a home wasn’t easy. You really gave birth out there?” Looking towards you, as you only let your eyes find Jons for a moment. Yet it was enough to say to Allard unconsciously, that it was not quite a memory either of you looked back on willingly at that point. You really had scarcely spoken about it since coming home at all.

You read his silent language as he did you, that he was perfectly fine with a change of subject to get you off of whatever track that thought would’ve gotten you on. “What are you doing here, Allard?” You did not in fact, react to his joking ask that you weren’t happy to see him. Only tiling your head as your arms crossed your front.

Nodding, he gestured out to where you all knew the outside winter snows were falling for emphasis, “Your father and mine are both making their way here. Fast as King Stannis can travel, it’s still a longer ride with the guard then I can do on my own. Besides, I figured you could do with seeing someone more comforting before he gets here.”

Your mind didn’t go there, but it did for Jon. That Allard might be someone else who could possibly understand his position about the way Stannis had raised you, and the ill content about the results on your behalf. But, you only nodded, an anxiety flaring up within you at what your father would say but you nodded regardless. Looking back up at him shaking the concerns off, none too well. “How long are you staying? Only until my father comes and leaves again?”

His answer took you off guard, and yet Allard said it as if you were slow for not thinking of it already. “Now tell me, how does one act as a Queen’s sworn shield if I’m off...wherever it will be your father sends me to next time?” You only looked up at him, that warmth growing again. Just one small thing to remind you of a life that was once not solely filled with grief and pain. Only, it never would last completely, with your luck considering what words he said next to dash that feeling of joy. “And for your reference, your father should arrive bright and early in the morning.”

Your entire face fell, as Allard looked up to share a knowing expression with Jon that you did not see. Only hearing Jons voice, “We’ll find a room for you.” Assuring the details of everything else could be handled when it wasn’t so late, he gave you enough space to share one more hug with Allard before parting ways.

He held you tight once more, like the little sister he had so long treated you as, again a mutter only for you to hear. “I had my father promise to force Stannis to go easy on you. Don’t worry so much.” You nodded, inhaling deeply away the anxiety both men could see clearly before parting ways. Telling him that at the least, getting used to his new duties here would only require learning his way around. Though, you knew your guard was about to get far less quiet if it had Theon and Allard both in it’s rotation, but that was thought for another night.

Counting yourself lucky, little Eddard had stayed asleep up to and including as you put him properly into his cradle. As soon as you pulled the warmer wolf blanket over top of him, he wormed around a little as he always did when asleep and you tucked him in. As if sensing you were there and wanting to ask you to stay and cuddle with him, but being too asleep to be able to convey it. Leaning down to press your lips to the top of his head in a gentle kiss, you only were able to stand up enough before Jon appeared at your back.

Pulling you somewhat into his chest with his hands by your hips, and one slinking around to wrap around your front. Your hands naturally grasped at his forearm while he rested the side of his head against yours. Both your eyes just on the baby until he found his voice rasping gently first. “Do you want to be alone when first seeing him in the morning? Or do you want me there with you?”

You didn’t need to ask what he meant. Holding at his forearm tighter. A soft whisper, insecure unlike what you wished to sound like. “Would it seem childish to want you there?” Jon only smiled against you, muttering that of course it wasn’t. Kissing your cheek, Jon only moved away enough to position himself behind you.

Pushing your hair in front of your shoulders, he begun to undo the laces at the back of your dress. A foolish thought in his opinion that some still thought you could do with more maids or a Lady in Waiting to do this for you. In Jons mind, thats what you had him for. Of course, you felt the same towards him and some more domestic duties attributed to a steward or squire.

Strange as it was, it was all you knew. Out in war, you and Robb so much had to rely on one another and you had never thought about doing it any different with Jon. You never questioned anything with Robb, out there it was nearly all instincts you both had to work off of when not pure strategy. Yet now, even here in his arms, you felt that burning nag in your stomach to ask him. As if Jon of all people, would suddenly become the husband unhappy when you made choices for your own agency. “Are you sure you’re alright with it?” A questioning hum left Jon, forcing you to elaborate. Your words spoken a bit slower, showing off more of the insecurity and hesitancy within them. “Allard. Are you certain it’s alright for him to be here..”

Jon murmured your name, leaning down to kiss a path along your neck back up to your ear before holding you back against him more tenderly. “Darling.” You could feel his hand winding up and around to undo the belt around your waist before the hefty weight of the dress fell loose and pooled around your feet, left in a longer, dark shift as Jon ran a hand up and down your hip. “You’re here, surrounded by my family, my people.” Pausing as you felt him look up before directing his gaze back to you. “Even my things. You still barley have anything of your own in comparison, and the only person you have from your life here is Selyse. I’d never tell you he couldn’t be here, I know how much he means to you.” You felt him nuzzle the side of your head, right away turning a little to return the gesture as his voice grew somehow softer. “I want you to be happy, that’s all. I just didn’t think it would take getting you something as little as a new guard to do it.”

He laughed gently as you breathed out a laugh. Leaning more back into him for support as you felt that unease swim through you. “I don’t think we should tell him. My father, about the assassins.” Only asking a short why, you swallowed roughly. “I know word will get out eventually, but, I only..I don’t..”

Shaking your head, Jon picked up where he knew your thoughts had dropped off as you felt overwhelmed so easily. “On top of everything else, you don’t want to worry him.” Nodding yes, Jon sighed deeply, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “I can’t promise I won’t be honest with him if he brings the issue up to be himself, but, I won’t go out of my way to tell him.”

It didn’t feel good, making him promise to keep such a large secret for you from your father, but you didn’t feel good about what was already to come. You didn’t need this on top of it, you didn’t want this to be any more awkward then it already was going to be.

Morning came before you knew it. Always starting early with little Eddard being awake first and wanting to be fed. Sleeping in for a comfortable time never quite was consistent with him now, often waking yourself and Jon up both absurdly early before you’d feed the baby. Taking time to rest back in bed then just together before getting up for the day. But, after the baby finished feeding, you felt those nerves return and Jon could tell you were not going to be amicable to just resting back in his arms.

From the moment you had laid little Eddard back in his cradle, you seemed on edge. Your fingers dancing across the top of it in a mindless pattern, the gesture unbecoming of you unless nervous. Jon had to come up behind you. Grasping at your hands and pulling them back, gracefully turning you to face him in the process before letting him cup your cheeks.

His curls still loose around him as his voice rough from sleep still, you wanted to just climb back into bed and reveal in enjoying him as such without anything else. But Jon knew you wouldn’t do that, nor did either of you think it would be a good idea to not be prepared. Muttering your name, Jon ran his thumb over your cheek. “As far as you know, he’s just here to meet his grandson. It doesn’t have to be a problem.” You held at his waist, pushing your hands inside the open shirt he had throw on once little Eddard had woken first, and finding his skin warmer further under the softer material. Only pointing out that he would want to know about what happened, all of it. Jon exhaled deeply, turning your head downwards to press a kiss to your forehead before making you look up to meet his eyes again. “Then he’s going to have to take it one step at a time. Just like everyone else.” You didn’t say anything, just a wide eyed look up at him trusting that it was going to be alright, even though your mind disagreed.

Turning you in his arms, Jon guided you to stand at the vanity in front of the mirror. Reaching for your brush, Jon didn’t even hesitate to start running it through your hair, yourself noting how long it took for him to reach the ends of each strand as you begun a small smile. “Are you purposely taking longer to brush my hair now as an excuse, or are you just rather slow at doing it?”

You could barley see his smirk from the reflection. “I never got to enjoy it the way I wanted before, then you cut it by the time I was allowed anywhere near your hair in private.” Not a laugh, but a smile tinted in fondness came over you with a playful roll of your eyes. Jon so careful each time, never once when it was him brushing, washing, or braiding your hair did you ever feel any sting or pain if he hit a tangle. He was more gentle then your own hand maidens even had been in the early days you weren’t strong enough to say no to them fussing overt your hair.

It was only until one of the elder ones suggested doing your hair up similar to Cersei’s did you put your foot down. Still twelve at the time, they had been taken back by your tone and strictness. You delegated them to simple styles forcing them to leave your hair mostly around your shoulders until you were so fed up with them. You had pulled a blade hiding in the chest in your chambers out in the evening when they were all gone.

You had moved to stand out on the balcony your bedchambers led out to, grabbing a thick handful of your hair as you felt it blow in the wind before slicing a significant amount off. Letting the dark strands flow through the air and never knowing where the landed or what anyone would’ve thought at seeing hair appear from the sky.

You had gotten ready and dressed without them very early, and left to the main dining area by the time food would’ve begun being brought out. You had sat without more then a greeting to your father, knowing he was staring at you for some time. Likely attempting to figure out what was different until he only asked why. You had shrugged, stating that it was hot in Kings Landing when really he knew you didn’t want to be fussed over.

Yet now, you stood there, letting Jon fuss over your hair. Knowing with little question what style you’d want and having the patience do do it. Too the added benefit that Jon thus had the freedom to style your hair in the ways he thought you looked the most beautiful and would indulge himself as such. “I told the guards to bring your father here when he arrives. So you and the baby can be comfortable together before he gets here.” Nodding, he didn’t pressure you to say more.

Finishing you, then taking turns to dress one another before you were the one standing behind him, gathering his curls up to tie back behind him. The baby had woken since then, happily laying about in his cradle as long as he could see or hear yourself and Jon, not making a fuss. Just as you both finished readying for the day, you spun on the spot to lean down to the baby. A smile across your face as a bright one came over his, arms reaching up to try and grab at you already. “Good morning, sweet boy.” Picking him up, you held him carefully with narrowing eyes, glancing to Jon. Who had not moved, only leaning back against the cabinet with his arms crossed, nothing but an adoration across his face as you looked inquisitively towards him. “Is he holding his head up more lately?”

Jons smile grew wider, “Aye.” Coming to close the gap, he ran his hand over the top of his head as little Eddard made a content sound leaning into his fathers warm touch, meeting too his bright eyes. “I asked Maester Wolkan about it. He said in a few weeks, maybe another month or so and he should start being able to hold his head up more with out constant help.” Smiling back down at him too, you rocked him gently as Jon kept a hand running over, thumb trailing along his tiny cheek. “And your mother was worried you wouldn’t catch up.”

Little Eddard made a louder sound, something playful that pulled a grin from Jon right away. The hand by his cheek drifting toward to his torso. A giggle filled the air right away as Jon gently ticked the baby’s stomach, who now wormed away from his fathers cruel actions closer to you. Leaning down to whisper at him in a mocking way, pretending Jon couldn’t hear your clandestine meeting from a foot away. “I know, he’s so cruel.” Another giggling sound left the baby, even as Jon eased up.

Hand leaving the baby to cup your cheek, you both gazed at one another for a moment before finally a knock was heard. The guard didn’t need to even introduce whom was here to see you both, you knew right away as you stiffened up. Little Eddard noticing the shift in the air, and especially you right away. Jon let his hand slip behind your neck, pulling you close to press a kiss to your forehead. Lingering longer then normal as if sensing you might be needing him here more then you were even willing to barley admit the night before.

Jons voice was a firm command, turning to give you a respectable amount of space, not to look so possessive right off hand if you were to guess. How long Jon could keep that up, you did not think long. “Send him in.”

Not enough time had passed for anything to change, you nor Jon looked substantially different, and neither did your father, but as he walked inside the room, there was a silence as you both took one another in as if looking for differences anyways. You’d say possibly he looked more stressed, but he always looked as such. Saying your name, your voice was as quiet as his but more tight and on edge. “Father.”

Part of you knew Jon must feel uncomfortable, being in between such tense people but you knew without him you may just lash out and you didn’t want to start off that way. The two of them shook hands, starting with more formalities, though that was not unexpected. Your father instead of the usual small talk, normally worked his way through a formal list of more unimportant matters before dropping to the subject at hand when in a more social situation this tense. “I would ask how the journey went, but I presume that’s a far more complicated answer then for right now.”

Jon exhaled a little more heavily, but with a single nod as he let go of his hand. “You’d be right. But, judging by your raven, you didn’t come here for that.” Muttering a no, your father once again looked at you. A small sound coming from the bundle in your arms, him covered up enough from the angle you stood at that the baby couldn’t be seen right away.

You didn’t say a word, but moved a little forward for his sake. Pulling the blanket a little more off his head, the baby’s eyes blinked at the brighter amount of light now with wide curious eyes. Looking up at you, he made a small babbling sound once more almost confused. The awkward tension radiated off of you and he was clearly picking up on it, and with only one new person in the room he would be able to sense who was the source of it.

Jon stood close, but a respectable amount of feet back as you and your father approached the other. His hand gently pulling the blanket at the side a bit back, looking down at the baby. Both looked at one another, before an uncomfortable sound came from the baby. One almost as if he needed to be cleaned, but you knew that was not the issue now. He was uncomfortable just as you were. Your voice barley a gentle murmur, trying to put up enough of a facade that would calm him down before he got upset. “This is my father, Stannis. Your grandfather.”

Wide green eyes looked up to ones whose colour matched his like yours, but without the same warmth. There was an apprehension. You wondered if he only knew you had a child, not that you had a boy. It made things so much worse, and too, something else in the air that you knew Jon wouldn’t be able to pick up on the way you did. Your father didn’t yet look away from him, but there wasn’t quite the warm welcome that your mother had with him. “What’s his name?”

Jon answered for you, knowing it would come off better if he said the name which at least came from his own side of the family. “Eddard.” Stannis looked over to Jon for a moment with a difficult to read curiosity before nodding, looking back between you then the baby.

His voice was low and collected, but something with more questions brewing silently behind his eyes. “A fitting name for a Northern child.” You almost pleaded with him not to say anything here, not in front of Jon when it was his father whose name was being honoured. You’d have that discussion in private, but he was sensible enough not to throw salt on that wound. Instead, he stood back.

It didn’t really register to yourself, but it certainly did to Jon that Stannis did not ask to hold his grandson, nor did you even think to offer to let him.

“You told no one you were pregnant. I presume you knew when you left, if not both of you.” That time you took the brunt of it, Jon blamed himself and so did others and you wouldn’t let it happen again.

Your voice firm, holding the baby a little closer to your chest as your face twisted into something harsh. “Yes, I knew. And I made the choice to go anyways, I thought we would have the time to get there and back before I went into labour.” Only pointing out that you didn’t, you blinked heavily trying to push away the worst of the memory. Jon stood beside you both, his eyes much more trapped on you, trying to push out the echoing memory of the deafening sounds of screaming inside that cave as you spoke now. “I went into labour a full month early. We didn’t expect it, it just happened. We were almost a week from Castle Black, it wasn’t Jons fault.”

Stannis was mostly silent, watching you now very carefully. Your eyes glanced to the door where your mother was perched by the frame watching. Both with eyes on you matching, something full of a pain that wasn’t self soothing but as if feeling an ache they previously never knew they’d feel again. “I didn’t say it was his fault. As you said, you made your choice.” But he moved on, working better if he made his way once more through a list of questions. “Is he healthy?”

Nodding, you looked back down. A smaller smile came over you as you ran a thumb over his cheek. Were he not swaddled, little Eddard would’ve tried to grab at your hand to keep it there. Instead he stayed calm, but watching you intently as if he wished for this situation to end himself. “Maester Wolkan assured me he is.”

Selyse added, stepping closer into the room around to your side. A much more motherly dynamic even between you both then Stannis had last saw of either of you together. A hand around your back and against your other arm while the other ran along the top of his head herself, a more calm look on his face towards her then his grandfather as all no doubt could tell. “He was tiny when they brought him home, but he’s grown significantly. If I would take a guess, he will be at full size in a fortnight if not sooner at the rate hes growing.”

You changed the subject, unable to withhold the same urge your father had. To keep jumping back to the main points at hand. “How long will you be staying?” Saying he was not yet sure, Jon only jumped in to assure he’d find a suitable room for he and his men as well. You knew some would find it odd, how Stannis had arrived and had no intent on sleeping in the same bed as his own wife.

Personally, you were certain that had not been the case since Shireen was conceived. You were long since used to how little affection spread through the eldest members of your family. Before he could even think to turn and leave, any of them you stopped them. “There’s one more thing.”

The look you shared with your mother said enough, only moving as far away to close the door away from the ears of any of the guards outside. Turning back, she started it. “We need to discuss something, or, rather someone now that you are here.”

Taking all three of you off guard, Stannis said it calmly and knowingly as he looked at you specifically. “You mean Roberts bastard that you have been hiding here for months?” Your eyes grew wide, looking to your mother only to have those questions stomped out. “No one told me. He has the misfortune of being outside by the gates when I arrived. He did a rather good job at pretending he hadn’t.”

“I wonder why.” You only stared at him, holding the baby firmer as if a crutch to keep you from losing your temper. “His name is Gendry, father. Your nephew. Possibly the only one you have left.” Inhaling deeply, you looked down at the baby before finding the right words. “I don’t want to hear any explanation, what you did. Or rather, what you were going to allow the Lady Melisandre to do to him. None of that is justified. And you won’t do anything like it again.” He raised his eyebrows at you, likely a command being given to your own father for the first time. “Gendry is under my protection now, and you let that woman hurt enough of this family for her goals. If you didn’t agree with that you would’ve protested long ago when I sent her away, but you didn’t. So I don’t want to hear a single word about anything you had planned or thought you might do about him being here. He’s your blood, if you like it or not.”

It was hard to explain for Jon, exactly why he felt so immensely proud of you for standing up for Gendry. Even when you both knew when you saw him later today, no doubt an argument would break out about Stannis being here in the first place. Jon knew not to intrude on your private discussions with him, but part of him was so amused by the way you both could argue, banter, and insult back and forth that he knew it would be highly entertaining to watch.

Stannis was taken back. Only looking at you with narrowed eyes before relenting just as calm. “This is your home, I am only your guest. As you wish.” A stern but hesitant nod came from you, as if expecting push back. But, maybe you only were imagining an argument you’d have shared countless times with Robert, not Stannis. Two very different kinds of confrontation, and your father was not the one who encouraged yelling, as cathartic as you and Robert yelling at one another could feel after for your tempers. At least Gendry inherited that trait, and was far more amusing to argue with then your King.

Once more you had too much on your mind, stepping forward before he could leave the room again. “Father, about Allard-”

That was a look of bemusement on his face no doubt, only half turned around towards you. “You can thank Ser Davos when you see him for that. Consider it his gift, a congratulations for your sons birth. I’m sure he is lurking around the castle somewhere. The two of them certainly know how to do that.” For the first time a look was more jesting between you both.

Two Seaworths, both former smugglers alone in the castle. You knew they could find every secret hidden in these walls within hours if left to their own devices long enough.

Sensing Jon coming up behind you, his hands ran up and down your arms before letting one go to run along little Eddards head. Much more settled now that you three were alone, his awkward tension leaving the moment Stannis left his view. “That went better then I thought.”

Leaning back into his chest, Jon stood more firmly to stand as comforting support for you, his hand still on your arm firmly running up and down. “There was a lot he wouldn’t say in front of you.” Asking like what, you shook your head. “Questions I know he has that aren’t appropriate to ask when you’re there.” That didn’t answer the question, but you knew the subject of the baby’s name was not over.

It was still hard for Jon to let go of. How much more on edge, how much more closed off you seemed when Stannis was around. He could especially now look back to how carefree he had gotten you when it was only you both out north. How much he brought you out of your shell, and how much you crawled back into that shell as soon as your father appeared. You had stood up against him, but not for yourself. You defended that it wasn’t Jons fault you went out there, and you had stood up in defence of Gendry. But nothing about you or how you felt or anything.

You still didn’t want to disappoint him, even though at this point Jon knew that you had nothing to gain from trying to navigate around just being honest. You were still a bit of that little girl not wanting her father to look down on you, but at the cost of your own well being. He didn’t like seeing you tense, and unsure, and self doubting and closed off. He didn’t like seeing you regress just because you still as if you needed to fit an image long broken by him.

He was no longer the father you thought he was, and you were no longer the daughter he thought you were. The war had severed that image forever, and yet you still regressed trying to put the pieces of the facade back together to try and gain his approval.

Night and day it was. Interacting with Stannis man to man, one King to another. But as the man who loves you, watching you and your father just felt angering. It made Jon feel as if it might be a bit harder to push that aside when speaking to him on official matters. Possibly, it was encouraged now that he brought his son down to the tomb of Ned Stark.

Jons own father was loving and caring towards you in a way everyone in Winterfell knew that Stannis was not. But Stannis was the father remaining to you, and Jon hated that you didn’t feel as warm and comfortable with him as you did even in front of the memory of his own father. Jon didn’t want it to make him angry, but it truly did.

He just wished Stannis loved you as his daughter, the way Ned Stark did long before you ever married into his family. You didn’t deserve to be so held back by a man Jon respected so much. You didn’t deserve to be so conflicted and playing nice for Jons sake when he was the one who needed to stand his ground for you against him. It would depend on how anything went in the future, but Jon knew he needed to be your voice against your own father instead of letting the man walk all over the progress Jon had spent months, even years, fixing with you.

Hopefully he thought, Sam would help calm him down a little. If anyone Jon knew would understand having such deep issues with their father, it was him of all people. And possibly too, if they were at least alone, Jon might just bring up the issue with Gilly.

Of all times Jon knew now that you could do with her friendship again, and as much as Jon wanted to be there to fix everything, he knew being friends with her had been important to you. He knew you’d tell him not to, but Jon was too painfully aware that you would not go out of your way to fix things with people, not wanting to intrude on their lives when they were making yours worse with being so distant.

Besides, little Sam being a toddler now was proving to be great practice to handle when Jons own son got to be that age. And however many more he could hopefully convince you to have in the future if the most needing parts of Jons heart could have a say it in. But not even that could drown it out, what he was brought back to in that room, your father asking you about giving birth out there.

Jon didn’t want you to know whatsoever how much he was still haunted by that night in the cave.

[luwritesomething]

hi! my name is lucía and/or lu. i have no idea how you've stumbled into my account. i used to write x reader but now i'm just burn out! also english is not my first language, so mistakes are very probable. i'm revamping my account because i'm in the middle of exams at uni and there's nothing better to do, other than studying. that's pretty much it. here's a link to my ao3, which is pretty abandoned as well but i have some good things written there, and there's also stuff i used to post here. here's my spotify, if anyone wants to check out my 300+ playlist, and here's my twitter account which i rarely ever use.

oh and here is the masterlist with the few things i wrote that i didn't throw to the trash. so... some things i'm really into right now! dean winchester and supernatural (seasons 1 to 9). dominic fike. politics. books and reading. all for the game. game of thrones. jaime lannister. robb stark. my blog is a safe space for! trans people. poc. women. queer and people from the community. activists. palestinians. ukrainians. things you WILL get blocked for! racism, sexism, classism, ableism. nazis get the fuck away, trumpies go suck his balls and terfs go be evil somewhere else. fuck israel, always. if you're a minor, you shouldn't have tumblr so i'll probably block you just to be safe.

feel free to always reach out to me! my notifications don't really work for some reason, but i'll make sure to come and check at least once a week.

[mrsdarkandyandere7]

Safe and Sound

Pairing: Dark Robb Stark x (female) Reader

▶ This is a yandere/dark work and it may contain triggering content so please READ THE WARNINGS before. Do not read if minor.

More at Masterlist

SUMMARY: Your husband is a rather protective man.

WARNINGS: Toxic Marriage.

Please, reblog and give me feedback.

--

“You’re not going.”

“What?” you laugh, turning around to look at Robb, only to discover his face devoid of any humor.

Your maids immediately halt, bowing before their King.

“You may all go now. The Queen isn’t leaving the castle.” You glare at him as he dismisses the servants with a wave of his hand.

He approaches you, his big hand reaching for your elbow as he firmly pulls you towards your chambers. You glare at him, incredulous, as you remove your arm from his hold with an aggressive tug.

“I  can’t believe in this. Are you forbidding me from leaving Winterfell?”

Robb’s jaw tightens at your tone, but you don’t back down.

“Are you?” you insist.

“I’m your husband and the King. I have every right to make decisions when it comes to your safety.”

You scoff, crossing your arms.

“Does that mean you’ll keep me as a prisoner? As if I’m a criminal, not the Queen.”

Robb sighs heavily, rubbing his hand over his face.

“If I have to, then yes, I will.” he replies, determination splashed over his face. He takes a step closer, his face so close that you can see the irises of his eyes, the way your upset face is reflected in his blue eyes.

“If it means keeping you alive, then I will. If it means keeping you away from all the dangers that exists outside, then I will.”

His voice deepens as he speaks. Goosebumps flaring up in your arms upon hearing those words.

This isn’t the Robb you married to. No, this is King Robb. Not your husband.

“There is nothing in this world I wouldn’t do if it means keeping you safe.”

[kingnlionhearts]

For Good Luck, Robb Stark x Reader

warnings: SMUT!! 18+ minors, please dni. female reader, no y/n, fingering, unprotected piv

note: this is my second time writing smut, so i'm sorry if it's bad lmfao. but i had fun writing it 🫶 inspired by this post by @dipperscavern

word count: 0.9k

The camp was a flurry of men preparing for war as you pressed through the rows of tents and rallying horses to reach the council tent. Your husband was holding a final strategy meeting before the battle began, so you were surprised when Robb called you to see him. As always, you came to him without hesitation.

Anxiety weighed on your chest as you entered the tent. Your eyes met Robb’s blue and he gave you a smile. He gave his men leave and came to you as soon as they disappeared under the flaps of the tent. Robb looked especially beautiful and imposing this morning in his armour, his sword and scabbard laid on the war table. He looked delectable, but the nerves in your system did not settle — you feared for your husband’s life every time he rode into battle. Robb had never lose a battle, but that still did nothing to quench your fear that one day he could return to you injured or dead.

Robb’s lips met yours with a desperate hunger. Your arms around his neck, his hands tight against your hips, you drew each other in close. You and Robb moved in harmony, knowing which buttons to press to fan the sparks with in you — delightful consequences of your short yet devoted marriage.

Robb began to maneuver you, only leaving your mouth when you both drew breath, until you bumped against the war table. Easily, Robb lifted you to sit on the edge of the table. One of his gloved hands came under your dress and brushed against your clothed core. The sensation made your breath hitch and Robb abandoned your lips.

"May I?" he asked, circling your clit. "For good luck."

Your fingers dug into the plates of Robb’s armour, the metal cool against your warm skin. You nodded. "Please."

Your eyes rolled shut, moaning in bliss when Robb pushed two fingers inside you. You felt his gaze on you, he watched your features crease and relax in pleasure as he slowly worked his fingers in and out of you. Robb pressed kisses against your jaw and down your neck, grinning against your skin as he pulled another gasping moan from you.

Robb began to move faster with gentle care, and he returned to your lips with kisses you gratefully returned. He was quick to bring you to the edge of your peak, his fingers already slick with you. Then he slipped out of you, leaving you aching and pissed off. Your eyes shot open, hardening into a glare at your husband. Robb’s smirk made you even more desperate — you were ready to whine and beg him to finish, or finish the job yourself.

Robb brought you to your feet and turned you around. Your hips became pressed against the war table and Robb’s chest pressed against your back. One hand bracing against the table, you raised your other hand to Robb’s auburn curls as he dipped his head to kiss your neck. Robb’s hands on your hips, he rolled you against his crotch. Your fingers scratching against the table.

"Are you alright?" he asked, against your ear.

You gave a sure nod, leaning back against Robb to grind against him. "Yes. Fuck me, please."

Robb gave a low groan at your words. He fumbled in his desperate haste, pushing up your dress and freeing himself to line at your entrance and pushed into you, hard. Robb’s thrusts came quick and rough as he pressed your body against the table, his deepness sending moans spilling from your lips. The feel of Robb’s armour against your exposed skin sent shivers up your spine.

The thudding of hooves and men shouting orders grew louder outside. You covered your mouth as another moan escaped you when Robb returned his fingers to tease your clit. Taking himself deep inside you, Robb leaned in to press hot kisses against your neck, teeth nipping at your skin. Already close when he pushed into you, it did not take very long for you to be writhing beneath your husband and praying for your release.

"Come for me, love," Robb whispered against your ear.

The softness to his words sent you over the edge. You cried out as Robb fucked you through your release. You clenched around him and Robb finished inside you. The mix of releases soaked your thighs.

Both breathless, Robb reluctantly pulled out of you. Twisting you around to face him, he pulled you close against his chest and held you tightly.

"Come back home to me," you pleaded as you and Robb cleaned yourselves up. You held his hands tightly, wishing he never had to leave again. "Alive. Unharmed."

Robb kissed you, lips gentle against yours. "I will. I love you."

"I love you too."

You held onto Robb as long as you could, walking with him to his horse. He kissed you one last time and you hugged tightly.

Before mounting his horse, Robb whispered to you, "I’ll fuck you properly when I come home, I promise."

Warmth rising to your cheeks, you giggled. You pressed short, desperate kisses against Robb’s face. Robb mounted his horse and squeezed your hand before leaving you behind to ride into battle once more.

[asa-do-your-thing]

i loveddd ur mermaid!reader x theon fic!! do you think you’d ever continue it? i’d love a part 2 where he sees her after a few months or something ^_^

Hi dear! I feel so guilty, I have posted it already on AO3 but forgot do so here!!

Swim to me; let me enfold you II

18+ MINORS DNI Theon Greyjoy x F!SelkieReader 4.5 k Warnings: smut, drowning, death, afterlife-ish?, P in V sex, porn w/o plot, soft smut, the selkie is definitely changing the plot

The Myraham creaked loudly as it dove through the rough seas. Theon Greyjoy and the Mallisters had left Seagard a few hours ago and he had finally finished settling into his cabin on the fat-bellied trading cog. He wanted nothing more than to step out of the dingy room and breathe the salty air once more. The thought of going to the Captain’s daughter was enticing; yet his cock did not stir and he was sure that letting his hair gather some salt would surely impress his Lord Father once they reached Pyke.

He donned his thick, dark cloak and strode out, trying his best to walk confidently through the ship’s decks without stumbling as it rolled from side to side. Pyke. His home. Though, was it? He could scarce remember it, really. He faintly remembered the way his room had been; the way his brothers Rodrik and Maron used to torment him, the way his mother had held him.

The upper deck was awash with sea spray, yet to his surprise, the waves were much smaller than he thought them to be. Hells, how should he have known their size? The last time he had been on the sea was on the trip to Bear Island with Lord Eddard Stark. Shuddering, Theon held onto the railing and looked out into the darkening sky and sighed. That was the night where he had gotten so drunk, that he thought he had fucked a selkie.

As a way to amuse himself, to cast his thoughts away from Pyke, Winterfell, the beheaded Lord Stark and his mission from Robb - nay, King Robb - he let his eyes wander over the waves, trying to see if there were any seals swimming about. Whoever that woman or girl had been - she could not have possibly been the creature his mind had dreamt up - did leave a lasting impression on him, on the way she spoke about the sea, the way she had spoken to him.

Seagulls screeched overhead, as if mocking his thoughts, while the other passengers began to make their way to the lower decks. The first man to leave nodded in Theon’s direction. “Best get some rest, lad. Won’t do to go to your Lord Father looking like death.” Then another man, older, with a beard that bristled like a broom, added, “Aye, it’s getting late. You ought to turn in.”

Theon waved them off. “I’ll stay up a while longer. I’ve seen enough of cabins.”

They shrugged and disappeared below, leaving him alone with the sailors. The darkness grew thicker, swallowing the sea and sky until they were all one shadow. He leaned against the rail, letting the spray soak him. The salt air stung his eyes and lips, and he felt alive. A true son of the Iron Islands, he thought. A true Greyjoy. Yet the name felt as strange on his tongue as a foreign word, as if he were trying to convince himself of its meaning.

The ship creaked and groaned again, a voice of its own speaking to him in the night. The lanterns bobbed and swung, casting wild, flickering shapes across the deck. He watched the sailors work, a dance of muscle and rope that he had never learned. They moved with the swell of the ship as if born to it, unlike himself, who still stumbled with each roll.

He wondered what his father would say when he saw him, this stranger from the green lands. Would he laugh? Would he be pleased? He wondered if his father would even recognize him. Would he care? The wind picked up, whipping his hair across his face. The ship pitched wildly, and the waves grew taller, like dark, angry hands clawing at the hull.

“Storm’s coming!” one of the sailors shouted, but the words were snatched away by the gale.

Theon gripped the rail with both hands, laughing at the fury of it all. He leaned out into the wind, daring it to take him. The sea roared back, a beast awakened, and he felt a kinship with it, as if it mirrored his own wild heart. He squinted into the spray, and there, just beyond the bow, a shape moved in the water.

A seal.

It bobbed in the waves, sleek and silver, its eyes shining like black pearls. A laugh burst from him, a howl of disbelief. It was just like the one he had seen on Bear Island, like the one he had imagined the girl to be. He slapped the rail, eyes watering with laughter, his body shaking with it.

“Selkie!” he shouted into the storm, finding the joke so uproarious that he had to gasp for breath.

A wave slammed against the side of the ship, exploding in a spray that soaked him to the bone. The deck tilted violently, slick and treacherous, but Theon was still laughing, so caught in the absurdity of it all that he barely noticed.

“Watch out!” a sailor yelled, but Theon didn’t hear.

The next wave hit harder, a wall of water that swept across the deck, a cold, crushing weight that knocked the breath from him and sent him sprawling. He reached for the rail, but his fingers slipped on wet wood. The ship bucked beneath him, and he felt his feet leave the deck, felt the world spin, felt the icy fingers of the ocean close around him as it pulled him under.

The rush of the sea filled his ears, a sound too loud to be heard, a silence too deep to be felt. He thrashed, arms and legs moving wildly, fighting the water that held him, the water that wanted him, that claimed him. Up was down and down was up, and for a moment he was sure he would drown.

Then the sea spat him out, and he broke the surface, gasping at the air, clinging to it, clutching it like a drowning man clutches driftwood. The night was a storm of wind and waves, and the ship was nowhere to be seen. He called out, his voice a hoarse, ragged cry, but the storm swallowed it. He was alone in the water, alone with the sea that was now his world.

A piece of flotsam bumped against him, and he seized it, his hands raw and numb from the cold. He pulled himself onto it, shivering uncontrollably, choking on salt and a desperate cry for air. Theon Greyjoy, he thought. The sea tried to take him, and it was almost a comfort. Better the sea than his father. Better the sea than shame.

The storm raged around him, and he clung to the wreckage, his only island, his only hope. The night stretched out, timeless and endless, and he was adrift in it, a speck of life in a vast, dark ocean. The flotsam tore itself away from him; he closed his eyes, letting the ocean rock him, cradle him down into his depths, lull him into a panicked sleep where he dreamed of Pyke, of the sea tower rising from the spray, of longships and saltwives and sons who would never be him.

There was only one thought on his mind as his lungs burnt, desperate for air. A snippet of a conversation where he had laid next to her, his ‘selkie’ girl. "You have pleased me well, my iron prince," she had murmured, her voice purring softly like that of a cat. "The sea will remember you fondly." If he could, he would have snorted at that. Yet there he was; laying under the soft blanket of the waves crashing over him, as his cloak and leathers draggeed him ever further down.

Theon had chuckled weakly then, catching his breath, after he had fucked her. "I don't think I'll ever forget this night," he had said. "Or you." That much was still true; out of everything he could have thought of in his last waking moments before the Drowned God took him in, he thought of the strange, darling, wet girl that had taken him into her shack by the sea on Bear Island. The selkie had smiled, a hint of sadness in her eyes. "Perhaps," she had said . "But the memories of men are often as fleeting as seafoam on the shore."

He drifted, lost in a bitter and frigid world. The sea surged over him, and he felt himself loosen, felt himself let go. It was almost easy. There, in that moment, he thought he felt the warmth of hands reaching down, pulling him up from the dark, holding him. The feeling was so soft, so impossible, that he let himself slip into it, let himself believe it, let himself fall. And then there was nothing.

When he opened his eyes again, it was to dim light and the crackle of fire. He lay on a rough wooden floor, and his clothes were gone, replaced by a blanket that smelled of salt and smoke. His body ached, his skin stung, and for a long, disoriented moment, he wondered if he had died, if this was the afterlife the Drowned God promised. He half expected to see the shadow of his father, the shadow of defiance on his face.

But the shadows that moved here were not those of gods or ghosts. They were the shadows of a small, cramped room, a room not unlike the one on Bear Island. A shack. He blinked, the world a blur of grey and gold, and tried to sit up. Pain shot through him, a reminder that he was still flesh and blood. Still alive.

He fell back, gasping, and a figure appeared above him, blurry and indistinct. A woman. She watched him with calm, dark eyes, eyes that seemed to know him, as if she had pulled him from the depths of the sea before. Theon felt a shiver run through him, a chill that had nothing to do with the cold.

"Where am I?" he croaked, his voice thin and foreign in his throat.

"Somewhere between," she said, her voice low and steady, though he could not place the accent. Although… "Somewhere the sea left you."

The words were strange, yet there was a familiarity to them that made him shiver again. She pressed a warm cloth to his brow, and the touch sent his mind spinning back to Bear Island, to the wild night and the wild girl who had claimed him. Was it her? Could it be?

He tried to ask, tried to make sense of the whirling thoughts and memories, but the room began to dim around him. He was so tired, so heavy with fatigue, and he felt himself slipping again. The warmth of the fire, the warmth of her hands, wrapped around him like a cloak, and he closed his eyes, letting it take him, letting himself fall back into the deep, dark sleep where there were no questions, only the soft, lulling promise that he was still remembered.

“I told you that the sea would remember you fondly, Theon,” a whisper woke him, purring and almost snorting, something wet touching his cheek. “Yet fondness means pain, if need be. My iron prince, I was afraid for you. You are not dead; I am relieved.”

Not dead was not alive; Theon surely felt as though he wasn’t alive. He was still naked, save for the blanket, but this time around he was lying on a soft bed. Not daring to open his eyes, he tried giving her a cheeky response, yet that all that came out of him was a terrible coughing fit.

“Theon of the Iron Islands, you cannot speak! I had to pull you into the sea, it hurt you, cease your talking!”, the voice exclaimed, and soon he tasted a warm, disgustingly kelpy liquid dripping into his mouth. Even though he felt as though he might retch anytime soon - this was no roasted venison - it did, indeed, soothe the fire in his throat.

There was a shuffling, then hands again against his skin, rougher this time, insistent. She made him drink, cupping his head with a gentleness he remembered, and guiding the foul liquor down his gullet while she whispered to the darkness. He could not understand the language, but the rhythms of it were familiar: the litany of old wives, the keening of mothers, the curses of the sea.

Theon drifted through a fever-dream of memory. He saw the winter sky spreading like a bruise above Bear Island, the crackling wood of the hearth, the green shimmer of pelts, the girl’s face pale as foam and her hair coiling wetly down her spine. She had moved through the world like she belonged to another, and he had believed, in the bottomless drink of that night, that she was some changeling, some daughter of the sea. It was a romantic fancy, the kind a boy would have, before fathers and crowns and loss made men of boys.

The room was close, the smell of moss and brine heavy in his nostrils. Her hands returned, working to dry him, to wrap him in kelp and furs and the strange touch of her mouth at his temple. At last he found the strength to open his eyes, to see the flicker of inhuman eyes blinking down at him with worry. She was other than he remembered, or else other than any woman he’d ever dared kiss. And yet… it was the selkie. Crouching nakedly over him, her long, dark hair draping over him as if they were a forest of kelp by the shore.

“It… it is.. you,” he muttered and studied her closer. “Why… afraid?”

The selkie hushed him with a kiss, before she wrapped him even tighter, even warmer. “You shall know why, my Prince, when I return you to the living, to your world. I am sorry to have caused you pain; but this pain is nothing against the one your world would have caused you if you had returned to whence you were born. You are of the sea, aye; I have felt so as you stuffed me with your seed. Yet your place is among wolves, I fear, not krakens. You shall suffer, and suffer more, should you return to the krakens. No, my prince; the sea promised to reward you, and that it did.”

“By… making me dream of you? Where am I?”, Theon whispered, his throbbing headache and the pressure in his lungs subsiding. “How is drowning me a reward? Seeing you is, yes, but…”

She laid a webbed finger over his lips. “You shall know. The sea takes nothing but what it owns, and you are only half ours.” It had a ring of accusation to it, her tone, and Theon felt as if he had insulted her; as if he had impregnated her and left her for dead. Or was it the other way around? Was it the Selkie who had fucked him, courtesy of the sea, to leave him so he could awkwardly stagger back to the Starks?

The thought stung more than the icy water had, and he spat, “So you shall have me drift and suffer?”

She laid against him, her strangely warm body so close, so real, that he knew she could feel his heart beat; feel the small pulse of hope that was alive in it, still, despite himself. “I told you, Theon Greyjoy; the sea will remember you fondly. Fondness means pain, if need be.”

He wanted to struggle, to grab her as she touched him one last time, but something held him back; something made him as weak as a babe against her, and he felt himself falling asleep, felt himself thrown back into the darkness of the waves and the cold, bitter night of his world.

The next time Theon woke, he felt as though he was born anew; it might’ve been because the selkie has slipped into his arms at a point, snuggling up to him, her little wet nose bumping against his chest. Gently shaking her, he glanced around the hut once more, yet it was dark, pitchdark outside and he could not make out where he was.

“You, uh, Lady Selkie, wake! Where am I? I feel good, I need to go, I need-”

“Oh hush, you,” the Selkie muttered and pulled herself up to him, her pitch black seal eyes looking up at him, her little, soft hand on his buttocks. “You are alive and well. You need for nothing. I shall return you soon. You are a selfish man; may I not be a selfish creature too? I can not posess you, my iron Prince, yet savour you… Do you wish to deprive me of this small pleasure of getting held by you?”

Theon huffed, a half-laugh that was almost a sob. He remembered the taste of her from Bear Island: salt and wind and a wild, briny undercurrent that made him feel, just for a moment, less alone. “No,” he said, softer than he’d meant. “You may have me for a little while, if you wish.” He stroked her hair—real hair, though damp and heavy, as if she’d just climbed from the sea. He thought about the hands that held him afloat, the warmth that had cradled him when all the world was black and devouring. The selkie made a pleased sound, somewhere between a purr and the bark of a harbor seal, and curled tighter against him.

The air in the hut was thick with their mingled breath. Their bodies, pressed together, made little islands of heat under the coarse wool blanket. He thought he felt the steady, drowsy thrum of her heart. Did selkies even have hearts, as men knew them? He let his mind drift, the border between waking and sleep soft as sunlight across a cove.

She spoke at last, her chin angled up so her lips brushed his ear. “Will you remember?” she asked. “Or will you forget me, as men always do?” There was no accusation in her voice, only the faded sorrow of someone acquainted with the endless forgetting of men.

It took him a long time to answer. “I remembered,” he said. “I remembered you. Even when I didn’t want to. Even when it hurt.”

That seemed to please her. She nipped his shoulder, gentle and possessive. “When you return, the sea will hunger for you again. But not yet. Not tonight.” She rolled atop him, her skin cool where it was not warmed by their bodies, the movement as natural and artless as the rolling of the tide. She kissed him again, and this time he tasted brine and the faintest trace of blood, the proof of lives spent biting and being bitten, living and dying in a world where the sea took what it willed.

After, he lay awake while she slept in the crook of his arm. The wind rose, rattling the ancient planks of the walls and throwing spray against the low, fog-blurred window. Theon stared at the ceiling and tried to count the cracks, but he lost track. He closed his eyes, clutching the selkie to him, savoring the small, selfish pleasure of being wanted by something, even if it was only a creature of sea-magic and old grief.

Dawn came slow, with pale lavender light seeping through the chinks in the walls. Theon’s head ached, but his body felt whole for the first time since Winterfell. For the first time since ever, maybe. The selkie was gone from his arms but busy at the small hearth, humming as she poked at a pot with a stick. She was clothed in nothing but her own wet hair, and when she noticed him watching, she grinned wide, her teeth white and sharp.

“I made broth for you, sea-prince.” Her accent was less subtle now; gazing out of the window, Theon slowly realized why. She did not lie; it really did seem like they were neither here nor there. There was nothing outside of the window; a sort of mist stopped him from seeing anything. She was as close to a seal as she could be.

“I will return you today, for your King needs you. No more sea for you, my Prince, for a long time, which saddens me. Yet, who am I to interfere in the plans of the things that guide your world?”, she said and plopped down next to him, giving him the broth, before languidly stretching out on her bed. “Your world wished not for your seed to take, for which I am saaaad,” she stretched out theatrically, purring drolly.

Theon chuckled and ate the kelpy soup, its taste not nearly as bad as it had been the first time. “You’re the only woman that’s ever wanted my child. Most are glad to be without.”

The Selkie propped herself onto an arm and flicked her long hair over her shoulder. “But my Prince… I am no woman!”, she said, half annoyed. She climbed atop him. “And yet you remember me? Will you? Or shall you forget when your wolves take you in?” Her voice was a song of sea-foam and longing. “It seems you are destined to drift,” she said, her eyes dark and knowing. “But I will find you when you’re lost. As long as you’ll promise me to go to your King, where you belong.”

Theon drew her down and tasted the salt of her and the promise of her, and her body, light and knowing, was a seal’s sleek form against him. He shut his eyes and kissed her, groaning loudy as he felt her hot, moist slit resting on his flaccid cock, which grew harder with every one of her movements. “You can order me about afterwards, girl. I - you said you needed to be filled once more?”

"You are so greedy," she purred, the laughter in her voice flecked with delight and something a little savage. "Let me taste if you truly are a wolf prince, or only the kraken’s leftover." And she took him in her hand, and in the close warmth of the hut, nothing mattered—no father, no King Robb, no succession or war or shame. Only the iron Prince and his selkie, and the sounds of the sea above and around and always, always within them.

She rode him like the waves themselves rode the shore, relentless and inventive, and when Theon came, it was as much a yielding as a victory—a surrender to the one place that had ever truly wanted him. The selkie folded around his shuddering body, the salt of her sweat and his joining in some briny alchemy. She held him as the sea had, with both strength and mercy.

Afterward, she curled again to his chest and wet his lips with her tongue, anointing him with the promise she made: "I know not what happens when krakens betray their nests, prince. I only know what happens to the men I take. You are not lost, but you will always be lost, and the sea will never stop searching for you." She looked at him then, her gaze so direct that Theon felt the ancient thing behind it, older than House Stark or Winterfell, older even than the castles on Pyke. "Do not ever come to me again as an envoy," she said. "Come as a man, of the North. Or as a monster of the Iron Islands."

He wondered which he was. “Kraken, wolf, or selkie’s child. I’ve filled you up proper now; it’s for you to say if it takes this time,” he muttered, feeling lightheaded and almost happy, while she gave him a kiss.

“I hope it does, my Prince.” The selkie pulled herself away from his warmth, away from him and the bed, her movements almost shy. “It is time,” she said. “You have a long journey ahead, and the boy King needs you before disaster strikes. Should you not return in time, I fear you shall not get to hold me, or any other, ever again.”

Theon shook his head, confused. “What disaster?” He thought he understood women, but this one was as mysterious as the sea itself. “Why is it me who needs to go to the Winter King? He should be the one sending for me, not the other way around.”

She crouched beside him once more, patient as a wave lapping at the shore. “I have told you. Fondness means pain, if need be. I can not keep you from it. The wolves… They need you. Or you need them, if there is to be a man when I come for you again.”

Theon sighed, a sound of exasperation and longing. “Why Seagard, then? Is that where you’ll leave me?”

“Yes. You must rejoin the boy King. Your place with him is strange, but I will not claim what is not yet mine.”

Theon frowned, trying to piece it together. “How far? Will I—”

“You will live on land,” she said softly. “And in your heart, in the place men do not like to speak of, you will remember. There is no forgetting the sea.” And she smiled at him, the sea writ plain across her face. She touched his cheek with her palm as cool as water, and the world dissolved into white and sky, and the noise of a hundred gulls rose up to mock him.

He awoke naked and wet in the shallows near Seagard, the slow waves licking him with a lover’s familiarity. The shore was rocky, and the sand stung him as he pulled himself upright. He looked around, dazed and dripping, but there was no sign of any ships, nothing at all but the wide grey sea and the wider grey sky and the tracks where something had dragged him to land. Seals. Strangers to land. Or a selkie.

It took him half the day to stumble along the coast, but then he saw the black sails of the Myraham. He saw the lanterns bobbing and heard the excited shouts of men he had thought would never see him again. Theon paused at the edge of their lamp-lit world, his heart sloshing in his chest with a mix of fear and certainty. She had kept her promise. He was returned.

“It’s a fucking miracle, is what it is,” the first mate said, clapping him so hard on the back that the breath nearly went out of him. “A true Greyjoy!”

“Fuck the Greyjoys and fuck Pyke,” he grumbled, tugging a pair of rough-spun hose on. “We ride to the King in the North, and we ride hard.”

[obiwns]

to death’s door - jon snow x baratheon!reader (1)

one shot requested by: @witch-of-letters

this is strictly reader x jon, but robb is included!

concept: jon has been in love with the reader, who is a baratheon, since childhood but she has been betrothed to robb. she escaped the red wedding, with grey wind at her side, and has sought refuge at castle black. jon, alongside him the reader, are killed and resurrected by melisandre.

here’s part two. masterlist.

word count: 1.4k whew

For as long as you can remember, house Baratheon and house Stark had been two peas in a pod— quite literally. When your father had started a rebellion against the Targaryen rulers, he placed his trust in Eddard Stark’s family to ensure your safety. You and the children of house Stark got along quite well, you and Sansa were almost always in each other’s company, Robb always liked to tease you, and Jon followed you around like a lost puppy with Arya in tow, her teasing him about being in love with you.

⠀

It was true, to say the least. Ever since little bastard Jon laid his eyes on what he considered was the most beautiful girl he ever met, he instantly fell into a pit of love and adoration for you. You were sweet and gentle, but tough and incredibly stubborn. Those qualities, minus your dark colored hair and your build, truly made you the most notable Baratheon heir. You were older than your blonde counterparts, which was much to Cersei’s dismay.

⠀

Today, however, was not just another adventure to Winterfell. This was the day you’d be betrothed to Robb Stark. You were quite disappointed in the selection, but you knew that Robb was naturally a good man and that’s all you cared for. You smiled graciously as you walked down the aisle, your father’s hand in yours. It all happened in a flash, one moment he was wrapping his cloak around your shoulders, another he was kissing you in front of your families, then you ended up in his private quarters. Throughout the night, you had hoped to catch Jon, but he was nowhere to be seen, much to your disappointment.

⠀

Beside you, Robb chuckled, “Oh c’mon (Y/N), don’t look so disappointed in sharing a bed with me.” He joked, a toothy grin appearing on his face as he reached up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. When you smiled back at him, he gazed happily at you, but cleared his throat a little. “You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” You tried to not look guilty.

⠀

“No Robb! That’d be ridiculous.” You lied, to which Robb snorted at. He rolled his eyes before moving towards his bed, flopping down on it with a sigh. Beside the wooden furniture, Grey Wind emitted a slight grunt in disapproval.

⠀

“You lying to my face is ridiculous- even Grey Wind can even tell!” The heir to Winterfell stated, his hand motioning to his sleepy direwolf dramatically. Who knew Robb Stark would make such a fuss? You stifled a laugh before sitting at the edge of his bed, releasing a defeated sigh.

⠀

“Maybe I was,” you responded at last, turning your head to look at Robb, who was staring at you. He tried his best not to look disappointed, but the furrow of his brows and the downward twitch of the corner of his lip gave it away.

⠀

He glanced away, “Then.. then we don’t have to do anything. I don’t want to force you into doing something with someone you don’t want to be doing it with.” Robb responded honestly, moving to sit up and take your hand in his. “I vowed to never hurt you and love you for the rest of my days and such. But if this isn’t what you want, then I respect that.”

⠀

You smiled gratefully at him, “Thank you Robb.”

⠀

Several weeks had passed by since your wedding night with Robb. People had assumed your marriage was consummated, but never really asked any questions about it. You hoped that by being at Winterfell you would see Jon more, but you found out that he left for the Night’s Watch the day after your ceremony. Robb was the first to tell you and he looked guilty while doing so.

⠀

One day, the news of your fathers death came to Winterfell via crow. It broke your heart into two, especially since the murderous hag you suspected had done it was sitting on the Iron Throne beside her son with a smug grin on her face. By all the Seven Gods, you hated Cersei Lannister. Robert Baratheon’s death ultimately splitted Storm’s End. Who should the loyal vassals turn to? The true heir to the Iron Throne, His nasty brother, Stannis, or his other soft-hearted brother, Renly? Frustration clawed at you.

⠀

Eventually, you allowed your mind to glaze over the thought of Jon and the death of your father. You allowed yourself to be happy with Robb and how he made you feel. From the outside, it could’ve looked like you two were a real couple instead of a platonic one. Robb had declared war on house Lannister for the unrightful execution of his father and the presumed death of his sister, Arya, and you were utmost grateful for it. In some way, you felt that Robb was doing both your father’s justice. Even with the new declaration, divided houses of Storm’s End flocked to Stannis, Renly, and much to your surprise, Robb. This really helped him have an edge over the opposing, murderous royal house known as the Lannisters.

⠀

Unfortunately, his luck had run out after an altercation with Walder Frey. The Lord of Crossing wanted something in return for Robb’s desire to cross the Twins, but your husband couldn’t hold up his end of the bargain and lost his head for it. It was chaotic being in a castle where everyone was murdering everyone- you didn’t even know who to trust! Grey Wind had led you to safety, nobly taking down anyone who stood in your way. A few of Robb’s men had noticed you and took the extra measure of protecting you and providing you with a horse, sparing two men to keep you safe on your escape.

⠀

The group of you rode hard for the North, the screams of battle were now inaudible as you approached Winterfell. How long had it been? You assumed it was weeks— maybe even a few more months than you expected. The two men — whose names you learned were Rodrik and Kevan — you were riding with warned you that Winterfell might not be safe, and by the time you rode over the rolling moors, the Stark sigil had been replaced by a Bolton one.

⠀

Tears brimmed your eyes, prompting Kevan to speak up, “M’lady, we should backtrack and head around Winterfell. We may not be able to seek help here anymore.. but what about the bastard?” You nodded simply, steering your horse to face the direction you came from and following the two men without another word.

⠀

The ride to Castle Black was difficult and extremely long— longer than the journey to Winterfell. You were tired, your horses were tired, and so were your two loyal bannermen friends. A cough escaped you as you wrapped yourself up into an even tighter grip, the cloak one of the men spared you doing little justice against the harsh coldness. After days, the sight of the Wall was in plain view and so was Castle Black. You were ecstatic, your eyes gazing happily but sadly at the home of crows.

⠀

“Open the gate!” You heard one of the men shout as you approached, everyone rushing to their places in order to help. You clambered down from your horse, Grey Wind moving forward to nuzzle your leg before seeing his younger brother Ghost, immediately rushing to his side and sharing a quick nuzzle. You let out a shaky breath, your eyes surveying the what was left of the Night’s Watch. They stared back at your hungrily, like wolves ready to pounce on kill.

⠀

Subconsciously, you allowed yourself to slouch, covering up whatever prominent features you had before searching for the dark, dreamy eyes you yearned to look in. You soon found them, but instead of their once soft look, they now sported a defeated and cold look. Jon slowly stepped down the stairs, his hand gripping the sides before stopping at the bottom. He then rushed forward, gathering all of you in his grasp. Jon let out a little happy chuckle, his eyes beginning to brim with tears as he pulled away, giving you a long kiss on the forehead.

⠀

“I am so.. so sorry, (Y/N).” He says at last, his gaze sympathetic with a hint of mourning. He took your hand, motioning for his fellow watchers to take your horses. Jon looked at your two guards, nodding at them appreciatively. “Thank you both for keeping her safe. There’s food, clothes, and fresh hay for your horses.”

⠀

He took your hand and led you to his private chambers.

⠀

[vivalarevolution]

𝓕𝓮𝓪𝓼𝓽 𝓯𝓸𝓻 𝓦𝓸𝓵𝓿𝓮𝓼

Robb Stark x Reader x Jon Snow

Request: „I love ur writing and I wondering if you could write a robb stark x reader x jon snow where they’re fighting over a winter fella new maid or smth, tysm!‟

A/N: A request from anon. I won't lie, despite the little information I was very inspired by this idea. I hope all of you will enjoy reading it. Please remember that english is not my native language, mistakes may or will occur.

Additionally, work contains smut, minors do not interact.

They had never seen her before, and perhaps that was why their curiosity about her was so unbridled. They couldn't explain it, but from the moment they laid their eyes on her they had to touch her, they had to feel her, they had to taste her.

-You feel so good around me - the man murmured directly into her ear, biting its lobe.

Woman only moaned quietly, resisting her forehead on a cold stone wall. Her body trembled with the intense pleasure that flowed through her veins. Her legs almost gave up under her , if not for a strong hand that tightened on her hip, giving her goosebumps.

-Robb...no...we can't - she said, closing her eyes and parting her mouth when his member hit her insides mercilessly.

Man muttered in response before placing his free hand around her slender neck, squeezing gently to remind her of the wolf behind her devouring her piece by piece.

-Your soft lips say something different from your body - the brunette noticed after a while attacking her bare arms with wet kisses and rough bites - You want me like I want you. So let your big wolf devour you - he growled close to her ear, kissing her cervix harder with each word he spoke.

Y/n gave a silent scream. Her eyes closed tightly, and her hands tightened into fists. She was so close, she felt it. Her release was like a wave at sea. The water went back, just to hit the coastal stones firmly, playing with her. And Robb, Robb was the ruler of this sea.

-So close... please Robb! - she whimpered desperately, looking at him with eyes clouded with lust.

-I know, little lamb. I know - the young man murmured, abusing all the right places inside her with strong and aggressive movements that took her breath away with each successive stroke of his hips - Let go, let me feel you.

His words were the key that opened the golden gate leading straight to a sweet pleasure so good it was almost forbidden.

Her eyes closed, and a wave of pleasure passed through her, spreading everywhere in her body. From the top of her head to the tips of her fingers. It felt as if time had stopped and the sound around them ceased to exist.

-Good little lamb - said Robb, lazily kissing her neck - Now let the wolf fill you up.

-Yes, yes - she whimpered, opening her mouth wide and frowning as she felt another orgasm coming toward her, so fast and unnoticed it almost hurt - Please, I want to be full!

Y/n moaned softly, feeling the sudden warmth that poured from her insides, right between her thighs. With her hand, she sluggishly grabbed the brunette's neck, pulling him to herself, connecting their lips in a slow kiss.

Every next touch, every kiss, every sigh. Everything was more intimate, more sensual... more forbidden and dangerous.

The slightest sound from the end of the corridor startled her like a doe that was being hunted. Fleeing before a predator could spot her ,before Robb could've grab her in his claws again, feasting a little longer.

First she heard their voices, then felt their burning eyes on her skin. Yet her movements remained the same, composed, calm. While the two wolves watched her, no matter how far away she was from them.

-I see the way you're looking at her - Robb confessed in a hard controlled voice- You're my brother, but she's not yours...never will be.

Jon stopped staring at his beautiful Y/n, resembling a doe in her delicacy, reluctantly letting her immaculate, ruddy face escape his view.

-She's a free woman - bastard remarked, fixing his cold gaze on him - She can choose whoever she wants - he remarked, noticing in the corner of his eye how her gaze involuntarily wandered in their direction, watching them from a distance, trying so desperately to hear what they were talking about.

-And you believe she'll choose you? - Stark asked, unable to stop staring at the woman who had beguiled his senses and soul.

-If she would choose me - said the black-haired man, stopping for a moment - I would let her. I would let her do whatever she wanted because I couldn't tell her no. Never.

Robb clenched his hand into a fist, his face hardened into an indifferent expression. He wanted to be controlled, understanding. But still the blood of the north flowed in his veins, the blood of the wolf. And his dark, primitive side knew, knew that the moment he laid his eyes on the woman, she became his, only his.

Before the eldest son of the Lord of Winterfell could speak, Y/n caught his attention again. Just like the night before, she ran away suddenly, unexpectedly, as if something spooked her before she saw it.

He wanted to know what, but when he looked back, she was gone. Just like Jon.

She thought she had run away. She should be smarter.

Within seconds she was in the arms of Ned Stark's son, gasping as he pulled her closer, shielding her from the eyes of the outside world.

-Jon - she said almost breathlessly.

-Y/n - he replied, kissing her jaw gently - Why are you still running away? - he asked, holding her tightly in his arms.

-I'm not running away - she confessed, leaning against his torso - I just wanted to get rid of so many eyes on my skin - she added, tilting her head slightly to look into the man's dark irises - They seem to be following me wherever I go.

The man smiled slightly at her confession, his hand found its place on her cheek, stroking its smooth surface with his thumb.

-You are a white deer in the darkness - he stated, staring intensely into her eyes with growing desire - And the wolves are starving - he added before attacking her full, sweet lips.

Woman moaned softly, grabbing his hair as if her life depended on it, trying to pull him even closer. Even though she shouldn't.

Grabbing her tiny body, Snow pinned her to a nearby tree. Attacking her slender neck, he reveled in the sound of her whimpers and sighs, his large hands roaming her body, lower and lower.

Y/n watched his actions with eyes clouded with desire. She was afraid that someone would see them, she was afraid of punishment.

But they were alone among the trees in Godswood. The only witnesses were the old gods and themselves, no one else.

-Jon...we can't - she whispered weakly, not realizing how familiar this scenario was to her.

-All I want is to please you - he said tenderly, slowly rolling up the fabric of her dress, making her skin crawl with goosebumps - My sweet Y/n, let your wolf feast. I must feel you.

She fell helplessly onto the rough bark behind her. She wanted to say and do so much, but her body seemed to rebel against her, telling her to take whatever the predator was giving her between her thighs.

He was so gentle and agonizingly slow, kissing and sucking on her firm skin, leaving marks on his prey as he got closer and closer to where he wanted to attack so much.

Y/n quickly became numb. The amount of attention she was getting seemed to overwhelm her body, but even so, she didn't want the moment to ever end, not with Jon harassing her womanhood in such an addictive way.

She could compare him to a hungry wolf, by the fact with what fervor he devoured her femininity while choosing every single piece, not wanting to miss absolutely nothing.

She let the knot in her lower belly burst, spreading delicious and burning pleasure through her body, which constantly circulated through her veins through the tongue of a man who would not leave her, feasting on her even longer.

She felt her sanity trying desperately to break through the thick wall of pleasure and lust built by two dangerous predators that were using the little sheep inside it.

But she wanted them to be happy ,full. Even as they fought for her like ravenous wolves, and she just couldn't choose. Letting them both devour her.

[rheanyraaaa]

WaterLilly Part 13

Robb Stark x Frey Reader (F)

Enemies To Lovers

18+ MINORS DON’T INTERACT

trigger warning: smut, just some hard smut.

——————————————————————————

The awkward glances and fidgeting slowly give way to a palpable tension between you. Suddenly, without warning, Robb grabs you roughly by the waist and slams his lips against yours in a fierce, passionate kiss. His hands roam over your body, frantically tugging at your clothes.

Between desperate kisses and clumsy fumbling with clothing, Robb manages to shrug off his tunic, revealing the toned chest beneath. His hands work feverishly to untie your bodice, fingers trembling with pent-up desire.

Robb lays you down softly in the lush grass, his grey eyes burning into yours with an intensity you've never seen before. He kicks off his breeches before hovering over you, his muscular body illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the trees.

With a low growl, Robb settles between your legs, his hardness pressing against your entrance. He captures your lips in another searing kiss as he slowly pushes inside you, both of you gasping at the sensation.

Robb's movements grow more passionate and fervent as he loses himself in the feeling of your bodies merging. His hands grip your hips almost desperately, pulling you closer with each powerful thrust. A soft groan escapes his lips, mingling with the gentle rustling of leaves in the night breeze.

With a grunt of exertion, Robb lifts your leg, placing it over his shoulder. The position allows him to penetrate deeper, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. His hips piston furiously, driven by a hunger that consumes him entirely. The sweet point making you see stars, your whole world looking more then dizzy, and you can’t think straight anymore and only can see him.

Between ragged breaths and the sound of their bodies colliding, Robb leans down to capture one of your hardened nipples in his mouth. He sucks and nips at the sensitive bud, his tongue swirling around it, his assault on your nipple sends jolts of pleasure straight to your core. He alternates between suckling and teasing, drawing out low moans from your throat. His free hand kneads your other breast, fingers pinching and rolling the nipple between them, he eventually lets go with a wet pop.

His rhythm becomes faster, more intense as he feels the tension building in both of you. The wet sounds of you joining fill the air, mixed with your increasingly loud moans. "Look at me," he growls, wanting to watch your face as you come undone, you look at him, tears in your eyes but pleasure in them.

As Robb's thick cock slammed into that perfect spot deep inside you over and over, your pleasure crested to unbearable heights. With a cry of ecstasy, your pussy clenched tightly around him as waves of orgasm crashed through your body, your walls clench around him rhythmically, milking him as he buries himself to the hilt one last time. "Fuck, yes!" Robb's own release hits him hard, his face contorting in pure ecstasy as he spills himself inside you, his hot seed filling you up completely. He collapses on top of you, their chests heaving in unison, as he looks down at you, both slick with sweat and cum, the cold breeze flowing and cooling you down.

——————————————————————————

tags!!

@maysileeewrites @samieree @yeahnohoneybye @nervouschaosgladiator