#rickon stark mentioned

[lives4lovesworld]

It's always assume that at the very least Sansa will i) out smart Petyr Bealish, ii) regain autonomy and her identity, that iii) in some way or form Petyr's tale will become true such as Sansa securing herself a marriage with Harrold Hardyng and her having such a strong influence on him that he will a) wage war for her 'birthright' or b) aid the North by providing goods, food and manpower. With the Vale enthusiastically doing his every bidding, simply because she is his wife and she asked him nicely/is so courteous and eloquent/he is so inlove with her/its profitable for the Vale.

In this meta I will list (and explain) the problems I have with these speculations that seem to be rooted in wishfullfilment rather than the probability of certain plots being likely to become canon, or if they are even feasible or realistic.

i) How Sansa is suppose to outsmart and overthrow Petyr Bealish, AND remain in power afterwards?

Petyr Bealish is the man that managed to crawl his way up to the ruling elite of Westeros, despite his incredibly (relatively speaking) low birth, lack of power, wealth, family or image (he does NOT fit the feudalistic standards of a man his positions). And yet, he remained in power through several civil wars that brought houses, dynasties and monarchs to fall. Petyr is the man with circa two decades of experiences and had no qualms of sacrificing countless souls, including his self-proclaimed "true love" and lives by this philosophy:

Always keep your foes confused. If they are never certain who you are or what you want, they cannot know what you are like to do next. Sometimes the best way to baffle them is to make moves that have no purpose, or even seem to work against you. - Sansa V, ASoS

Yet the one to supposedly bring him down is the thirteen year old girl that needed to witness her own father's decapitation for her rosa colored glasses to fall off. And this after she was present to her idol and her "love" ordering her direwolf's murder to mend their wounded pride! This is the same girl that is so quick to build her entire hopes and dreams upon strangers (that shows her a little bit of kindness and fit her conforming prejudices like Margaery and her circle did) and got carried away in her own dreamworld that she could not even follow conversations and plots, even in ASoS:

Sansa wrinkled her brow. "Our true purpose, my lady?" [...] "To see you safely wed, child," the old woman said, as Butterbumps bellowed out the old, old song, "to my grandson." [...] Wed to Ser Loras, oh . . . Sansa's breath caught in her throat. She remembered Ser Loras in his sparkling sapphire armor, tossing her a rose. Ser Loras in white silk, so pure, innocent, beautiful. The dimples at the corner of his mouth when he smiled. The sweetness of his laugh, the warmth of his hand. She could only imagine what it would be like to pull up his tunic and caress the smooth skin underneath, to stand on her toes and kiss him, to run her fingers through those thick brown curls and drown in his deep brown eyes. A flush crept up her neck. [...] "Would you like that, Sansa?" asked Margaery. "I've never had a sister, only brothers. Oh, please say yes, please say that you will consent to marry my brother."

The words came tumbling out of her. "Yes. I will. I would like that more than anything. To wed Ser Loras, to love him . . ."

"Loras?" Lady Olenna sounded annoyed. "Don't be foolish, child. Kingsguard never wed. Didn't they teach you anything in Winterfell? We were speaking of my grandson Willas. He is a bit old for you, to be sure, but a dear boy for all that. Not the least bit oafish, and heir to Highgarden besides."

Sansa felt dizzy; one instant her head was full of dreams of Loras, and the next they had all been snatched away. Willas? Willas? "I," she said stupidly. - Sansa I, ASoS

Some (very in favor for her) could argue there is some desperate small wiggle room here and there for insisting that Sansa has evolved (for the better). (While nonsensically insisting she at the same time is almost stupidly naive and "idealistic", but also these traits are not obstacles to her potentially rise to an autonomous player. No they make her all the better for it.) But even if she had a stellar development; How exactly is she with no true authority suppose to best a man like Petyr Bealish?

After ASoS, Sansa has become a disgraced orphaned female beggar, married to the enemy "Imp Kingslayer", and has become utterly dependent on Petyr Bealish as his natural born daughter, depriving all her limited autonomy and authority from him as Lord Consort.

Petyr Bealish has also managed to gain Sansa's compliance and ensure her loyalty and secrecy to him by filling her head with his wonderful tale of him as her benefactor that is going to gift her all her dreams, while reminding her of her status as wanted by the crown and making her a complice in the murder of her aunt and a participant in his scheme to poison SweetRobin Arryn.

Not to mention that Sansa has yet to express her wish to detach herself from Petyr (in her POV) in the first place, but as of TWoW's releases, Sansa seems pretty content with all the privilege (x, x, x) she has as his daughter. Nor does she not seem to have a problem in being his pawn:

The Merling King's returned to Gulltown, and old Oswell had some tales to tell."

She knew better than to ask what sort of tales. If Petyr had wanted her to know, he would have told her. - Alayne II, AFfC

And as said, even if she would want to due to her involvement in Petyr's schemes as well as her being wanted for kingslaying, she would risked death herself.

But let's assume for the sake of the argument that she does; what sansa would truly need are people to genuinely protect, stand by, believe and defend her in the Vale, and as of now there is no such one, especially after the death of her aunt.

And no, Lord Yohn Royce's question if he had already meet Alyane is NOT the same as actually recognizing Alayne as an older Sansa AND publicly voucing for her on behalf of her identity, despite her stans insisting otherwise. Yohn Royce (like all vale lords) did NOT fought for Robb Stark (Winterfell's heir with an northern army at this back and strong ties to Riverrun), which really does not bode well for the possibility of him fighting for her. And this knows even Sansa:

He will know me. How could he not? She considered throwing herself at his feet to beg for his protection. He never fought for Robb, why should he fight for me? The war is finished and Winterfell is fallen. - Alayne I, AFfC

At best (which would entail the Vale remains oblivious to her involvement in those schemes and have the lords of the Vale not sell her to the crown for the bounty) she would remain a "guest" to her cousin, and likely be married off to the next best suitor that befits her unfortunate status (as Lady Lannister)

ii) A believable explanation (any really) has yet to cross me as to HOW Sansa would (or even could) reclaim her identity without taking for granted that everything will work out in favor for her. 1) which would entail the majority of highborn lords in the Vale unquestionably believing Sansa that she, who was introduced to them as a bastard (which are seen by society as greedy and treacherous) of the Petyr Bealish (known for his schemes) is indeed Sansa Lannister, simply because she makes a teary proclaimation with her pretty Tully blue eyes. And 2) that the lack of a direwolf serving as proof will not be an obstacle 3) nor the lack of a relative voucing for her.

Infact her closest, most influential relative's death Lady Lysa's, which occurred while Sansa was supposedly already under her care as her lord husband's natural daughter will also not in any way, shape or form make them wary of her tale. Nor appear like an identity theft and poor attempt to grasp power for their own gain in the eyes of others.

Secondly, Sansa's very identity (the disowned female orphan to an overthrown House, married to the "Imp Kingslayer") does not allow her to be an autonomous player so many want her to be. Robb Stark and House Lannister saw to that. Nor would an identity reveal, even believed by everbody, give her more opportunities than the (relatively speaking) limited ones she already has as the current bastard daughter of Petyr.

iii) Petyr's tale (and why I believe it is just that and not a plan that will actually become canon);

When Robert dies, Harry the Heir becomes Lord Harrold, Defender of the Vale and Lord of the Eyrie. Jon Arryn's bannermen will never love me, nor our silly, shaking Robert, but they will love their Young Falcon . . . and when they come together for his wedding, and you come out with your long auburn hair, clad in a maiden's cloak of white and grey with a direwolf emblazoned on the back . . . why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright. So those are your gifts from me, my sweet Sansa . . . Harry, the Eyrie, and Winterfell. - Alayne II, AFfC

So Petyr Bealish has managed to match a marriage pact by buying all of Waynwood's debts, providing Lady Anya with an enormous dowery and because at this point Harrold Hardyng remains nothing but the son of the perished sister to Jon Arryn and a landed knight sworn to the Waynwoods. His relatively low status at the moment would allow such a "low" match with the bastard daughter of the disliked temporarily Lord Consort of the Vale. However, if SweetRobin truly dies and Harrold indeed becomes the Lord, all the reasons why "Alayne Stone" is unfit for Robert Arryn will apply for Harrold as well:

You are the Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale, and you must wed a highborn lady and father a son to sit in the High Hall of House Arryn after you are gone." Robert wiped his nose. "But I want —" She put a finger to his lips. "I know what you want, but it cannot be. I am no fit wife for you. I am bastard born." [...] Some call my father upjumped and ambitious. If you were to take me to wife, they would say that he made you do it, that it was no will of yours. The Lords Declarant might take arms against him once again, and he and I should both be put to death." [...] "You must have a proper wife, a trueborn maid of noble birth." - Alayne I, TWoW

Now Petyr Bealish's further step is to reveal Sansa's true identity on their supposed wedding, which would not solve the problem of the bride being unfit for a groom of such a caliber and it holds in and of itself many obstacles that prevent the very plan to unfold.

To start with; (as already said) should Harrold indeed become Lord Paramount he will be showed with marriage proposals by the ambitious feudal Houses of the Vale (as they were already courting widowed Lysa in AGoT) and its rather unlikely that they would grant that position to a "foreign" beggar (which Sansa would be either way, whenever she goes by her real name or by "Alayne Stone".) instead of trying to make one of their own daughters the next High Lady.

Secondly, the marriage pact entails "Alayne Stone", not Sansa Lannister. Petyr's plan to reveal Sansa's identity while she is walking down the aisle risks invalidating that very pact. And while the fandom refuse to acknowledge it, "Alayne" being revealed as Sansa would neither lessen the insult of the lie and betrayal by "Sansa Lannister" being more "attractive" as a political match. And no such a scheme would not simply brushed under the rug.

Yes, Sansa would be high born, but Harrold would get nothing politically speaking from their marriage given the position Sansa is in (as Lady Lannister). Neither will her previous marriage, especially to the House that the Vale believes has murdered their previous Paramount Lord make her more attractive. Whenever Tyrion might be believed dead or Sansa assures her virginity ten times, it more than likely that she would be seen as "sullied leavings" in the eyes of others.

Lysa Arryn likely only allowed a marriage between Sansa and her precious son, because she was her sister's daughter, and despite her flaws, their complicated relationship and her unstable mental state saw Sansa as family. And while Lysa mention Sansa's claim, (which will likely cease to exist as soon as Robb's Will becomes public knowledge) she also saw Sansa for what she was and reminded her of her position as well.

Petyr HIMSELF has pointed out how Sansa would bring nothing to any marriage (excluding her body):

"Joffrey is betrothed to Sansa Stark," Cersei objected.          "Marriage contracts can be broken. What advantage is there in wedding the king to the daughter of a dead traitor?"                 Littlefinger spoke up. "You might point out to His Grace that the Tyrells are much wealthier than the Starks, and that Margaery is said to be lovely . . . and beddable besides." [...]

Littlefinger agreed. "The Stark girl brings Joffrey nothing but her body, sweet as that may be. Margaery Tyrell brings fifty thousand swords and all the strength of Highgarden." - Tyrion VIII, ACoK   

And while Petyr has also mentioned Sansa's claim, it should mean little to nothing to Harrold considering that i) House Bolton has been installed as Warden of the North, ii) House Stark lays broken and it would have to re-establish itself as sovereign to the North. A bloody, tedious and costly task with little to no profit as the North is even under its best circumstances poor and hard to cultivate. As soon as iii) "Arya" is revealed as Jeyne Poole, it will even further slim the credibility of her identity reveal. iv) Her claim will be even further catapulted down in the line of succession with Rickon, Arya, Bran's impending reappearances. Not to mention that v) Jon will more than likely involve himself in the matter of succession as well and vi) Robb's Will will disinherited Sansa and make Jon his heir. (x)

And while most has yet to unfold on page, it would extremely OOC for Petyr Bealish (and the story!) to believe everything will work out in Sansa's favor and that Harrold will marry her out of his own volition, (which is indeed a condition in the marriage pact).

Much and more is made of his and Sansa's little playful banter at the tournament, yet what we know of Harrold's character, it's likely that he will pose the biggest threat to Petyr's little "plan".

Harrold is known for his high opinion of himself, his classism and that he has no qualms of fathering bastards on girls, he is infatuated for a brief time and then abandoning them as soon as he stops viewing them as sexually attractive. Petyr has also already stated that Harrold thinks Alayne is beneath him:

This betrothal was never [Harrold's] idea, and Bronze Yohn has no doubt warned him against my wiles. You are my daughter. He does not trust you, and he believes that you're beneath him." - Alayne I, TWoW

And it's not entirely unreasonable to think that Harrold would be insulted at the idea of marrying a girl whose virginity is questionable and who doesn't bring him any ties or wealth as Sansa Lannister. And the fact that she plans to use him and his position for her political gain will likely not make Harrold more sympathetic towards her.

The part hardest to dismantled because no matter from what angle you look upon it, it shouldn't be feasible to become canon;

. . . why, every knight in the Vale will pledge his sword to win you back your birthright. - Alayne II, AFfC

So Petyr supposedly plans to use Sansa's marriage to Harrold to mobilize the army of the Vale to reclaim Winterfell in the name of House Stark.

As already said (a dozen times) Sansa (as the orphan married beggar of an overthrown House) should NOT be able to secure the Lord of the Vale as her Lord husband in the first place. Realistically speaking, Sansa should only be able to match such a marriage if she and her family would still hold the same position as of the start of the series, but as we all know, this is NOT the case anymore. House Stark is neither the secure, ancient sovereign of the stable peaceful north nor is Sansa the indisputable maiden daughter of said family. Sansa should NOT be an attractive potential bride in the eyes of the Vale without House Stark retaking the North and it becoming politically attractive enough again for other kingdoms to be of interest and them voucing for her identity.

–> Thus Petyr's entire plan falls apart, before it can even truly begin.

But let's push this all aside for the sake of the argument: Even the concept of the entire Vale doing Sansa's bidding simply because she would be their Lord's newlyweded wife is absurd as well. Her aunt had been their Lady for seventeen years and they still did NOT view her as one of them nor as a authority figure;

Young Lord Hunter said, "Lysa Tully was never truly of the Vale, nor had she the right to dispose us." - Alayne I, AFfC

Also; Why would a girl's birth claim to an entire different region that is uttelry in shambles due to the political uproar after her family's fall from grace matter to Harrold or any Valeman?

If Sansa were to marry Harrold under normal circumstances (if House Stark was still in power and Sansa would have never been married off) what would be expected of her is to rule by his side (if Harrold is progressive enough to allow it) give him children and her place would be in the Eyrie or at the Gates of the Moon. As it would befit (and deem more than sufficient for) any high born daughter that has married into another Great House of Westeros.

Never once in the history of ASoIaF was there ever a High Lord that wage war against another kingdom because his wife wanted her father's seat as well. Nor was there a High Lady that held her father's lands AND was simountanastly the High Lady to an entire different kingdom as well. This would not even be feasible.

The question as to HOW a vale army, (a southern army!) would even reach the instabil (due to the already happening civil wars, the mass exodus of the Free Folk, the famine) war torn North given the lack of a fleet or the renewed impregnability of the Neck in the middle of winter also remains a big question mark.

However, let's brush this essential question aside as well; The assumption of the vale army conquering the North is absurd as well. GRRM has already empathized how a southern army is not fit for the North's harsh climate in ADwD with Stannis Baratheon's suicidal march, contrasting it with the marching mountain clans. Nor is Harrold (a "green" boy commander) likely to win against the seasoned ruthless Roose Bolton, which the lords of the Vale would surely know too. Another reason why the vale army would NOT simply do its new young untested Lord's bidding, if he were to call for war. Harrold will likely need a few years to prove and establish himself before the valemen will willingly follow him into battle, especially into a economically nonsensical war whose favors are against them from the beginning.

And while yes, someone could argue the vale army would be better rested and organized (than Stannis's measly beaten ragtag of an army) and therefore have better chances, even in the best case scenario the vale army would likely lose most of their men in the battles against House Bolton and its banners for a gigantic region that brings them nothing; no wealth, no man power, no minerals, no goods, no trade.

All these points listed above, together with GRRM's comment on how Petyr would never give up Sansa, Petyr's wish to marry her himself (when she was Sansa Stark) and the fact that it would be incredibly stupid of him to ever allow Sansa to detach herself from him (as it would put him at risk due to her knowing so many of his crimes) further marks Petyr's tale in Alayne II, AFfC as a tale to ensure Sansa's compliance and nothing more IMO. Not to mention, which author would tell his audience the plot of a character word-for-word in dialog beforehand?

Now, some believe that instead of waging war Sansa will influence Harrold to aid the North by providing goods, food and manpower, which (fair enough) is only an ounce more feasible than the alternative. Yet, it is still something NOT supported by the books;

For this to happen, Sansa would first need to grasp the gravity of the famine that is plaguing Westeros, and care enough about the (common) people's wellfare.

Which she does not given the fact that she cannot fathom why the commoners love Margaery and as of her last chapter has her organizing a feast with 64 dishes in the middle of winter, amongst these dishes even a 6 feet tall lemon cake that required every lemon in the Vale with her being very proud of herself. Nor does she have any reaction whatsoever to Petyr's plan to cutting the food supply and hoarding food as war tactic, which would hit the common folk the hardest. Not to mention that Sansa's POV never showed her really thinking about... really anything happening in the North (especially its people), neither prior nor post House Stark's fall.

So beside all that, it would also requires the Vale to suddenly become altruistic and humanitarian, given that all possible supplies send by them would essentially all be gifts since foreseeable payment is unlikely given the north's state.

Some even have the idea of Sansa somehow achieving it all in another way on her own (because they hate the idea of Sansa marrying Harrold) (which is even less likely than Petyr turning into her Santa Claus) and exaggerated the potential influence her skills have even more. But has @brideoffires already perfectly explained in her post Sansa has NOT evolved in terms of learning new skills (unlike Arya) and more importantly none of the political plot in the Vale is moved forward through her own knowledge or scheming.

It's all propelled forward and catalyzed by her relationship with Petyr Baelish. [...] As in King’s Landing, Sansa is /being/ moved by the machinations of other people and being induced or compelled to act in certain ways because of the politics around her. - excerpt from @brideoffires linked post

Her particular skillset can only be of use and influential if the priori are Sansa already having strong ties to political thriving male relatives or/and a husband. Otherwise her skillset are not of use as GRRM has already shown throughout the whole series; Sansa can be as charming, courteous and polite as she wants to be, it does not give her agency, protection, support or power.

There is so much unrealistic, unreasonable, OOC nonsense, no one would even dare to suggest if it would be any other character, already taken for granted because it's Sansa. Sansa is always the expection. As always, everything will work out in Sansa's favor.

So why is it that even the ones critical of Sansa believe it all becomes canon anyway, one way or another? The most popular arguments I have seen are the proclaimnation that Petyr Bealish is Sansa's personal antagonist and therefore their "arc" simply MUST conclude with her triumphant. There is no other way.

The other is that SOMEONE has to get the Vale involved in the affairs of the realm, SOMEONE has to mobilize the resourceful Vale for the War of the Dawn and to aid the North's etc... And Sansa is the POV character located in the Vale so logic says GRRM MUST plan for her to be this SOMEONE to accomplish these tasks.

An entirely different reason is the fandom's climate; Basically Arya, Bran and Jon fans seem to concede Sansa these gigantic convoluted unrealistic plots (= a triumphant vale arc) in hopes that her fanbase will do the bare minimum of NOT butchering the story's integrity and the ones of their favs by not stealing their individual importance, relationships, ties, skills and arcs in the North to give Sansa a place in the northern plots (which her fans insist on having).

In conclusion; these reasonings are infuriating and incredibly offensive to the story's integrity and Sansa as a character. And more importantly, this fandom should stop offering to concede and tolerate it all simply because her fanbase is just that incredibly wild.

[myreygn]

Hello! I'd like to request a tickle story with Bran Stark, Rickon Stark and Tommen Baratheon please~

cubs and pups

summary: Tommen doesn't like Winterfell when he first lays eyes on it but quickly finds himself warming up to the place and its people - especially Lord Stark's youngest sons and so he happily agrees when they invite him to play with them. What could possibly go wrong?

an: goddamn that took me way too long... i'm really sorry @proscrix, i hope you like what i came up with! (also please appreciate the title i'm really proud of it 😭)

wordcount: 3266 holy fu-

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There was something very dismal about Winterfell. Tommen couldn't quite put a finger on it but nevertheless, the feeling was there. In the gray of the walls, looming over him in a way that made him feel entrapped, even though he was out in the open; the dull clothes the people, even the Starks wore, designed to keep them warm rather than impress anyone; even in the way the Starks themselves looked at him, a way that made it abundantly clear that they viewed him as a child first and a prince second. Not that he could actually blame them for it, somehow he hadn't realized either that he was supposed to be above them all, but how could he when everyone always looked down on him? 

Well, not everyone. 

Tommen caught the gaze of the youngest Stark child (Rickon, he believed) who was looking up at him in complete awe. He seemed to be younger by a few years and the prince found himself wondering if maybe they could play together later. Did the northerners play the same games they played in King’s Landing? Would Rickon even want to play with him? He carefully smiled at the boy and felt like a weight was lifted off his shoulders when Rickon returned the smile. So far so good.

For now though, there were other things to do. A formal greeting between his father and Lord Stark, then a more informal approach where his father went through all of Lord Stark’s children one after the other and told them how strong and beautiful they were and how they would make great knights and lords and ladies someday. Tommen felt a sting in his chest. If only his father ever told him he was going to be a great knight someday with the same twinkle in his eyes he had when he said it to Brandon. Was that jealousy? 

Tommen examined Brandon with narrow eyes. They were probably around the same age, with the other boy being noticeably taller and leaner, his dark hair gave him a much more adventurous appearance than Tommen with his golden locks could ever hope for. He was beaming with pride after receiving the King’s praise and despite the maybe-jealousy still stinging in his chest, the young prince could not for the life of him find it in him to dislike the other boy. He watched as Rickon looked up at Brandon and they exchanged a smile. Brandon was probably also a way better older brother than Joffrey.

Where was Joffrey anyway? Over there, making googly eyes at Lord Stark’s daughter. Fair enough, Tommen thought to himself, she was a true beauty. Maybe, he then thought, one day he could marry a girl just as beautiful, then he saw his mother whisper something into Joffrey’s ear and instinctively knew that whoever he was going to marry someday, it wasn’t going to be a Sansa Stark. No wonder Joffrey never found the time to be a good brother in between learning how to strut around like a rooster and trying to get under the skirts of beautiful girls. Tommen had no idea what it meant to get under someone’s skirt but his uncle Tyrion had said this one day and his other uncle Jaime had given the dwarf a slap in the back of his head and told him “Not in front of the children”, so Tommen had vowed to himself to never forget this sentence until he could understand what it meant. (Also the rooster part was funny, even though he wouldn’t dare to say that out loud to anyone aside from uncle Tyrion.)

A slight push to his shoulder pulled him out of his thoughts and he looked directly into Myrcella’s slightly concerned eyes. The adults were done with greeting each other and giving compliments to children that weren’t Tommen and the whole group got ready to go inside the castle. He quickly caught up to Myrcella and tried to look for Rickon Stark, but the boy had vanished from his field of vision.

—

Winterfell was much nicer on the inside. Big chimneys and torches on the walls warmed up the great hall and gave it a welcoming feeling. It felt like a place that was a home to someone, not like Casterly Rock which felt more like a place people were forced to visit without any intention of staying longer than absolutely necessary - at least that was how Tommen felt whenever he had to go and see his grandfather Tywin.

Here it was very different though. Even from his place at the table that stood above all the other tables, he felt like a part of the crowd of laughing, drinking and singing northerners. Even stuck between his sister, who was half asleep, and his mother, who was more busy hawk eyeing Sansa Stark than anything, he was having a good time. Well, as good of a time as he could have anyway when everyone around him was getting more and more drunk as the evening dragged on.

He knew that he would be sent to his chambers immediately if he seemed even remotely tired and he didn’t want to leave just yet but at some point he just couldn’t hold the yawns in anymore. Almost immediately, his mother’s gaze was on him - for the first time that night and while that was nice for a change, he dreaded the following words before they even left her mouth: “You should go to bed, it’s quite late.”

Tommen looked around for help, feeling a tad bit hopeful when his gaze met with the understanding eyes of his uncle Jaime. “Oh come on Cersei, it’s a special night. Let the child enjoy it a little longer.”

“It’s way past sundown, Jaime,” his mother responded and something about her tone sent a chill down Tommen’s spine, but his uncle seemed entirely unbothered.

“We’re in the north, it’s always way past sundown.”

“Jaime.”

Silence, then his mother leaned forward to give him a kiss on the forehead. “Sleep well, Tommen.” So his uncle had lost, bummer.

When he left the hall he felt Joffrey’s gloating stare in his back. The door closed behind him, then it was only his and Jaime’s steps walking away from the festivities. And the warmth. It was a lot colder out here.

“Sorry about that, lad. I tried to get you some more time.”

“It’s fine, thank you.” He gave his uncle a small smile and was about to reassure him that he had been getting bored anyway when a giggle somewhere down the corridor distracted him from the conversation. Before Jaime could stop him (maybe he wasn’t even trying) he hurried down the corridor to see where the sound came from. He hadn’t seen Rickon and Brandon all night, maybe they were-

“Hello.”

Startled, Tommen’s feet came to a halt abruptly and he nearly lost his balance. Big, blue eyes looked up at him, widening a little in shock.

“I’m sorry, are you alright?”

“Rickon, what are you- oh.” Brandon Stark bowed his head, gesturing at his little brother to do the same. “Your Highness.”

“You don’t have to do that…” Tommen shuffled his feet nervously - he had never been a huge fan of people bowing their heads or getting on their knees before him, it just didn’t feel right. “What… what are you doing?”

“Oh, we were just playing.” Brandon still seemed a little cautious, as if Tommen were to order his execution if he took one simple misstep. It made his chest tighten; what would it take for Brandon to not be nervous around him anymore? How could he show that he had no intention to boss anyone around or-

“Do you want to join us?”

Rickon really had a talent for interrupting his spiraling thoughts and when Tommen looked at him, he was met with a genuinely hopeful expression - a pleasant counterpart to Brandon’s leeriness.

He was about to tell him that he would love to play with them, then he remembered he wasn’t alone and turned around to his uncle. “May I…?”

The corner of Jaime’s mouth twitched so slightly that Tommen was sure he wouldn’t even have noticed if he hadn’t known the man all his life. “Your mother won’t hear it from me. But I’ll be back in an hour and then you will go to bed immediately.”

“Yes, promise!” Barely able to hide his excitement, he turned back to the Stark boys and quickly followed Rickon into the room when the younger boy grabbed his wrist and pulled him with him. Brandon shut the door, then it was only the three of them.

Tommen examined the room. A bed, covered in furs and blankets, a big chimney with a fire spreading warmth and a thick carpet with wooden figurines lying around. He sat down on the floor between the two brothers. “Brandon and Rickon, right?”

“Yes. You can say Bran though.” 

It had been a pure courtesy, but Tommen was glad he had asked - it made him happy to be allowed to address Bran by a nickname. Friends did that, right? Did that mean they were friends? A smile spread his lips. “Then you can just say Tommen. What were you playing?”

“Well, we were trying to play tournament, but Rickon won’t share the knight figurines!”

“Because these are mine!”

“But how are we gonna play tournament when I have no knights?!”

“Then that means you lose!”

“That’s not how it works!”

Tommen leaned back when Bran suddenly lunged forward and wrestled Rickon into the carpet, then the younger boy squeaked and started to thrash around. “Braaan!”

Tommen narrowed his eyes. Was Bran- “W-wait, what are you doing?! Leave him alone!”

Rickon stopped laughing when Bran took his fingers off his sides and both of them were looking at him with nearly identical grins. “Why? Would you rather get a taste of this yourself?”

Before the prince could react, Rickon cried out “Charge!” and suddenly they were all over him; Bran held one of his arms in a vice grip and dug his fingers into his armpit, meanwhile Rickon relentlessly squeezed his midsection. A reluctant laugh escaped Tommen’s mouth. This was not good… he had to get out of here or else he’d be stuck here all night… maybe uncle Jaime would even walk in on him crying, just like the Septa did back when it happened in King’s Landing, that would be so embarrassing…

He remembered Joffrey quite literally ambushing him in his chambers in the early morning, jumping up on his bed and pinning him down while tickling him everywhere he could reach. The prodding to his hips, the scribbles all over his ribs and tummy, the squeezes to his sides… yes, he remembered it all too well. He remembered that it had been painful rather than ticklish, remembered how he had screamed louder and louder for Joffrey to let go of him and how his brother had seemed to care less and less by the second, how he had begun to cry only for Joffrey to tell him ‘Don’t be a baby, we’re just having fun’.

Fun. Maybe, he had wondered for a while, Joffrey was right. When the Septa had come into the room and Joffrey had explained that they were just having a little tickle fight, she too had said ‘Why are you crying, Prince Tommen? Tickling is supposed to be fun’. Maybe, he had thought, he was the problem, maybe he just didn’t know how to have fun with tickling and that was the reason so it didn’t work, but then again, Joffrey having fun and Tommen getting hurt (or anyone getting hurt, really) weren’t mutually exclusive situations.

Tommen felt his chest tighten and his own laughter began to sound like that of a stranger. He knew this was supposed to be fun, but he didn’t want this. All he had wanted was to have fun with some potential new friends and now he was gonna be stuck here for hours, getting tortured. Maybe Bran was just as horrible of an older brother as Joffrey then. Tears started to clock up his throat. And then, to his great surprise, the tickling… stopped.

“Tommen? Are you alright?”

Rickon gave him a worried look and Tommen hastily sat up, not wanting to seem weak in front of the Stark boys. “I’m fine…”

“Did we overstep?” Bran looked somewhat mortified at the thought of having upset the prince. “We’re sorry, we didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable… we thought it’d be fun.”

Tommen pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around himself. He knew that this would make him look like a little baby, but honestly, it made him feel better right now and for a moment that was the only thing that mattered. “I just don’t understand… how can it be fun if people get hurt?”

The brothers glanced at each other, confused. “Hurt?” Rickon tilted his head to the side as if the situation would become somehow clearer. “What do you mean, hurt? I mean, I guess it could happen… one time Jon kicked Robb in the chest, but I think that was an accident.”

“What Rickon is trying to say,” Bran chipped in from the side when Tommen opened his mouth to ask what tickling and kicking people in the chest had to do with each other, “is that sometimes you can get hurt when you’re tickling someone and play fighting, but tickling isn’t supposed to hurt.”

“It- it isn’t?”

“No, it isn’t! See, it’s fun.” Bran quickly wiggled his fingers into Rickon’s side and the younger boy let out a bright giggle. “Why would it be supposed to hurt?”

“Well, when Joffrey did it-”

“Joffrey?! Prince Joffrey?! What did he do?!”

Tommen knew very well that the majority of the worry in Bran’s expression probably came from the fact that Joffrey was most likely going to marry his sister, but something about it still made him feel safe. As if the Stark brothers would be on his side, unlike Joffrey, unlike the Septa, and so he told them everything. Rickon was the first to speak up.

“But that is so mean! Why would he do that?!”

“Maybe he is just a mean person.” Bran softly caressed his brother’s hair, seemingly in shock. “But that’s really… I mean, the rules to tickling are unspoken, I suppose, but even so one of the rules is to stop immediately if the other person doesn’t want to be tickled…”

Tommen only wrapped his arms around himself and grasped onto his shirt, just to hold onto something. “Joffrey doesn’t know the rules then.”

“But we know the rules!” Rickon seemed determined to raise the spirit. “Maybe you could let us tickle you, we can show you that it’s fun!”

Bran looked at his brother as if he was about to scold him, then his gaze turned towards the prince instead, rather curiously. “Would you… let us do that?”

Tommen considered his options. He could just say No and they wouldn’t do it. They would respect that he didn’t want it to happen. They could just play something else and he’d be able to avoid this experience - or he could say Yes. If they’d accept his No now, they would also accept it later. Tommen had spent countless nights at the table next to his father, listening to him swoon over how honorable and honest of a man Lord Eddard Stark was and if that same Lord Eddard Stark’s sons claimed there were rules to tickling, he was sure they’d follow those rules at all times.

He nodded carefully. “You can do it… but carefully…”

“Of course!” To say that Rickon was beaming would’ve been an understatement, but Tommen couldn’t think of a better word before the younger boy latched onto his sides, squeezing away.

A giggle slipped out of his mouth and he quickly pressed his arms to his sides. He didn’t want it to stop just yet, wanted to see where it would go, but he couldn’t help it, it just really tickled. It didn’t hurt though. Tommen felt the slightest bit of tension fade away.

“Don’t block us out now!” Bran’s eyes glittered as he wiggled his fingers past Tommen’s arms, scratching at his ribs and making the prince squeak. “How are we supposed to tickle you if you cover up all the good spots?” There was a teasing undertone to his voice that would’ve sounded cruel and mean coming from Joffrey but out of Bran’s mouth it sounded… nice. Like they were having fun.

Tommen let out another giggle. He was having fun. “Buhut it tihickles-”

“Yes, that’s the point!” Rickon laughed and moved from his sides to his tummy. Tommen doubled over with a shriek and the younger boy’s eyes lit up. “Bran, I found a gold spot!”

“Good work, Ser Rickon! The defenses are crumbling!”

“AIHEE- Brahahahan!” Tommen squealed, curling in on himself. It was no use trying to protect his torso; Rickon relentlessly prodded and poked at his tummy and Bran’s fingers had wormed their way up into his armpits. It would probably be smart to try and push him off but he couldn’t bring himself to lift his arms - it just tickled too much. All he could do was lie on the carpet and laugh and it was fun.

“Are you alright?” Rickon grinned widely when the prince nodded. “Good!” He wiggled a finger into his belly button. “Then I can try this!”

“Gahahads, Rickohohon! Nahahat theheheere!” Tommen felt tears prick at the corner of his eyes. As much fun as this was- “Ihi cahan’t, I cahahan’t, stahahap! Plehehease!”

Immediately all four hands let go of him and Tommen felt warmth spread in his chest. They stopped. He told them to stop and they did it. So this was why it was supposed to be fun.

Rickon scooted a little closer and tried to catch a glimpse of Tommen’s face. “Are you still alriHIG- hehehehey! Brahahan, nohoho!”

Tommen blinked at the younger boy who was giggling and squirming on the ground, then he looked up at Bran who had his hands buried under Rickon’s arms and grinned back at him. “Do you want to help?”

“Nohoho, dohon’t hehehelp him!”

Tommen hesitated for a moment, then carefully extended his hand to give Rickon’s knee a little scratch when Bran sent an encouraging nod his way. Rickon let out a shriek and tried to pull his leg in but Tommen quickly grabbed his ankle to hold it still. He was getting used to this.

“You know you deserve this, Rickon!” Bran did his best to sound threatening but he couldn’t hide his joking undertone. “That’s what you get when you don’t share your toys!”

“Buhut thehese ahahare mihINEEK! ALRIHIHIGHT I GIHIVE! I GIHIHIVE!”

Tommen watched in fascination as Bran took his fingers off Rickon’s neck and briefly wondered how many times they must have done this for Bran to have such good knowledge on how to get Rickon to give up immediately. He caught himself smiling at the sight of Rickon lunging at Bran with a battle cry and starting to squeeze his sides, drawing an uncharacteristic cackle out of his older brother.

“Come on Tommen, help me! He needs a taste of his own medicine!”

Tommen took Bran’s wrists to pull them up, grinning down at him when he was met with a squeal of betrayal. How he could’ve ever thought about Winterfell as a dismal place was beyond him.

[controld3vil]

here we stand

pairing: jacerys velaryon x mormont!reader

synopsis: news had broken out that the throne has been usurped. jacerys rides his way to winterfell, the end to the north where he meets cregan stark. and in evidently, you, lady mormont of bear island.

notes: first of all, HE LOOKS SO GOOD w/ long hair !! also this mentions the first scene in s2 ep 1, i just tweeked a few things where now jacerys receives the terrible news days after getting acquitted in at winterfell. and bc i wished for more jace & cregan interaction >:( no beta reading btw !!

Duty is sacrifice.

All know of it. It bypasses any blood or foe. To honor one's duty is to sacrifice one's possessions. And oaths can last long over through generations. It is bypassing children and their children. It is the utmost fidelity any honorable man should know. If for the Seven Kingdoms and everyone at stake at what's beyond the Wall. A barrier that towers over seven hundred feet from what lies more gruesome than death.

Your cousin, Cregan Stark took up the responsibility as Lord of Winterfell, sometime after the passing of his father, Rickon Stark. He's a noble lad, he took upon the role at the age of six and ten. He was young but quickly learned how to command and serve the people. Much like his House's words, he understood what was coming. Though unexpected news of an envoy from Dragonstone had landed him in monetary consideration. Of what's to come with his men and the upcoming raging war.

"This is only late summer snow, my prince. In winter it will cover all you see and all memories of warmth will be forgotten." The metal chamber that brings them to the top of the Wall stops and both men walk out into the cold winter bridge. It's desolate and high in altitude.

Jacaerys could only imagine what it would feel like in wintertime, where there is nothing else but ice. "It pleases me that over a century ago our ancestors were treated in this very place. The Conqueror and the King in the North." His brown hair, inches longer, flutters past the cold air. Even with his blood, the descendant of the ferocious fire-breathing creatures, his heart still churns with a chill.

"You at least had the mercy not to threaten me with your dragon." The Lord of Winterfell smiles, eyeing the prince's reaction to the weather. No Southerner would know the true cold past summer.

The crowned prince returns his grin, looking out into the view beyond the Wall. From seven hundred feet above, everything, even the trees and people looked small. A wall that has been built this tall must offer security for what's beyond more terrifying than wildings and foes.

"While your men stand to protect against wildings and weather, the Hightowers plan to usurp my mother's throne. It is the duty of the Seven Kingdoms, and you, as Lord of Winterfell, to uphold your oaths sworn to the heir to the Iron Throne," Jacaerys gaze moves across where his eyes can take him off the Wall. It stretches out ridiculously long with men at every post. He has passed by a few to know whether or not, it was their obligation to join the Night's Watch, it was now their vow to protect this sacred place. However, he needed to remind Lord Stark of his reason for visiting. If the realm remained unbalanced, even Winterfell would not prosper.

"Starks do not forget our oaths, my prince," Cregan restates, with a look of sympathy and seriousness. "But you must know that my gaze will forever fall between the north and south. Here, in the winter, my duty to the Wall is more dire than what I ought in King's Landing. I need my men."

The prince of Dragonstone's look flickers, questionably. Until a holler from one of the watchmen signals Cregan of a visitor. He nods before glancing back at Jacaerys to dismiss him. A soft courtesy of his name before stepping down the post to greet the newcomer.

The cranks of the elevator come to a final stop. Before a pair of boots shuffle out of the old compartment to be met with the face of your cousin. Cregan's eyes meet yours in surprise and you subconsciously feel your shoulders untensed.

"Cousin,"

"Lady Mormont," He says with utmost respect as he can decipher the faint footsteps from behind Dragonstone's envoy. "What reason may you come to visit the Wall?"

"I received word that a messenger from Dragonstone came," Your bear fur coat holds you snug to protect you from the harsh winds. And your embroidered gloves, made from leather and deer fur have kept your fingers from freezing off during the trip to the edge of Winterfell. Your hands clasp together in an assertion. "Though I can already see he has arrived." Your soft stare transfigures onto Jacaerys and the sudden attention makes him slightly step aback.

Your lord gives you a playful look before turning back. "My prince, this is Lady Mormont of Bear Island. She is a close friend of mine and cousin." As embarrassed as the prince was, he could feel heat run up his spine as Jacaerys struggled to say anything welcoming.

"It is an honor to meet you, Lady Mormont,"

"The pleasure is mine," You blink innocently before addressing yet again your reason for presence. “Come, discuss matters over the fire,” 

Eventually, a week has gone by with Jacaerys Velayron’s stay. His extended stay has left questions and concerns for the townsfolk. However, Cregan reassures them, replying to them in short curt responses. In all, he explains the prince should rest before riding back to Dragonstone as it was a few days' journey from the North. This brought no rejection from either party and allowed the two boys to catch up and take into consideration the risks. 

You were always welcome at Winterfell. When you were little, your father, Lord Mormont, visited the black castle occasionally to meet with Lord Stark. The maids and servants knew you well as well as the Starks. They treated you like their own blood despite you being a distinct relative from a faraway island. Rare at times would they come to visit your home. Your homeland was not as welcoming as Winterfell some may say. Your House resided over lone shores, topped with horrific rock structures and charcoal reefs. A ruthless and barbaric landmark for the House of the Bear. 

“I appreciate your hospitality, Lord Stark,” Jacaerys starts, holding his ale cup to drink as all of the other guests gather to feast for the night. The three of you alongside Cregan’s son, Rickon, were seated at the high table, enjoying the luxurious scene before you all.

Large condiments of meats, pastries, and wine for the people, nobles of the Northmen. Feasts were something that brought together everyone during harsh times. In times of violence or sorrow, it is the shared appreciation you all must endure to move forward. That is true of what the people of the North had that no other House had. The Velaryron prince gives you an appreciative smile. “And to you, Lady Mormont, I thank you for your sincere support of my mother’s claim.”

“Here we stand,” You raise your goblet, reciting your very House words. True to what it meant, your family stood prepared for what days would come to an end. You understood one day you have a place in something greater when the moment was right and here it was now, lying right in front of you. Mormonts are known to be willing to fight even when the odds are against them. So were you when you declared fealty to Cregan Stark, your dear cousin. Your loyalty towards him would only mean you would go to the ends of the Earth to fulfill your promise. “And here we fight for the queen.” 

Despite not having Rhaenyra, her son knew she would be fond of you. Your attitude and strong integrity were something few held at King’s Landing. He acknowledged that people may not agree with his mother’s claim. However, there will always be those who still believe and support her. You are one of those people. Despite being hundreds of miles away from King’s Landing, Cregan and you showed fealty and loyalty to the oaths sworn nearly a decade ago. Some day, he wishes his mother would meet you. 

“Of course,” Cregan begins, settling his cup down, before patting for his son to come towards him. “With the men we have, it is guaranteed they’d be ready to march the earliest as of the morrow” Rickon starts off his wooden seat and shuffles to his father’s lap. A clumsy stumble and the Lord of Winterfell picks up the child with ease with a soft smile. “From there, the men will march to King’s Landing.”

“Then I should leave by the morrow,” Rhaenyra’s son places his arms on the table.

Your heart skips a half second, knowing that the time you spent together would be short-lived eventually. The prince was sent as a messenger, nothing more. His stay was long overdue, though no word from Dragonstone has the eyes of the ravens yet. It sinks to you momentarily when you place the last piece of meat into your mouth and down the last drops of your ale. 

“Yes, your visit has been short-lived,” Your cousin sighs, too aware of how the brief meeting would be over. Jacaerys was a good friend, being the same age as him, Cregan felt well acquainted with him. He had only wished that they had met under different circumstances and times. Perhaps when war wages on, they would meet again on the battlefield or after they have won against the Greens. Speculation of what was next was unknown. “But you have our support, my prince. Do not fret, we will prepare for what the Hightowers plan.” 

Jacaerys nods, understandably. He turns to you who sweetly bobs your head in agreement. How delicate your features looked in the dim ambers of the Winter halls. He’s enamored by your presence with how often he gravitates towards your direction.

He had always assumed Northern women would be different from Southerners. They were different. Northerners were divine in their way. You excluded such poise and delicacy, Jacaerys sometimes couldn’t help but become curious of you. Your hobbies, what you liked to do, what was your favorite food, and your most desired ambitions. Southerners in King’s Landing were graceful and fragile like the summer breeze. However, you were like a chilly snow cast. The cold, it’s welcoming and he constantly feels chills running down his spine whenever your eyes meet. 

“Now what do you think of the North?” Your lord light-heartedly brings up to lighten the mood. You and Cregan enjoyed the short mornings with the prince. The limited time you shared allowed for intimate discussions and a way to become acquainted with one another. The people, how things functioned, and how you adapted to the cold. It’s far much different than what he’s accustomed to in Dragonstone, where his home echoed through miles.  Compared to the North, Winterfell was exceptionally enormous but had a sense of home and warmth. 

“It’s different from Dragonstone,” The brown-haired envoy laughs, showing quite fond forever his home. “My home resides by the sea, surrounded by the high tides and rough shores. The castle is covered in obsidian stone and is known to be indestructible. My family has lived there for centuries now.” 

“How fascinating,” Your cousin breathes, showing his teeth. “I’ve heard stories about Dragonstone. Some say you can find dragon eggs deep in the mountains.”

“That is true, our dragons reside in caves. They lay their eggs in crystallized magma. Our dragon masters look after the eggs and know when the time is right to harvest them.” 

“What happens when a dragon egg doesn't hatch?” You lean your head forward, hands clasped together again. Learning about his family and their customs kept your interest for a long time. Not many Southern Houses come to visit from King’s Landing. They rather stay where it is warm and avoid the uncomfortable weather and travel to the North. Your eagerness was appreciated when Jacearys considered your question. 

“We wouldn’t know for sure when they would or would not hatch. We simply wait it out.” He quirks a gentle smile when your gaze is sort of magnetic. It’s like you were in a trance every time he spoke of anything he was interested in. 

“How long have you waited for one to hatch?” Cregan picks up his cup again to refill while his son pivots to run to the other side of the table, only to be greeted by you. With big smiles, you gladly carried the child to your side. 

“A few years,” Jacearys remembers the day well. He remembers his brother Joffrey, struggling and whining to his mother about his egg. He was as young as four, however in the first three years of his life, his dragon had not hatched. It’s a mystery when the dragon decides to break out of its shell. He was fortunate with Vermax after months of being born, his companion was right beside him from the start. Lucerys had a similar reaction. Rhaenyra often told stories of many instances of good and bad hatchlings alongside their rider. Some may not have been awakened by its rider, for they might have been dead already. The unknown enigma of those ferocious beasts pales in the prince’s head.

“It must’ve been unpleasant,” You joked, hugging Rickon tightly, having his cheek meet with yours. The young boy giggles loudly, taking hold of both of your cheeks in excitement. 

The atmosphere felt sublime and almost too perfect. Here in the warmth and formality of the Stark Household, everyone was lively and heeded no sorrows. How the prince wished upon the same for Dragonstone. If only the realm was brought together and the Hightowers had not usurped his mother’s throne despite her rightful claim. Would his family be united and happy finally?

He wasn’t sure as Jacaerys had never known familial love on his mother’s side. Both of his uncles vexed him, Luke and Joffrey. Helaena was kind, however, never showing malice towards him and his brothers. But the Hand of the King, and Queen Regent. Quiet in their schemes and distaste for bastards. 

Affection is what fills the prince’s chest with glee. As he scans the dining room of men, women, and children, they all feast and brawl over pointless endeavors. The scent of mead and hot fresh meat fills the room with chaotic laughter and nonsensical bubbling. In another time and place, Jacaerys would have been thrilled to visit Winterfell during this time of year. 

And his gaze slowly follows the wisp of your faint figure by the fireplace. With the heir of House Stark, you blow raspberry kisses against Rickon’s hot cheeks. As the boy squeals in delight, grabbing at the ends of your hair like ropes on the ship, bouncing them back and forth. You were good to Rickon, Jacaerys knows you care for the boy like it were your son. He thinks Cregan is grateful to have someone's endearment and protection toward his son. For the lack of a maternal figure had been long gone. You would be a great mother one day, he deciphers. You constantly fiddle Rickon’s hair which reminds him of his mother when he was little. 

It was such a faint memory that stuck in his mind whenever he saw you with the children. Rhaenyra would question him if she were here. Mothers had a knack for spotting things such as things. The prince knew of his interest in you. However, would you do the same if he made them clear as day?

You never said anything to him. It makes him question if you were truly interested or not. You’ve shown fondness over meals and spoke of jokes whenever he came out to the stables, where his poor dragon, Vermax, gruntled in the snow. 

“I’m sorry the farmers could not do much to help your dragon!” You shouted out one day in the early sunrise. He takes a few steps from his companion to find you in white fur coats and boots. You looked beautiful, the color suits you. As elegant and dainty as the pigment of his mother’s hair. Your locks were braided halfway with the rest, flowing down from your ears to your shoulders. “We don’t often have dragons visit us in the North!”

The prince laughs with small puffs of his breath becoming visible. “The stable boys did a fine job in accompanying Vermax.” At the call of his dragon’s name, it slowly hovers over his dragon rider. It purrs warmly in the frost as your eyes glower in fascination.

“He’s beautiful,” Your voice is nearly breathless at the size difference Vermax has over the buildings and people. It is a creature that comes far beyond your imagination and fairy tales. It's olive green scale prickle in delight as your eyes began to wonder back and forth. Dragons were rare in the North and it must’ve been a relentless recurrence for the people in King’s Landing. 

The prince hums before kicking a chunk of frozen dirt. He makes an effort to be bold for once. “Would you like to pet him?” 

You looked shook and it made him struggle to keep a composed posture. You stumble to make any words come out of your mouth. “I- May I?” 

“Of course,” The dragon rider comes forward and grabs your hand, dragging himself closer to the beast. The sudden contact and closure make your heart beat faster than anticipated. As you find yourself glancing up at its reptilian eyes. In horror, you hold your ground, wanting nothing more than to back away. “It’s alright, he won’t hurt you.” 

Jacery’s reassurance doesn't comfort you as you resist his grip on your wrist. Vermax merely stands, grumbling in curiosity as to your stricken presence. It’s trying to inquire about your anxiety when it was the reason for it in the first place.

Taking a short take of air, you stand in place. You did your best to calm your breathing, feeling a hand on your lower back to support you. Your dainty eyes meet the prince. And within contact, it felt as though you felt everything would be alright. His touch soothed your racing heart as you excelled forward, step by step closer to the beast. For you, it must’ve felt like the clock had slowed down when you were merely inches away from Vermax. Its enormous size was breathtaking and you could make your lungs free of oxygen again. 

Yet your state of mind returns when the queen’s heir comes into view. The air felt a tension between fear and anxiety. It was both exhilarating and terrifying for someone who has never seen a dragon up close before. You took the last big step when you lifted your fingers above its nose. 

Vermax shivered and at the last minute, you wanted to back out. Until Jacaerys hand envelopes over your hand to pet his companion. With such care and attentiveness, you should have realized the prince’s advances towards you by now.

The Godswood was a welcoming pastime you’ve grown to respect. With the decline in visits, you’ve come to value the historic tree for what it stood for and the ancestral value it had over your people. Cregan did not mind whenever you went away to pay your respects. He knew how important it was to you to respect the old gods and the new. War was coming. If you were going to support Rhaenyra, you only wish for your men to come out victorious. 

You were no war-picking woman. But death was something you’ve come to accept recently. The passing of Rickon Stark brought a hole in your heart. You mourned in your ways, and so did Cregan when you had heard he had taken the mantle as Lord of Winterfell. He still is a young man, barely over six and ten. The best you could do was offer your presence and time. To him, being present with the people and acting lively was enough for him to regain his mind. Everyone looked up to Rickon for what he stood for and the House. There is no doubt Cregan would do the same in the coming time to King’s Landing. 

“It’s saddening, isn’t it?” You breathe into the crisp air, only to feel your throat grow dry. But the person behind you knows you were referring to them. “How war affects us all.” 

The prince of Dragonstone steps out from the shadows. His steps were slow and gruff, still worn out from the feast and the massive amount of ale that was offered to him. But you were the only thing that had piqued his interest. You were quiet, not expecting an answer from him. Until he stepped and stopped right beside you, shoulders nearly touching but inches apart. Your bear coat was held loosely on you as he recalled you too struggled to leave the dining table. You all drank too much tonight. 

“The Godswood know of it all. They see everything,” The bear bronze sigil shines past his peripherals when he cannot meet your gaze. You were not drunk enough to do something reckless but not too sober to do anything either. 

In return, all you could ever see was Jacaerys furrowed expression. He’s contemplating something. But you choose to stare and take in his features with such interest and curiosity. His soft and tranquil pout resembles much of a wolf you’ve seen. As though his curly strands, which you would imagine, are dim to the touch. The prince holds assertiveness in his duty, falling into the role of heir as for his queen. Perhaps he’s everything that his mother stood for. You admired it. 

“Know you and your men's contributions would be known,” He whispers, it’s clear you could feel his breath close to your neck. The dark clouds could not even hide the indisputable truth. The crescent moon gleams somewhere in the far distance you can’t seem to find. But you know what’s true. Because moments ago, you could discern his distance inches away. Now it seems that he wants to close the gap by the second. “And that…”

“That we did our duties, nothing more.” You pant, unable to keep your eyes from moving from his gaze and lips. Strands of his dark brown hair trickle against your cheeks as you take one last glimpse at your prince. If any of this was acceptable. You wouldn’t exceed further to know he’d reject your proclaimed assumptions. 

But nothing happens. It was as though the chill in the air had changed. When another figure reappears out of the shadows and into the light. Jacaerys distances himself from you. While you did your best to compose yourself for being caught red-handed by a servant boy.

“My Lady,” The innocent boy chants, as he holds up a scroll. “A message from Dragonstone.” Jacearys’s eyes shot up as you were given the letter. The moment you give the signal of approval, the servant boy leaves into the abyss and back into the cabin. 

You unlatched the curly paper and patiently read its contents. The prince carefully awaits, every so longing to catch any misdemeanor you would have upon what letter had. He hopes and wishes it is good news more than anything. But you held a stone-cold expression and when you looked up at him, he could only discern sorrow with the words that come out of your mouth.

“I’m sorry, my prince.”

[ninetailedfoxmanchi]

The Northern Winds

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Reader

Warnings: mention of blood & (domestic) violence, mature NSFW content (18+), mention of sexist and misogynistic medieval notions on women, arranged marriage

A/N: The story is set a few years before the Dance of the Dragons and somewhat inspired by Cregan's first marriage from the book. Many of the characters are fictional of my own imagination but I tried to keep some and the setting as close to Martin’s universe as possible – with some changes here and there for the sake of the plot.

Plot: Arranged marriage between the Lord of Winterfell and a lady from a minor house

Words: 18k

MASTERLIST

***

Letters of more and more wildling invasions of the Wall, reports of their hosts gathering even south of the Wall reached the halls of Winterfell on a weekly basis in the past months. When young Lord Stark rightfully took his father’s seat from his usurper uncle, he also pushed the wildlings back north. However that was some years ago and winter was knocking on the door. The wildlings have become bolder even.

Lord Stark was working with Maester Bennard, his most trusted advisor, on letters of diplomacy and matters that needed the noble seal of the Warden of the North. The solar where the Lord of Winterfell worked was located in Rodrick’s Tower, the largest of all of Winterfell’s towers. A smaller tower grew from its western wall a few hundred years ago where the Lords Stark carried on their duty to their people as masters of Winterfell.

A fire was lit in Lord Stark’s solar and many more candles to light the spacious chamber. The stone walls were lined with scrolls of parchment and important letters, which arrived from both the north and the south, along with some books containing lineages and retellings of the great events of Westeros. There was a great oaken desk in the middle of the solar and yet close enough to the window to allow for some more light. Behind it sat Lord Cregan Stark in the company of his maester, who handed him the most recent letters of the lords closest to the Wall, who were all asking for aid in the fight against the wildlings.

Maester Bennard hesitated as the matters of the day came to an end. “There was another letter, my lord.” Lord Stark pressed his seal into the hot wax. “From Whytefort.” Lord Stark’s hard grey eyes rose to meet his maester’s. Although Cregan Stark was a young man, he was much his father’s son; much a Stark. While his face displayed youth on the one hand, he was a man of solemn expression and of a formidable build. The Wolf of the North commanded respect in his subjects and was regarded as an honourable man and a great warrior. Unlike the Lord of Whytefort.

“Apparently Lord Whytefort shares our struggles with containing the wildlings on the northern side of the Wall, particularly in the mountains. As you know, castle Whytefort lies—”

“At the foot of the Iceraven, yes,” said the Lord of Winterfell. Iceraven was a mountain chain stretching from the north of Deepwood Motte all the way to the Kingsroad. It was in the shape of a flying raven’s wings with its peaks covered in ice and snow all throughout the seasons, hence the name. The Whytefort was built in the foot of the mountain; its stone, white walls making the castle one with the mountain and its caves. Although Deepwood Motte was the seat of House Glover, the Lords of Whytefort had maintained their seat, on what were officially Glover lands, beneath the Iceraven for thousands of years. But what land they had, it was watery and more clay than it was soil. However, it mattered little because the Whyteforters were mountain men. They were shepherds and craftsmen. And although not particularly wealthy or strong of a house, their words read Pride is our honour.

“There was a falling out when my father was still the Lord of Winterfell,” recalled Cregan Stark. The maester nodded. “Jonos Whytefort refused to bend the knee to Lord Glover as his liege lord, not even when Lord Rickon demanded he does so.”

“Why does he send a raven now?” asked Lord Stark rather displeased. It has been a long day of tedious letters and little solutions on how to face the wildling problem. “Which noble house offended his pride this time?”

“Actually,” broke Maester Bennard, “Lord Jonos offers his men to join forces with Winterfell against the wildlings. He speaks in the thousands.”

Lord Stark frowned as he looked at his maester. Even just five hundred and a thousand well-trained even if not seasoned men could make all the difference in defending the Wall and pushing the wildlings back. It would take a significant strain off his own greybeards and the rest of the houses sworn to House Stark on whom he called for aid. Yet although houses honourable and strong like Dustin, Umber, Karstark, and even Glover were more than gland to answer their lord’s call with nothing but good favour in return, that was not the way of House Whytefort.

“What does he ask in turn?” spoke the young Lord Stark gravely.

“He …” began Maester Bennard hesitantly. “He offers his daughter’s hand in marriage, and therefore the end of animosity sealed by this marriage arrangement.”

Lord Stark scoffed. “Of course he does. Does he also suggest which one of my three wretched cousins I should have the pretentious wench wed to?”

“Actually, Lord Jonos’ offer extends only to your person,” spoke Maester Bennard cautiously.

Lord Stark’s eyes darkened at the audacity expressed by Lord Whytefort through the making of this offer. Cregan squeezed the brass seal of his house in his large hand, leaving an imprint of the direwolf on his palm. Still, as the wildling attacks grew stronger by the month, Cregan was not in an entirely clear and straightforward position to refuse thousands of trained warriors.

“My lord will have to marry sooner or later,” offered Maester Bennard in consideration.

“I’d rather have it later than sooner,” said Lord Stark. He had only been Lord of Winterfell some years. It was his duty to marry but he had rather hoped it could wait a while longer. “And you advise it, Maester Bennard? Whytefort is a small house. They have some land but most of it belongs to the mountains. Little wealth to speak of …”

“I do, my lord, under the circumstances. Winter is coming and the Wall must needs be secured before it arrives. We do not know how long the winter will last this time. We might not even have enough for our own, much less to feed a mass of wildlings.”

Cregan Stark knew of that without his maester having to say it. He looked through the window and saw the snows sticking to the grey rooftops of the castle. Although this was still just summer snow he was watching fall, Lord Stark knew one thing was certain. Winter is coming. And with it cold and death. There was no time to waste.

Lord Stark got up. “Have a raven sent, Maester Bennard. I leave the arrangement of this folly in your hands.”

"As my lord commands."

***

“Do you know what the girl is like?” asked Cregan Stark as he took his supper in Rodrick’s Tower. Maester Bennard was often by his side even at mealtimes as the work often could not wait.

“I believe you met her once, my lord. As a boy of nine or ten if I am not mistaken,” said Maester Bennard, helping himself to some black pudding. Lord Stark washed down his meal with a small cup of ale. He had no recollection of any young Lady Whytefort or the Whyteforts ever visiting Winterfell. As mountain men they more oft than not kept to their lands beneath or atop the Iceraven.

“They visited Winterfell on their way to castle Cerwyn for Lord Cerwyn’s son Erick’s wedding. You may remember from your studies that Lady Whytefort is Lord Erick Cerwyn’s half-sister.” Cregan Stark nodded although he had no memory of ever learning that either. His mind must have been on swordplay or horse riding at the time Maester Bennard instructed him in the family ties of the minor houses of the North. He was desperate, however, for his mind to conjure an image of his future wife, even if only from childhood.

“I do not remember them visiting,” said Lord Stark. There hardly passed a week in his life without a visit at Winterfell from this or that house, family, or merchant.

“They only stayed the night before riding out in the morrow, so naturally you may not recall,” said Maester Bennard. “It was a long time ago …” he spoke more quietly as he knew what his lordship would ask him next.

“What do you remember of the girl, maester?”

“I …” hesitated Maester Bennard. “I know you are of age with the lady,” said the maester but that is not what Lord Stark was asking. His grey eyes were as cold as stone as they commanded the maester to speak plainly. “I remember, I believe, as a child she was neither entirely plain nor very comely. Or particularly well-mannered for a young lady - a rebellious child. She favoured the company of her horse and dog to that of the court and needed to be forced into a dress as she preferred breeches and jerkins, often stealing them from her older brother Daeron from what I heard. It was said to be a nightmare for her lady mother,” said Maester Bennard and took a sip of warm honeyed wine. “He, Daeron, is the future Lord of Whytefort and was named after his grandsire. You may remember him better,” said Maester Bennard. He would not lie to his lordship of his recollections. However, no matter how homely, or brazen if she is to be judged after her lord father?s character, the maid might have grown up to be, the wedding was imperative in taking place.

“The brother,” Maester Bennard cleared his throat, “Was said to be the one to have inherited the beauty of his parents. He was three-and-ten when you met him, the same age as you were when your lord father died. “Lord Jonos, however, assures Lady Y/N is as comely a beauty as any northern, or for that matter, southern lady. He sings praises of her wit and promises she is an accomplished young woman,” added Maester Bennard although neither himself nor Lord Stark were inclined to trust the words of a man whose pride exceeded his sense of honour – or duty for that matter. However, to Cregan Stark they represented the same. His duty was his honour and his honour was his duty. No Stark had ever broken his word and he had given his to Lord Jonos Whytefort to marry his daughter in exchange for a few thousand men.

“We shall know soon enough,” said the Lord of Winterfell soberly as he set down his cup and retired to his private chambers. The raven sent by Whytefort’s maester read their lord and his daughter would arrive in half a moon, which meant they would arrive on the morrow when the wedding ceremony would also take place.

***

The summer snows were melted by the sun during the day whilst the nights would remain as cold and crisp as ice. It was afternoon already when Lord Jonos arrived with his surprisingly unnumerous host of noblemen and women to witness the marriage of his only daughter to the Warden of the North. The castle had been in preparation of the feast for days before the arrival of Lord Whytefort. The main hall was being decorated in ribbons and flowers in the colours of House Stark and House Whytefort, whose banner bore a carmine brown fox on a field of black with white trees, symbolising the birchwood of their lands.

The ceremony was to be held in the godswood inside the castle walls of Winterfell beneath the heart tree as was customary in the North, where the faith of the Old Gods remained. As Cregan’s own father was dead, it would be Maester Bennard who would lead the ceremony as the most senior of Cregan’s advisors and one Lord Stark personally considered a friend.

The host arrived late in the afternoon although they were expected in the morning. The Warden was irked but would not let it show. Lord Cregan stood tall and solemn as he waited for his guests, for his future bride, in the main courtyard of the castle. The sound of hooves long echoed the walls of Winterfell before a host of wedding-adorned horse riders crossed the innermost gates. Cregan Stark recognized Lord Jonos from his short visit to Winterfell quickly upon his arrival. He had mousy blonde hair and eyes as blue as the sea of Tarth. He was a reasonably tall man with some belly brought on by age and too many barrels of ale. Lord Jonos rode on a white palfrey with his son by his side on a mount of a coat that matched the Whytefort’s fox in colour. Daeron was a comely young man like the maester said, his eyes as green as summer trees with a head of rich dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He sat high in his horse yet not half as high as his lord father. The host of riders rounded in the vast courtyard, leading the way for an ornate carriage. To the onlookers, Lord Stark, the Warden of the North, was calm and dignified. But inside, Cregan felt a storm gathering. It was the displeasure of meeting a man so prideful that he would offer his daughter to the Lord of Winterfell without invitation; but mostly, a man who was too arrogant to bend the knee at the command of his most senior lord for a petty feud with House Glover over some land later won by the latter. Yet it was not only pride and arrogance that Lord Jonos Whytefort was famous for but also for containing an equal measure of tightfistedness as well as greed.

Half a dozen riders and a couple of wagons with supplies followed the carriage until it came to a stop and Lord Jonos dismounted along with his first-born and only son.

“Lord Stark,” said Lord Jonos Whytefort, bowing his head curtly. His son echoed his actions. Lord Stark was almost surprised at Whytefort’s courtesy. Yet if they had not been expressed properly, more would have been at stake for Lord Jonos rather than for the Lord of Winterfell.

“Lord Jonos,” said Cregan Stark and squeezed the man’s thick, gloved hand warily. “Welcome to Winterfell.”

“Thank you, Lord Stark. It was a surprisingly long journey.”

“Indeed,” said Cregan. “We had expected you this morning.”

Lord Jonos laughed, revealing that not only his belly but his teeth were affected by the too many barrels of ale. “Yes, indeed. The wheel of the carriage broke. There was replacing needed,” said Lord Jonos lightly although the spare wheel rested securely untouched in one of the wagons that followed the host.

“Of course,” said Lord Stark curtly although his hands itched to send Lord Jonos back to the mountains whence he came from. As he continued about their tedious journey from the security of their mountain hold, Cregan Stark’s gaze moved behind Lord Whytefort. The carriage door was held open, a woman round with curves and black hair secured in a net of pearls stepped from the carriage. For a moment, Cregan’s chest grew heavy with the burden of duty as he considered that may be his bride and Lord Jonos had tricked him by singing praises of his daughter's beauty. But the woman could not have been his bride as she must have been twice, nearly thrice Lord Cregan's age. The discomfortable thought disappeared when another figure emerged from the carriage and he realized the first woman must have been Lady Whytefort, the wife of Lord Jonos. She held her daughter’s hand and helped her climb from the carriage. Lady Y/N held up her rich black velvet skirts until her feet reached the floor. Her gown was trimmed with the fur of the carmine fox of her family’s banner and she wore a chain of white gold around her neck. The Lord of Winterfell came to realize that Lord Jonos must have been truthful for the first time in his life when he wrote of his daughter's comeliness.

Maester Bennard, who was among those to greet Winterfell’s guests, recognized the child he saw so many years ago in the young lady before him. Her eyes were still restless and deep as pools but they grew a warmth only changing into a woman grown can bring. There was no sight of men’s breeches or her brother’s jerkins. The gown young Lady Whytefort wore hugged her womanly body, the curves of her figure evident even with a heavy cloak hanging from her shoulders. The person he remembered was a child rebellious and wild, but the one standing before him was a woman grown and noble.

The cold, fresh air filled Y/N lungs, easing some of the sickness the ride in the stuffy carriage inflicted on her insides. Y/N looked up at the tall castle walls, the massive bricks of grey stone and granite towering over her. Her new gaol, she thought. She looked around until her eyes met those just as grey and cold as the castle walls. Y/N averted her gaze as her mother led her to where her lord father and her future husband were waiting. Her heart was beating hard against her ribcage as she suddenly felt as hot as if she had arrived in Dorne and not in Winterfell.

Lord Jonos went on about their journey still, oblivious of his wife or his daughter’s presence or the decency of making their acquaintances. As Lord Jonos finally reached for breath, Lady Whytefort spoke, “Lord Stark, allow me to present my daughter, Lady Y/N of Whytefort.”

Y/N bowed graciously but managed no more than a glance at her future husband’s eyes. He was taller than her father even and the heavy cloak he wore made him appear as if there were two men beneath it rather than one. Lord Cregan Stark was as formidable a figure as any she had met.

“Well met, Lady Whytefort,” said Lord Stark curtly as he kissed her gloved hand.

“My lady,” said Lord Stark and turned to Y/N. He took her hand, not ungently, and kissed the top of her knuckles. Y/N could almost feel the warmth of his large hand although the both of them wore thick leather gloves. There was a sword strapped on his back, almost as tall as he was. Ice it was called, Y/N remembered from a book she read on the Kings of the North many years ago. It was Valeryan steel and passed on from generation to generation just the same as Visenya Targaryen’s Dark Sister.

“Welcome to Winterfell,” said Lord Stark to his future wife.

"Thank you, my lord," Lady Y/N thanked him but her voice collected although weaker than her normal self. She had been fighting off suitors for years and successfully so. But there was no way she was getting out of this marriage. She would not dare as the prospect of it was too good for her family. Unlike her father, whose pride was built on wealth and possession, Y/N’s pride consisted of honour and love she held for her family.

“Thank you, Lord Stark,” spoke Lady Whytefort assuredly. “Our apologies for arriving late. We … Had some trouble on the road,” she explained although her eyes twitched towards her husband for a moment. She was a beautiful woman once with raven black hair and honey brown eyes. The children of Lord and Lady Whytefort were a mixture of their parents each in their own way.

As Y/N fixed her cloak when the evening breeze blew through the courtyard and the courtesies between Lord Stark and her father continued. She took in the many faces which observed the arrival of her family: her arrival – the future Lady of Winterfell. Just the sound of it in her head was incomprehensible to her, what more the reality of her being there, in that moment. Y/N could never imagine herself wed and bearing children for her husband. She was much happier studying books the maesters gave her, happier taking drawing lessons, even doing needlepoint. She could not imagine relinquishing the freedom of riding her mare through Whytewoods, secretly wishing she had been born a boy rather than a girl. The freedoms enjoyed by her brother were always right in front of her eyes but never hers to savour. The life she wanted was denied to her on the account of her existence as a woman. There were times when she wished for a family of her own, a husband to share her life with. But whenever her father would arrange for a suitor, Y/N knew she would rather end up an oldmaid rather than marry and relinquish what little freedom was left to her. However, when her lord father gave her the news of her betrothal to the Lord of Winterfell, to the Warden of the North, she had no choice but to accept the decision for she understood what the match would represent for her family. She would no longer have to worry about her beloved mother in the old age, her brother losing his seat to greater, more powerful houses, or even worry about her father, whom she somehow loved deeply and despised at the same time, for there would be always the power of Winterfell standing behind them.

All the while Y/N attempted to distract herself with the architecture, with the people both common and noble observing her, she could not help but feel Lord Stark’s cold grey eyes burning into her like ice. She would not meet her future husband’s gaze for more than a moment though or she feared her eyes might let in tears. Lady Y/N was very good at letting people to believe she was calm and assured of herself. And the one thing Y/N vowed to herself was that she would not allow anyone to see how she truly felt inside at the prospect of this marriage; of leaving her life behind, her family and friends, her freedoms.

***

Lady Y/N, her mother, and their handmaids were showed to their chambers where Y/N was to prepare for the wedding ceremony. Although the colours of her house were black, white, and carmine, her wedding gown did not have any black in it. Her father claimed it was bad luck. Instead, Y/N wore a gown of cream white fabric as soft as butter. The handmaids helped her with the bell sleeves and the lacing, adjusting her stockings and helping her with her shoes, whilst her lady mother placed a necklace of white pearls and a single carmine ruby around her neck.

Y/N’s hands were cold with sweat at the thought of the night that was coming. Her fingers shook too gravely to clasp her own earrings. Saera, Lady Y/N's handmaiden, who was helping her dress one final time as Y/N would be required to take new handmaids from the morrow forward as Lady Stark of Winterfell, adjusted her earrings. At last, they clasped a heavy maiden’s cloak around her shoulders. This one did sport the black of House Whytefort but only at the hem. The collar was carmine fox fur and the chain a silver link fastened around the neck. Y/N’s mother wept at the sight of her daughter on her wedding day.

It was already dark when the party descended the castle and was shown to the godswood where the ceremony was to take place. Lady Y/N could feel the fire from the torches the guests carried but her body shivered from cold. Or fear.

In the godswood of Winterfell stood the largest heart tree Y/N had ever seen. Although there was some snow on the ground with small, almost invisible snowflakes falling, the tree stood proud with blood-red leaves crowning its branches. Y/N’s breath quivered as she looked up at the guests. There were not very many and yet still too many for her comfort. She saw two dark figures right beneath the heart tree, one tall and one much shorter, the maester Lady Y/N had seen upon her arrival. The face of the heart tree beckoned haughtily for her to approach. Lord Jonos clasped his daughter’s hand around his elbow, leading her to the weirwood tree.

“Stop shaking,” he gritted through his teeth, his intense blue gaze finding his daughter’s. There was ale on his breath as Lord Jonos refused to go sober at his daughter's wedding, particularly when it was at the expense of Winterfell rather than his own house.

Y/N could not say a word, her mouth to dry to speak although she had a cup of mulled wine to warm her up as she got ready. She tried to swallow but it was like trying to swallow a spoonful of sand. “And don’t even think of anything stupid,” said Lord Jonos and squeezed her hand so firmly in his that the bones in her fingers near cracked. “The future of our house depends on this.” His words weighed even heavier in Y/N's chest.

They stopped at the heart tree opposite of Lord Stark, whilst Maester Bennard stood at the head of the party. Cregan Stark wore the colours of his own house, standing tall in the sight of the Old Gods. There was not an emotion on his face that Y/N could read other than what she had learned was his usual, formidable self.

Lord Stark, however, could not help but notice the tremble in his bride's small, delicate hands and the tension in her body.

It was beginning to snow once again but thankfully the ceremony would be short unlike the southern weddings before the Seven.

“Who comes before the Old Gods this night?” began Maester Bennard at once.

Lord Jonos spoke, “Y/N, of House Whytefort, comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn, and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the Gods. Who comes to claim her?”

“I, Cregan, of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Who gives her?” spoke Lord Stark, his voice strong and unmoving.

“Jonos, of House Whytefort, Lord of Whytefort,” said Y/N’s father as he let go of her hand.

“Lady Y/N, do you take this man?” asked Maester Bennard. For but a moment, Y/N considered what it would be like to run away. She would not come far. She also wondered of the fury her father would inflict on her for ruining such a perfect match. Her mother would be heartbroken and her brother livid.

“I take this man,” spoke Y/N at last, her voice weaker than she intended. She glanced at her husband’s grey eyes for but a moment before looking away. Tears threatened to water her eyes but she forced them back.

Lord Stark unclasped Y/N's maiden’s cloak as her body tensed and replaced it with his own, one with the sigil and the colours of House Stark. The fabric weighed heavy on her shoulders but it was warm, warmer than her own cloak had been. Neither did it smell like her. Its scent reminded her of pinewood and cloves.

Y/N pulled the cloak closer to her. It is done, she thought, and somehow her chest weighed less heavy than only minutes ago. She did not know why because this was the easiest part. It was the night that frightened her. And the morrow. And every day that would follow.

The wedding feast was held in the main hall. There was no scarcity of wild boar, of venison, nor of suckling pig. There was hot bread and tarts, lemon cakes and pastries occupying every corner of every table. Wine was served, Dornish red and Arbor white. There was even hippocras. And ale by the barrel. Her father was the first to be in his cups, having begun before the wedding ceremony, and entertained his noble and less noble friends at the end of the longtable to where he changed seats from his daughter's side. Her mother sat next to Lord Stark chatting happily away with one of the ladies. There was no one for Y/N to talk to but her husband, a man she hardly knew; a man she knew not at all. She thought the night might be easier if they spoke other than just courtesies.

Y/N took a cup of Dornish red from one of the servants and drank until she felt the warmth in her cheeks.

“I remember staying at Winterfell as a child,” spoke Y/N, finding the courage in her cup. “It was just for one night but I thought it looked much smaller then.” Cregan did not know what to say. He looked at his wife, taken back by the sudden break of silence. She had not even looked him in the eye more than half a dozen times since she arrived, much less spoke to him. At first, he thought it vanity yet when he saw her in front of the Old Gods, he understood her silence did not grow from pride or arrogance but something else, a mystery.

“I beg your forgiveness, my lady, but I cannot recall your time here at Winterfell. My maester, however … Given what he said of your being like as a child, I half expected you would arrive on horseback,” confessed Lord Stark, not displeased with the idea at all, yet hardly being able to imagine someone as quiet and reserved as Lady Y/N to arrive in anything less than an ornate carriage.

“Would that I could,” said Lady Y/N, finding her voice as she smiled a small smile at the thought of herself as a child. “But my father insisted I ride in the box.”

“The box?” inquired Lord Stark.

“It’s just as small, it’s wooden, and it’s as uncomfortable as anything. I’d be more comfortable riding on top of a cabbage cart,” said Lady Y/N earnestly, her voice quiet, but Cregan let out a warm, hearty laugh. Lady Y/N turned to him, drawn to the sound of his laughter, which even made her smile. She dared look at him properly for the first time since they met that afternoon. He looked like as a Stark as any: dark brown hair, a somewhat elongated face, and grey eyes, which suddenly seemed a lot warmer to her than the stone cold one's she saw that afternoon. She already knew he was tall but now that he had removed his heavy cloak, she saw the rest of his body too. His shoulders were wide and his chest strong beneath the metal sigil of the wolf clasped where his collarbones would meet. He must have shaven clean in the morning but Y/N could see there were hints of stubble protruding from his strong jaw. His hands were strong and muscular; strong enough to wield that inconceivably large sword belonging to his house, Ice. The thought suddenly frightened her. Her father never raised a hand to her but his raising a hand to her mother was hardly a rare occurrence.

The smile disappeared from Y/N’s lips as she looked at her hands resting at the edge of the table. She reached for her cup and drained what little was left in it. Lord Stark must have noticed the change in her mood.

“I understand Winterfell must seem daunting, my lady,” he spoke sincerely. “I got lost here countless of times myself as a child, and I was born here.” Lord Stark spoke with a warm northern accent. Y/N gazed around the room and nodded. Not because she agreed but because she could not make herself say anything else. She paused.

“It is not the castle that frightens me,” Y/N spoke out of the sudden, regretting it the moment the words flew out of her mouth. Wine be damned.

“What then, my lady?” asked Cregan without thinking. Lady Y/N smiled to herself as she glanced down at her hands before raising her gaze to him. She looked into his eyes but for a brief moment although it seemed to him to last a century at least. Her lips parted gently but no words passed them. Lady Y/N gave him a small, reassuring smile. She looked away and helped herself to a small lemon cake that she did not finish not even by the end of the night. But it was then in her smile that the Lord of Winterfell realized the mystery of his bride’s silence – fear, not of Winterfell itself, but of him. And she hid it so well. There was an air of assuredness and confidence about her, the way she moved and spoke, even if only with her eyes. But underneath it all, Y/N found herself feeling more vulnerable than ever.

As Cregan was about to speak to his wife, Lord Jonos bid her to dance as was customary of the father of the bride. If he hand not been in his cups, he might have been a half decent dancer. Lady Y/N, however, was as graceful a dancer as any. Her creamy white skirts seemed to become one with her body as she stepped and turned to the beat of the waltz. As the song came to an end, Lord Jonos coughed from fatigue as he stumbled back to his company, leaving his daughter alone in the middle of the hall. He considered his obligations at this wedding met and returned back to the feast. As Y/N was to return to the high table on her own, a warm hand caught hers. She looked up and found herself face to face with her husband, the great Lord of Winterfell. Y/N’s eyes widened in surprise but there was no time to hesitate as the music already began to play. She moved to the beat of the music, noticing how everyone was staring at them as they became the centre of attention.

“I didn’t think you dance, my lord,” said Y/N, hardly being able to look up into her husband’s eyes. The older she got, the less desire she had to look people in the eyes.

The Lord of Winterfell seemed much more a man suited to the battlefield rather than the cobblestones of a dancecourt. He was too tall and too broad in the shoulders to dance as elegantly as any singer could, nevertheless, he was sure of step and held a strong frame.

“I don’t,” said Lord Stark as their arms locked in a figure that demanded a turn. Y/N looked at him.

“Then why …” she wondered out loud before she could stop herself.

“Because you are the Lady of Winterfell,” said Lord Stark unemotionally as the dance slowly came to an end. “And your father is a wretched fool,” he spoke with distaste just before the music quietened. Lady Y/N stared at her lord husband as he kissed the top of her fingers and escorted her back to the high table where they sat together.

“Thank you,” she spoke gratefully, so used to her lord father forgetting his manners when he was in his cups, or sober for that matter, that the gallantry of Lord Stark seemed as strange to her as the sun rising at dusk. The tone of the Lord of Winterfell's voice, however, made her uneasy.

“There is nothing to thank, my lady,” said Lord Stark, his ice-cold voice melting some.

“It is to me, my lord.” Y/N had some more of that lemon cake for she could feel the Dornish red mingle with her blood far more intensely than she had intended. She had been travelling all day and had been on the road for near half a moon. The wine stuck to her as easily as mud to boots on a rainy day.

As the guests, Lord Jonos' group of primitive nobles in particular, suddenly began shouting “BEDDING! BEDDING! BEDDING!” in unison, Y/N flinched, her hand colliding against Lord Stark’s arm as her eyes widened. She had asked her father not to do this, not to encourage this ribald practice, and he agreed. He even gave her his word. In his cups however, Lord Jonos had no recollection of making his daughter such a promise.

Y/N’s stomach twisted into knots as she grew sick with anxiety when she saw the guest approach her with their greedy hands.

The Lord of Winterfell stood up, towering over most any man in the hall. His grey eyes turned as cold as stone as his brows furrowed into a formidable frown. The music stopped and guests settled down to hear what the Warden of the North had to say.

“I would not draw a sword at anyone on my wedding day, my lords,” spoke Lord Stark in a loud, solemn voice. The bawdy smiles of the wedding guests drained from their mouths. Y/N looked up at her husband, her own lips parting. Her heart was beating so wildly, she thought it might jump from her chest.

“Least of all at my father-in-law,” said Lord Stark with ice in his voice as he looked Lord Whytefort, who stood at the head of the ribald guests, straight in the eye. Lord Jonos clenched his jaw, slowly blinking his blood-shot eyes.

“As you wish,” he spoke through gritted teeth. “It’s your wedding night, my lord.” Lord Jonos grasped his cup, having to lean against the high table to steady himself as he drank. Lord Stark glared at the singers who began to play once again immediately. The guests returned to their cups and cakes grumbling as Lord Cregan took Y/N’s hand as the feast continued without them.

Lady Y/N’s face was flushed with fever, her body tense like a bowstring. Lord Stark held her hand tightly as he led her through the hallways of Winterfell. His step was much longer and faster than hers for she struggled to keep up. As she skipped a step, Lord Stark realized how fast he was walking fuelled by fury. He stopped and took a moment to look at his wife. Lady Y/N’s chest was rising and falling quickly, the skin on her cheeks and neck flushed with heat. Her lips were parted and her eyes big and deep as pools.

“Forgive me, my lady,” said Lord Cregan and kissed her hand, holding it more gently as he calmed his anger. Her fingers disappeared in his large, calloused hand, engulfed by the warmth of his touch.

“Whatever for?” breathed Lady Y/N. I should be on my knees with gratitude, she thought to herself. Because of everything that had just happened – or might have happened. If the bedding had taken place, her clothes would be stripped from her body as the male guests would carry her to her wedding chambers, most likely groping at her body and sometimes even waiting outside the door to ensure the marriage was truly consummated.

“I …” began Lady Y/N, trying to find the words to express all the things she was feeling: the gratitude, the fear, the confusion … But before she could gather her thoughts into words, Lord Cregan cupped her Lady Y/N's face with his large hands, the thumb of his hand brushing across the corner of her lips. Goose pimples rose on her arms as he leaned down some, his grey eyes shifting between her lips and her eyes. Cregan leaned in and kissed his lady wife. The loose strands of his long hair grazed against Lady Y/N’s forehead as she responded instinctively to Lord Cregan’s touch. All the fear she felt beforehand melted from her as her hands gently leaned against Lord Stark’s broad torso. Y/N pulled away slowly but Lord Cregan leaned in once again and found her lips. The fingers of his right hand caught in her hair as they reached further, supporting her neck and jaw. The skin of her entire body tingled with fever as Lord Cregan broke the kiss hesitantly, his hand finding hers once again.

“Come,” asked Lord Stark, his voice quiet and hoarse. He led her up the stairs, some wider then others, taking turns that Y/N could not memorize even if she tried. Her body was trembling with expectation, a mixture of fear of the unknown creeping in as well as Lord Stark pushed open a great oaken door that led to his private chambers. The fire crackled in the hearth as the snow grew stronger outside the windows of Winterfell. The chambers were near as vast as the main hall split in half with its own table laden with cheese, fruit, and wine, and flowers and candles for light. There was the chambers' own dressing area and a private privy that belonged to the apartments as well. There were painted chests, ottomans, and chairs and great, ornate tapestries with scenes of hunting, the godswood, and the red and white heart tree. Opposite of the hearth was the bed with a vast feathered mattress, soft pillows, and furs for warmth.

“Some wine?” asked Lord Stark distractedly as he turned to look at his wife. His eyes were a daze of grey clouds.

“No,” said Lady Y/N quietly and shook her head. A loud bang erupted from the courtyard beneath the tower with Lord Cregan’s private chambers. Y/N winced, her eyes wide as they darted towards the window of painted glass. Lord Cregan frowned when Lady Y/N squeezed his hand and her focus shifted.

“Nothing to fear, my lady” said Lord Stark in a quiet, reassuring voice. “They are only celebrating.”

Y/N nodded to herself, “Of course.”

Cregan gently tugged on Lady Y/N's hand, bringing her closer to him. Breath caught in the back of Y/N’s throat as he towered over her, his nose brushing against hers before he kissed her lips. Her hands rested against his chest as his locked around her waist. Lord Cregan pulled on the strings of her wedding dress, releasing the bow that held the topmost layer of the gown in place. The fabric loosened around Y/N’s chest before Cregan tugged on the open wings of the back of the dress and exposed her shoulders. He left soft yet hungry kisses along her neck as his hands found the hem of her skirt. Cregan pulled the bottom of Y/N’s gown past her hips and knelt. He kissed her stomach never minding the chemise as he blindly found the strings of Y/N’s corset and pulled it apart. The fragrance of her skin, of cloves and orange blossom, urged him on as he rose and began unbuckling his leather jerkin that bore the metal sigil of House Stark. Y/N helped Cregan with the strings of his tunic as best as she could as her fingers were still a trembling mess. Y/N was no longer afraid like she expected it. Her instincts prevailed and she was surprised at herself how much she wanted it. How much she wanted him, the Lord of Winterfell.

Cregan pulled his tunic over his head, allowing for his strong, muscular body to be observed. Perhaps it was the wine or some new found courage but Y/N softly pushed Lord Stark towards the bed where he sat down. They were almost at a height now. Cregan’s hands slid from her upper back to her hips where they settled securely, pulling her to his lap without ever detaching his lips from hers. He reached for the hem of her silken chemise and pulled it over her head. In nothing but her stockings, Y/N helped Cregan undo his breeches as he kicked off his shoes absently, his lips tracing the line from her neck to her chest.

“Gods,” Cregan murmured against her hot skin, his voice as hoarse as broken glass. He left soft, hungry bites and kisses along her breasts as his hands gripped onto her hips securely. He laid Y/N on the bed and quickly pulled off his breeches before his lips found the one place he felt they belonged: between his wife’s soft, creamy thighs.

Y/N gasped, her fingers digging into the furs and linen. She closed her eyes and forgot to breathe as her toes curled in pleasure. When a soft whimper escaped her lips, Y/N’s cheeks flushed redder still but Cregan did not seem to mind. Rather his arms wrapped even tighter around his wife’s thighs as his kisses were fuelled with insatiable hunger. A mass of heat began forming in Y/N’s abdomen, the tension in her body growing higher and higher. She tried to contain her moans but could not help herself. The pressure dispersed from her body as she remembered to breathe and she breathe heavily. Y/N’s eyes closed involuntarily as one of her arms rested across her forehead. For a moment, she was both lost and found, at peace and in chaos.

“S-Stop …” Y/N managed a small stutter as Cregan thought to continue. “Please …” she begged. Cregan did as she asked, leaving one last kiss on the inside of her thigh as he rose. His face was flushed and his eyes as striking grey as a lightning sky. Y/N’s breathing slowly calmed and she opened her eyes, coming down from her high. Cregan was leaning on his elbow beside her, patiently watching her recover. He leaned in carefully and waited for her to tell him to stop but she did not. She responded instead with a kiss, a hungry kiss with which she vowed to repay the pleasure he had made her feel, a pleasure she had not expected.

Cregan pulled her body closer, wrapping Y/N’s thighs around his hips after he pulled off her silken stockings. A quiet gasp escaped her lips as he entered her, his eyes closing in pleasure as his eyebrows furrowed into a heavy frown. He moved slowly at first, evenly. Then his body began moving faster and more desperately. Cregan’s hands roamed Y/N’s body until he had to steady himself against the headboard, feeling himself nearing to his climax. A moan of pleasure caught in Cregan’s throat as he leaned his forehead against Y/N’s, his eyes closed and his breathing heavy. Y/N’s hands rested on Cregan’s broad back, his head on her chest. She was breathing heavily as well as two fat tears escaped her eyes. A pool of emotion bubbled inside of her whilst she observed the carved wooden ceiling but not really seeing it, only once again beginning to feel the weight of her life and her duty. She was to make her husband happy. Is he happy, she wondered. Is he pleased? Do I please him?

Another loud bang boomed from the courtyard. Y/N gasped in spite of herself, her body wincing involuntarily. Cregan tensed with her in his arms. He glanced up before he rose once again, leaning against his arms. He looked into Y/N’s eyes but she still could not hold contact for longer than a moment.

“It’s alright,” he spoke once more. “You’re safe, my lady,” said Cregan quietly before pressing a soft kiss on Y/N’s lips, then another on her forehead. Y/N nodded before Cragan leaned on his side and pulled her closer. She rested her head in the nook between her husband’s shoulder and his chest. He pulled one of her legs across his thigh where he rested his hand beneath her hip, drawing soft circles into her skin. In spite of it all, Y/N could not relax. Her body was tense once more, her mind rushing with thoughts of apprehension and self-doubt, even shame. She was a woman wed; it was her duty to give her husband children. What made her feel shame was that she had enjoyed it so.

***

Y/N’s eyes opened when the morning broke, startled by the unknown surroundings. She did not move as she looked around, the memories of last night, only a few hours ago in truth, came back to her. For the hour or two that she managed to close her eyes, Y/N was consumed with a kind of sleep that made one wake up more exhausted than one went to bed. Thoughts and memories of the day past rushed and disfigured in her mind when she slept. Y/N’s chest rose heavily as she looked at Lord Stark lying beside her. He was sleeping on his front, his broad, bare back moving gently with his breathing as he was sound asleep. Y/N was suddenly aware of her nakedness, the recollections of last night made her cheeks flush with shame once more. The wine had made her bolder than she ever would have dared on her own.

Lady Y/N left the bed quietly and slipped on her chemise. Although there was hardly any fire left, only burning embers, the chambers had not grown cold. The walls of Winterfell were built in a way that allowed the hot spring water to rush within them and keep the castle warm.  

Y/N glanced over her shoulders, seeing her husband sound asleep. She carefully walked the heavy wooden floors to the dressing area yet none of her things have been brought up yet. There was only a basin and a pitcher. Y/N took one of the soft cloths folded on the washstand and poured some water over the fabric. She washed herself not realizing her thighs were not only painted with her husband’s seed but also her blood. Rosy red stains appeared on the soft white cloth. Y/N could not recall feeling any pain, not any that would disturb her. But there was still blood.

“My lady?” asked Lord Stark. Y/N gasped as she jumped around, clutching the cloth in her hand as the other went over her heart. Cregan’s voice was gentle and quiet but it startled her nevertheless in the hour of the nightingale.

Y/N curtsied instinctively. Her face grew hot at the sight of her husband’s bare chest although he was wearing smallclothes.

“Are you alright?” asked Lord Stark, his eyebrows locked together into a frown.

Lady Y/N nodded. “It’s just … Sleep evades me, my lord,” she spoke, avoiding her husband’s storm grey eyes. Y/N felt exposed in only her chemise although Lord Stark had seen her nakedness and more but hours ago.

“Cregan,” corrected Lord Stark as he took the cloth from her hand. He brushed away a small remain of blood from her calf before standing up. Y/N nodded although she could not make herself say his name out loud. It felt odd to even consider calling the Warden of the North by his first name.

“Are you feeling well?” asked Lord Stark once again, his voice more solemn than before. “Are you … hurt in any way?”

Y/N realized what he was asking. “I’m alright, my—”Lord lingered on Y/N’s tongue as she stopped herself in time. Lord Stark’s stone hard eyes lingered on his wife a moment longer, studying her features. She could not have lied to him even if she wanted to under his formidable gaze.

Cregan nodded to himself and asked her back to bed. It would be hours before anyone other than the smallfolk would consider breaking their fast after the night of festivities. There was no need for the Lord of Winterfell to jump to his duties at the crack of dawn as he normally would, not on this day. Yet it was obvious that neither him nor his wife would find any more sleep that morrow.

It became clear to Y/N that moments of desire and the rest of life were two separate ordeals. One’s courage when powered by lust dwindled in the face of achieving the intimacy of a comfortable silence. Y/N did not know what to say or how to navigate the quietness that settled between herself and her lord husband. She was lying on her side, facing away from him when he spoke.

“Your belongings will be brought up in the morning,” said Lord Stark absent-mindedly. “I was told your new handmaids and ladies-in-waiting were also chosen for you in terms of the seniority of rank …”

Y/N turned on her back, her eyes searching the ceiling. “Alright,” she whispered almost soundlessly. She came to realize once more how drastically her life would change, how it already changed. The people she knew, the persons who had formed part of her every day would suddenly be replaced by strangers she had never met before. Her private rooms were no longer hers but ones she shared with her husband. Y/N shut her eyes tightly and paced her breathing. Tears forced into her eyes but she pushed them away.

“You … You are going hunting today?” asked Y/N to stir her thoughts in another direction. Her lord father boastedabout going on a hunt in the Wolfswood with the Lord of Winterfell in the honour of his daughter’s wedding.

“Am I?” asked Lord Stark. The tone of his voice sounded displeased but Lady Y/N could not be sure. She looked at him.

“I only thought … I heard …” she tried to explain but could not find the words that would not expose her father. The stone in Cregan’s eyes softened some when he saw the fear returning to his wife’s beautiful features although she tried to mask it.

“If Lord Jonos wishes a hunt in the Wolfswood, I will not deny him,” said Cregan absently. He was in no mind to entertain his father-in-law any more than duty commanded of him. The Lord of Winterfell had no taste for arrogance, particularly not one that mingled in one as selfish as he was covetous.

“Ser Duncan Greycliff can take him. He is the master huntsman,” spoke Lord Stark somberly.

“You do not have a taste for hunting?” asked Lady Y/N in an attempt to get to know her husband although she could almost hear him thinking “I do not have a taste for your father.”

“I do,” said Lord Stark instead. “But I prefer swordplay and horse riding.”

“So do I,” said Y/N more to herself than to her husband. “Horse riding, I mean.” She had tried herself at swordplay once as a girl. The sword was hardly a dagger compared to Ice yet it weighed so heavy in her hands that she cut her leg the first swing she took. The blade did not cut through the fabric of her brother’s breeches that she wore but it still parted her flesh on the side of her knee. Her father never learned of it as Y/N’s lady mother made her swear she would not speak of it or else it would not bode well for either of them. The maester bandaged her injured leg and she would never touch a sword again.

“Horse riding then,” decided Lord Stark. He had a scarcity of engagements to attend to that day, still being his wedding day in a way. “We should set off after breaking our fast. The snowing may grow stronger again later in the day. You have a horse with you I take it, my lady?” asked Lord Stark. A true rider never parts from their preferred mount.

“I wanted to bring my mare, Blackspur,” said Y/N as she nodded. “But my father … He said my husband has wealth enough to buy me a horse if I want one,” confessed Y/N. A cluster of anxiety gathered in her throat at the thought of leaving her mare behind. She had her since she was a child. And even if Blackspur had already been past her days as a filly then, she was one of the fastest horses in her father’s stables.

Y/N shook her head and smiled to herself. “Little does he know I asked my cousin to ride her here,” said Y/N, turning her gaze to her husband. “He never even noticed,” her smile grew wider. “So I would only ask for a place in the stables for her.”

Slowly Y/N looked away. Asking anything of her husband, a man she had known for a day, brought her discomfort and shame. She was raised never to ask for anything.

“I will have them build an entire stable for her if that is your wish, my lady,” said Lord Cregan. Y/N could not help but laugh as butterflies awoke in her stomach although there was no doubt in her husband’s voice that he would truly do so. He smiled nevertheless at the sound of her small but bright laughter.

“A stall will do, my lord,” said Y/N as the smile lingered on her lips. Cregan pulled her closer by the waist, Y/N’s back arching against his touch. Their faces were but inches apart as Lord Stark leaned in slowly, his gaze focused on his wife’s soft lips. She was the opposite of everything he had expected from a daughter of a man like Jonos Whytefort.

The heat of Lord Stark's body made Y/N’s arms cover in goose pimples. There was not a hint of Dornish red left in her veins yet Y/N leaned in herself, her hand resting on her husband’s cheek as her lips met his. A soft, almost soundless whimper escaped her mouth as Cregan pulled her closer, his strong grip secured on her body. As his hand reached beneath Y/N’s chemise, there was a knock on the door.

“For Gods’ sake,” growled Cregan, his voice rumbling from his chest. He glared at the door. “Not now!” he called and returned his attention to his wife. The smell of her skin drove him mad with desire, the feel of her soft curves, her gentle touch on his body. He had not imagined it would be so. Cregan Stark was used to perform his duty in all matters and he believed this marriage would be no exception. Little did he expect duty to taste so sweet.

There was another, more persistent knock on the door. “I said NOT NOW!” the Lord of Winterfell rose his voice to a formidable boom. Y/N’s body grew tense in Cregan’s arms, his eyes darting back to her. But before he could speak, another, more familiar voice came from outside his chambers.

“Forgive me, my lord. The matter is of great importance,” sounded Maester Bennard’s voice.

“Gods be damned,” muttered Lord Stark in frustration and fell back into bed. His eyes shut tight for a moment as he gathered his calm. Cregan sat up and pulled on his breeches and tunic in an attempt to conceal the evidence of passion. He opened the door where Maester Bennard awaited. Y/N pulled the linens closer to her body although the bed was hidden from the door’s view. The maester spoke quietly and she could not hear what was said. But there was one word she unmistakably caught – wildlings.

The ladies-in-waiting presented themselves after Lord Stark rushed to Rodrick’s Tower to speak with his lords and advisors. Lady Y/N’s belongings were brought to her chambers along with the wedding gifts of the nobles who attended the marriage celebration. Lady Y/N was helped into a gown of sage green embroidered with string-of-silver. She was asked of her preferences and of her well-being while the servants changed the bed linens and cleared the table with food. One of the ladies-in-waiting, Helaena or Harriett Dustin or Umber, fastened a necklace of white gold and deep green emeralds, which Y/N received from her mother on her sixteenth name day, around her neck. Y/N traced the jewellery with the tips of her fingers, her chest growing tight with pain. She would have to say her fare wells to her mother and to her brother after her lord father returns from the hunt. She will have no one left from her old life, save for her mare Blackspur.

“The breaking of fast will take place in the main hall today, m’lady,” informed one of the servants. She curtsied as best as she could before Y/N’s ladies-in-waiting escorted their Lady of Winterfell to the main hall. The women were kind enough yet unfortunately they were all perfect strangers to Y/N.

The way around the enormous castle that was Winterfell presented itself much clearer in daylight than it did in the hour of the wolf although they remained quite confusing still.

The guests rose as Lady Y/N entered the main hall, her eyes growing wide as she glanced behind her. They rose for her. She was but a young lady of an insignificant house no longer than a day ago. Sometimes people did not even bother to curtsy to Y/N when she was not in the company of her lord father and now an entire hall of noblemen and women stood at her presence.

Y/N sat down at the high table next to a grand, ornate seat reserved for the Lord of Winterfell. Wolves were carved into the handles of the seat, the sigil of House Stark showing off proudly from the top of the back rest. Y/N’s own seat was carved in the same fashion only slightly smaller in size. She sat, allowing for everyone else to do the same. Her cheeks flushed pink as Y/N became acutely aware of everyone staring at her. She knew what they were thinking behind their bawdy grins and hidden whispers, and it cost her her appetite.

One of the serving girls poured her some warm honeyed wine which Y/N gladly accepted. She glanced at the empty seat beside her once again. The seating was different than at the feast. Many of the guests were missing, doubtlessly still asleep. Y/N noticed her lady mother, however, speaking to who seemed to be Lady Hornwood. When Lady Whytefort’s eyes met her daughter’s, she gave a warm, encouraging smile, which reassured Y/N some.

“Is the food not to my lady’s liking?” asked Y/N’s lady-in-waiting, Daela Manderly, the most senior in rank and the one who earned her seat beside the Lady of Winterfell at the high table. She was a girl of seven-and-ten, not much younger than Y/N herself. Lady Daela was tall with long red hair of House Tully after her lady mother.

“I do not have much of an appetite,” confessed Y/N but forced herself to have something at least.

“Are you well, my lady?” asked Lady Daela with great concern. She even went as far as to take Lady Y/N’s hand. Y/N was not accustomed to people touching her, not even Saera who she had practically grown up with. The only person Y/N welcomed touch from was her lady mother. Nevertheless, it was not so much Lady Daela holding her hand that brought Y/N discomfort. Rather, that she was asking on the account of the passing night being Y/N’s wedding night.

“I’m alright,” assured Y/N as she helped herself to a slice of white wheat bread and some butter. She reached for the jar which smelled of sweet blackcurrant and raspberries, spreading some of its contents across her buttered bread.

“Is breakfast usually held elsewhere?” asked Y/N, earning a puzzled look from Lady Daela. “The servant said that we will break fast in the main hall today.”

“Oh,” said Lady Daela. “There is a smaller hall. It is warmer there but Lord Stark often breaks his fast in his solar with Maester Bennard when Winterfell is not host to noble guests. The ladies and myself usually eat in our chambers,” the lady-in-waiting explained.

Suddenly, the people of the main hall rose as did Y/N herself even before she could even see the Lord of Winterfell enter the hall. The last time she saw him that morning he was in his wedding breeches, his white tunic hanging loosely from his shoulders. He had a change of garments since and a clean shave, his long dark hair combed neatly.

Lord Cregan took his seat at the high table, letting the bountiful breakfast to continue.

“Good morrow,” said Y/N gently, unable to explain the reassurance she felt at her husband’s presence. Suddenly, she felt like no one was looking at her at all anymore.

Lord Cregan’s gaze found hers, his stormy eyes raging with thoughts. A dark, solemn expression rested on his already formidable features that Y/N had not noticed when he sat down beside her.

“Good morrow,” spoke Lord Stark nevertheless while he helped himself to eggs, cooked ham as well as bacon and half a dozen slices of rye bread.

Y/N felt as if she somehow misspoke yet she could not have; she only greeted her husband. For a moment, Y/N contemplated it might be Lord Cregan prefers quiet in the mornings since he often eats alone. Yet as Lady Daela claimed he sometimes shared his meal with Maester Bennard so that could not have been the answer. Something must have happened when he was called away that morning.

“Is everything alright, my lord?” asked Y/N carefully as if she were threading on ice. Her voice was soft and discrete as she leaned in ever so slightly. Although they had spent the night together, Y/N did not know Cregan Stark in the least.

Lord Stark stopped his eating, his brows forming into a small frown as he looked at his wife. Y/N thought terribly for a moment, expecting he might throw a plate at her as she had often seen her own father do. Instead, Lord Stark's gaze flickered between Y/N’s big eyes that waited patiently for his reply. She looked away when he did not say anything, focusing on the food in front of her instead before she glanced around the room. Her father would have announced it is none of her business if it had been him she were asking. That or worse.

“Everything is alright, my lady,” said Cregan out of the sudden, interrupting Lady Y/N chain of horrible thoughts. “We will talk of it later,” he added as their eyes met once again to which Y/N could only manage a nod.

After their broke their fast, Y/N changed into her riding gear. She had her father’s castle tailor make her gowns that could be parted and worn with riding breeches underneath and that were able to fit a proper saddle. Y/N picked out a garment of dark blue, brown leather gloves and a fur cloak. The cold winter breeze and the nightly snow made it less than ideal for a nice, long ride yet Y/N could not wait to get out of the castle. She had arrived to the stables before her husband where Blackspur was already waiting for her.

“Hey,” soothed Y/N gently as she glided her gloved palm across the mare’s neck. Her coat was as black as pitch save for the white boots on the three of her four legs. The horse responded to her mistress’ presence, nudging her great big head in her direction.

“Shh …” Y/N leaned her face against Blackspur’s back and caressed her quivering body. For a moment, she could feel the weight of the world storm down on her. For a moment, Y/N’s eyes filled with tears and disappeared in her mare’s coat just as soon as they appeared.

Footsteps approached from the other end of the stall. Y/N wiped away what traces of tears had remained on her face as she patted Blackspur and took a deep breath. The presence that appeared at the stall’s entrance was Lord Stark himself. He did not say anything for a moment. Cregan’s eyes moved across his wife’s attire, never having seen anything like it. Another man appeared behind him, one of the stableboys, offering to saddle Lady Y/N’s horse.

“That’s alright. I will to do it myself,” said Y/N, stroking Blackspur’s neck. The stableboy did not know what to do at such a request from a lady, his small blue eyes flickering between the Lord of Winterfell and his lady wife. Y/N realized they had been staring and she herself froze as her lips parted.

“If I may, my lord,” she spoke much less assuredly, lowering her eyes from her husband and to her beautiful horse whom she caressed still.

“Of course,” said Lord Stark. “Benjin, fetch a saddle for Lady Stark.” Y/N froze at the sound of her new title coming out of her husband’s mouth. She felt like a pretender when she thought it herself. The words coming out of the mouth of the Lord of Winterfell however, carved them into stone.

Lord Stark joined Y/N in the stall, running a hand along Blackspur’s neck himself. The horse shifted at the presence and touch of a stranger.

“Don’t stand too close to her face. She might bite at you,” said Y/N’s arm instinctively stretched past her husband’s body as if to protect him. “She is wary of people she does not know.”

Cregan glanced at his wife’s hand and took it but also stepped back with her as Y/N warned. Her face grew warm when she realized she had tried to ‘protect’ the Lord of Winterfell, who stood even a few inches taller than Blackspur.

“She is a lot like my wife it would seem,” said Lord Stark and closed the space between them. Breath caught in the back of Y/N’s throat as her husband’s lips brushed against hers, seeping into a deep, hungry kiss, when the sound of the stableboy’s returning footsteps filled the silence.

“Gods be damned,” cursed Lord Stark as he pulled away from his wife’s soft lips. Lady Y/N could not help but smile. She took Blackspur from her stall where she could saddle and prepare her for the ride.

Once she was in her saddle, Y/N felt like herself again. The sense of freedom returned to her even if but for a moment. The northern wind swept through her long hair as she gave her restless mare a turn around the courtyard by the Hunter's Gate.

Lord Stark rode a deep brown courser with mane as black as night, hence the name Nightkeeper. The Lord and Lady of Winterfell rode out together, taking no escort as they roamed the snow peppered grounds surrounding the mighty castle. They passed the winter town on their way through the main castle gates. Its houses were mostly empty still but as the winter approached, more and more people would return to stay once again beneath the walls of Winterfell.

The horses picked up their pace when they reached the open fields. Lady Y/N could not hide the smile growing on her lips when fresh air filled her lungs and her breathing became faster.

“Forgive my prying, my lord, but—”

“Cregan,” said Lord Stark. Y/N looked at him. “You need not call me ‘my lord’ when we are alone,” he said once again.

“I fear it may take me some time to get used to that,” confessed Lady Y/N, offering a small smile. The Lord of Winterfell smiled in turn as they steered their mounts up a field path west.

“About this morning,” said Y/N more carefully, “The important matter that needed your attention …”

Lord Stark nodded, his features growing somber. “A growing party of wildlings gathers just north of the Last Hearth,” he explained. “There was a letter in the night from Lord Umber urging we send men north.”

Y/N listened patiently, nodding to herself.

“I will have to ride out soon,” said Lord Stark. “With your father’s host of warriors joining us, we stand a good chance at pushing the wildlings beyond the Wall for good. Or at least for a good many years.”

Y/N’s heart grew heavy. Once her family and her handmaidens leave Winterfell, she will have no one for company but her husband. And Blackspur. Lord Cregan did not count much yet since Y/N was unsure as yet how much she could confide in him as a friend rather than her lord and husband.

“When do you expect to leave?” asked Y/N, even her words growing heavy as she considered being left completely alone at Winterfell.

“In half a moon’s turn,” said Lord Stark gravely. “Sooner if we can gather the men.”

Y/N nodded.

“It will be enough for you to get used to your duties as the Lady of Winterfell. You will rule in my stead when I leave for the north, of course,” said Lord Stark. His voice was laced with thick northern accent.

Y/N’s chest gave a squeeze as she suddenly realized the weight of her responsibilities. Her own lady mother often deputized for Lord Jonos when he was away yet governing over Whytefort could not be compared to ruling Winterfell, much less the North. For the first time since Y/N learned of the marriage alliance between herself and Lord Stark, she could truly feel the weight of duty of her new home rather then her childhood one.

Y/N looked at her husband. He had been the Lord of Winterfell since he came of age at six-and-ten and lost his parents three years prior to succeeding his father’s seat as the Warden of the North. She could not imagine the heavy weight that rested on Lord Cregan’s shoulders nor how he managed to carry it so well; how he made it seem so effortless and natural.

Cregan caught Y/N staring. She looked away quickly and made Blackspur pick up her pace as she gently nudged her belly. Lord Stark did the same and matched her speed, both of the horses shifting from a trot to an easy gallop. Y/N raced her mare up the nearby hill, having Blackspur come to a halt where the view was best. Y/N took in the scenery as she paced her breathing. The fields were neither green nor covered in snow, towered by the mighty grey castle that was Winterfell. From this distance, the castle could fit in the palm of Y/N’s hand. There was forest too as far as the eye could see; dark pines standing strong whilst the summer trees were slowly but surely dropping leaves.

“It is all yours,” said Lord Cregan not without pride when he saw Lady Y/N staring.

Y/N licked her cold-dry lips. I don’t want it, she wished to say. It was too large, too vast, and too many people depended on it; depended on her. Yet for better or for worse she was the Lady of Winterfell. The duty was hers to bear.

“Mayhaps we should go back,” suggested Y/N quietly. “The winds are growing colder.”

“Winter is coming,” agreed Lord Stark as he turned his courser around.

They spent the majority of the ride back in silence yet Y/N could feel her husband’s eyes burn into her for the near entirety of the way. She could not make herself look back at him nor ask about his thoughts. Y/N had spent her entire life as an insignificant lady of an insignificant house leading an insignificant life. She knew her place among the noble lords and ladies – it meant she was to be invisible, quiet, and respectful; never looking them in the eye for too long, never speaking out of turn.

“My lord,” called Maester Bennard as the Lord and Lady of Winterfell returned from their ride. The old maester was waiting for them in the courtyard by the Hunter's Gate, holding a scroll of parchment. “A quick word. Another raven arrived following the one of the morrow.”

Lord Stark dismounted as one of the stablemen took his horse. He stepped away with Maester Bannard whilst Lady Y/N dismounted as well. She had only been able to unsaddle her mare when a party of riders and their dogs entered the courtyard. The lords had gone hunting as per Lord Jonos’ request although the time of day was less than ideal. Nevertheless, Y/N spotted that a wild boar had been the result of their labour in Wolfswood.

“What is that beast doing here?” shouted Lord Jonos when his bright blue eyes saw his daughter’s mare; the one that he had gifted her on her ninth name day. His voice caught the attention of the entire inner courtyard, including Daeron Whytefort, who took part in the hunt. Lady Y/N jumped around, her heart in her throat.

“I told you that nag is to stay at Whytefort!” Lord Jonos slid off his mount and stormed towards his daughter, his whip still in his hand. “You will pay for this trick!”

Lady Y/N’s heart dropped as her eyes grew wide, her back hitting against Blackspur’s side. She held her breath, unable to take her gaze off her lord father, when a man of as stout a figure as any stepped in Lord Jonos’ way. Ser Harwyn, the master-at-arms of Winterfell and a bull of a man, grabbed hold of Lord Whytefort’s whip arm.

“Threatening the Lady of Winterfell is treason and cause for death, my lord. Lord Stark will have your head for that,” warned Ser Harwyn, his grip on Y/N’s father as firm as his words as Lord Jonos tried to set free of the master-at-arms’ hold. Lady Y/N knew Lord Jonos would go for his dagger and he did.

“Don’t!” the Lady of Winterfell cried at her father as her brother could not do anything but watch.

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Lord Stark.

“Nothing, my lord,” said Lady Y/N quickly though her voice was weak. The sight of Ice strapped on her lord husband’s back and Ser Harwyn's words made her stomach twist into knots.

Lord Stark turned to his master-at-arms for answers as he saw his wife’s eyes were laced with fright.

“Lord Whytefort threatened Lady Stark. I said it is treason and you will have his head for it, my lord,” Ser Harwyn glared at Lord Jonos. The master-at-arms had trained Lord Cregan at swordplay since the now Lord of Winterfell was in his swaddling clothes. His loyalty to House Stark was unwavering.

“Is this the truth of it?” Lord Stark turned to his lady wife. Y/N’s eyes were big with fear, her lips parted with surprise. She had not thought he would ask her of what had happened. Yet Lord Stark already knew Ser Harwyn’s words had the truth of it. He only wanted to see if his wife would lie to him, even if it was to protect her foolish father. Hot tears welled in Lady Y/N’s eyes.

“It is the truth, my lord,” she spoke quietly as tears stung her cold, wind-lashed cheeks. Cregan’s brows hung in a dark frown, his frame as stoic and formidable as ever. Yet something in the parting of his lips, the colour of his stone grey eyes softened as he studied his lady wife.

“She is my daughter and I forbade it!” Lord Jonos defended his actions. “I forbade that she should bring that beast to this castle,” he insisted.

The Lord of Winterfell turned to him, his cold, hard eyes finding the whip in Lord Jonos’ hand.

“She may have been your daughter yesterday, and you could do with her as you would have seen it fit then, my lord,” spoke Lord Stark, his voice growing darker by the word as he approached Lord Jonos until he towered over him with ease. “But she is my wife now – mine,” Cregan assured to his father-in-law who was as taken aback by his lord’s words as was Lady Y/N.

“I will have you leave the grounds of this castle immediately for I am no longer inclined to extend you the courtesy that no harm shall befall you as my guest,” said Lord Stark with ice in his voice. “But remember that it was you, Lord Whytefort, who forfeited that right as my guest when you threatened my wife, the Lady of Winterfell.”

Lord Stark’s cold gaze rested unblinkingly on Lord Jonos.

“Leave. From this day on you are only welcome at Winterfell at the invitation and pleasure of its lord,” Lord Stark said his final words.

Gentle snowflakes began to fall once again as the Lord of Winterfell showed Lord Jonos his back, commanding his lady wife to follow him inside the castle. Lady Y/N tried desperately for her eyes to meet that of her father but he would not look at her. Lord Jonos yanked his arm free from Ser Harwyn’s hold and spat on the floor before he commanded his men to prepare to leave at once.

Y/N hurried after Lord Stark, hardly matching his pace of long, furious strides. Once in the privacy of their castle walls, of their private chambers, Lord Stark spoke.

“If he so much as speaks another word out of turn, I will have his head,” promised Lord Stark, his voice calm and steady yet ice cold as he faced his wife, the daughter of the most insolent man he had ever had the displeasure to meet. If it had been anyone else, Lord Cregan would have had his head on a spike by then. Or better yet, have him sent to the Wall where he could externalize his impertinent arrogance to winds and snow if they would have him.

“It is my fault, forgive me, my lord,” said Lady Y/N desperately and bowed. “If I had not brought Blackspur with me, this never would have happened.” Y/N shook her head as she looked away when tears welled in her eyes. She could not believe that she had been so foolish. She should have known her father would find out and it would lead to no good.

“I do not say this to blame you, wife,” said Lord Cregan incredulous.

“But I am to blame,” said Lady Y/N. “I should have obeyed his orders.”

“If he had as much as laid a finger on you—” Lord Cregan stopped himself before he could finish his thought. He was holding Y/N by her arms, not ungently, trying to make her understand without him saying anything out loud. Lord Cregan was not a man of words, nor a poet who could sing his lines. The only thing about Lord Stark that sang was his greatsword when he swung it.

Lord Stark let go of her arms, his palms tingling with the warmth of his wife’s body. He gathered his thoughts, pushing his emotions aside.

“I have duties to attend to, my lady,” said Lord Cregan in his usual solemn manner. “And you must needs time to settle in as well. I will see you at nuncheon.”

The Lord of Winterfell left for his solar. Y/N curtsied when Lord Stark was already at the door, his back turned to her.

Y/N sat in one of the chairs by the fire overwhelmed by emotion. She contemplated everything that had happened. Her father announcing the betrothal, the journey, and the wedding ceremony. Last night and this morning, the invigorating ride and the terrible quarrel afterwards. Y/N did not know whether to laugh or cry or to scream. Everything was new and she was so very tired. Not only her mind but her body as she had only a few hours of restless sleep.

There was a knock on the door.

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but your mother, the Lady Whytefort, asks to speak to you,” said a knight of the personal guard of Lord Stark, the one assigned to the new Lady of Winterfell.

“I will see her,” said Lady Y/N almost desperately as she jumped to her feet.

“Very well, my lady,” the knight bowed.

Lady Whytefort was shown into the room, the heavy wooden door closed behind her. She wore skirts of umber red with golden-silver embroidery on the bodice. A necklace of pearls and matching earrings decorated her pale skin.

“Mama,” cried Y/N as she wrapped her arms tightly around her mother’s body. The thought of her leaving made Y/N’s heart part with white-hot pain. As a child, Y/N and Lady Whytefort were not particularly close. Yet as Y/N grew older so did her mother and their relationship not only mended but flourished. They were each other’s best friend, protector, and confidant.

“Oh, sweetling, it’s alright,” spoke Lady Whytefort but neither she could disguise the cracks in her voice. Her cheeks were wet with tears with her daughter’s arms locked around her body so tightly. Lady Whytefort caressed Y/N’s hair, unsure whether it was to comfort her or herself.

“I do not wish for your to leave,” whispered Lady Y/N for if she attempted to speak with her voice, it would surely break.

“Oh, I do not want to leave either, my sweet,” said Lady Whytefort as she pulled away, wiping the tears from her daughter’s cheeks. “But I have to. This is your home now and I have to return to mine.”

Y/N nodded in understanding although more hot tears streamed down her face.

“I will visit as soon as I can, I give you my word,” vowed Lady Whytefort.

Y/N’s chest broke with a painful sob. She began shaking her head, “Y-You cannot.” Her crying grew heavier.

“Why not, my sweet?” asked Lady Whytefort as she wiped away the tears off Y/N’s face. “You mean the quarrel between your father and Lord Stark?”

Y/N’s sobs quietened as her gaze rested on her mother’s. “W-When did … How ... How did y-you know?”

“Your brother told me when I came down to meet him after he and your father returned from their hunt,” explained Lady Whytefort unconcernedly. “Besides, I fear half the castle is talking about it,” she said, less pleased that there would be gossip in such a noble castle.

“I don’t understand,” Y/N shook her head. “How can you speak so lightly?” Her cheeks grew wet with tears once more. She shook her head, “I … I don’t know what to do.”

“You do not have to do anything, my sweet,” comforted Lady Whytefort. “I already spoke to Lord Stark—”

“What?” blurted Lady Y/N. “When?”

“Just now,” said Lady Whytefort. “I went to ask for pardon on the behest of your father but Lord Stark would not hear of it. Mayhaps if Jonos came to him himself and swallowed that foolish pride of his …” said Lady Whytefort tiredly. She had been mending her husband’s messes for years, decades even ever since they were wed.

“What am I supposed to do? And it is my fault—” cried Lady Y/N in desperation but her mother cut her off.

“Whilst the Lord of Whytefort is not welcome at Winterfell unless upon the invitation and pleasure of its lord, the same does not extend to the Lady of Whytefort,” said Lady Whytefort with a small, growing smile. “She is welcome to the hospitality of Winterfell at the Lady Stark’s wish.”

“W-What?” breathed Lady Y/N. Her heart was beating hard enough to escape her chest. “Lord Stark … Lord Stark said that to you, mother?”

“He did,” promised Lady Whytefort. “You will beg me to leave for I will be here so often.”

Y/N could not help but laugh through her tears that her mother brushed away for one last time.

"And the quarrel was never your fault, my sweet," swore Lady Whytefort. "It gladens me that you have Blackspur here with you. At least you will have something of your own ..."

“I will be leaving with your father, however,” explained Lady Whytefort. “So we best say our goodbyes now.” Y/N nodded as she locked her mother into a tight embrace. She would miss the smell of her perfume, the touch of her hands. But mostly, she will miss her voice and her company.

Y/N said her final goodbyes to her family after nuncheon, her beloved lady mother and her brother. Lord Jonos would not look at his daughter, waiting impatiently on his milk-white palfrey. As her family and the host of guests disappeared behind the castle walls, Y/N felt alone in the world. A darkness settled in her body, a sadness for Whytefort, her private chambers, the people she knew, the halls she had walked thousands of times before, a sadness for her home. Yet Winterfell was her home now.

Y/N spend the rest of the day with her ladies-in-waiting, slowly but surely remembering all of their names. Daela Manderly, Ellyn Mormont, Jocelyn Karstark, and Harryett Dustin. Y/N found Lady Ellyn the most agreeable of the lot. She was a few years Lady Stark’s senior with long hair neither brown not gold and eyes the colour of rain.

The ladies showed her the castle from the Great Hall to Benjen's Hall where the meals were usually held, the broken tower and the ladies’ quarters where they spend some time at small talk and a warm cup of mulled wine. Lady Daela was a woman of petite stature who could not handle more than a cup or two before the grape had stuck to her blood. She told a rumour about one of the ladies of the court but Y/N had no taste for it. She neither knew who the lady was nor did she have the energy to keep up with the conversation.

“If my ladies will excuse me,” said Lady Y/N and got up. The women mirrored. “I will retire to my chambers for it has been a long day,” she apologized. “Lady Mormont, if you would be as kind as to escort me.”

“Of course, my lady,” said Lady Ellyn as they left the ladies at their wine. Lady Daela seemed conflicted between her wish to be called upon the new Lady of Winterfell to accompany her to her chambers and between her thirst for more honeyed wine and leisurely whispers.

As they climbed the staircase of Rodrick’s Tower, Y/N’s thoughts drifted off to her husband. They had not spoken at all at nuncheon other than the courtesies demanded of them. Yet come supper, they will be alone and after her lord father’s outburst that morning, Lady Y/N was unsure of how she felt – of how her husband felt. Lord Stark had allowed Lady Whytefort to visit any time she wishes, yet what if he resented that she would come and ask for her husband’s forgiveness; that she would want to change his mind and question his orders. His silence to Y/N weighed terribly on her mind.

Y/N sighed heavily as they reached her private chambers.

“Is everything alright, my lady?” asked Lady Mormont.

“I hope so,” said Lady Y/N more to herself than to her lady-in-waiting. She was yet unsure how much she could trust Lady Mormont. In reality, Y/N was less than hopeful. Her mother was right when she said she had been cleaning Lord Jonos’ messes since they were wed. His difficult character and more oft than not unjustified pridefulness made life difficult not only for him but the rest of the Whyteforts. 

“May I suggest a bath, my lady?” offered Lady Ellyn, waking Y/N from her thoughts. “It might help relax you.” Y/N had not even thought about it, yet the idea of it seemed sweeter than heaven in that moment.

“That would be more than welcome, thank you,” she agreed.

“I will have the servants ready it for you, my lady,” Lady Ellyn smiled before she disappeared down the narrow corridor.

Lady Y/N entered her private chambers, making it straight to the bed. She laid down on the comfortable feathered mattress, her fingers running through the soft furs. Despite a headache forming, Y/N wondered if tonight would be the same as last night. The memories of it made her skin tingle with warmth as she battled against the feelings of guilt and shame.

The servants prepared a bath for Lady Stark to which she added some peppermint oil to help relieve her headache and relax her muscles. After the servant girls helped her strip to her undergarments, Lady Y/N asked them to leave. Although many ladies enjoyed having others wash them, Y/N cherished the silence and the solitude whilst soaking in warm water.

Y/N stripped and stepped into the bath. The water was unusually hot as it often already grew cold whilst the servants brought it up to the rooms. Y/N sunk into the fragranced water, allowing for the heat to embrace her. She had had a bath on the day of her wedding, yesterday, yet it seemed to her as if she had not had one in months. If the prospects of supper had not loomed over her, Y/N would be sure to fall asleep that very moment.

As the water grew cold, Lady Y/N washed with soap of orange and had a change of dress. She wanted to look her best. In her own way, it was a way of apologizing for starting the quarrel with her father, which lead to a falling out between the Lord of Winterfell and Lord Jonos. Lady Y/N chose a dress of dark carmine red with golden embroidery on the sleeves. She paired it with a delicate belt made of mountain blossoms of matching gold. Although the gown had long bell sleeves, it exposed the shoulders and had the bosom in the shape of a heart. It was one of Y/N’s best and favourite gowns. She wore pearl earrings in the shape of tears but allowed her hair to fall naturally.

The skirts of Lady Y/N’s gown rustled as she walked down the main staircase of Winterfell. She had her ladies-in-waiting accompanying her, all four of them walking closely behind her. When Y/N reached the bottom of the staircase, she came face to face with her husband. He must have been outside for there were snowflakes slowly melting away in his hair and his coat. Lady Y/N curtsied.

“Husband,” she spoke in a way of greeting. Her voice was stronger than she had expected although on the inside she was trembling.

Lord Stark’s mouth parted ever so slightly as he took in his lady wife’s attire. The scent of peppermint and orange blossom on her skin made his arms prickle with goose bumps.

Y/N had almost accepted that Lord Stark would not wish to speak to her when he finally uttered a curtsy.

“My lady,” said Lord Stark. He paused as if there were something on his mind yet he did not say anything.

The Lord and Lady of Winterfell sat down at their high table at Benjen’s Hall where wild salmon was being served in a crust of herbs. There was warm, fresh bread, wine and ale. Yet although Lady Y/N’s plate was full, she could not find a proper appetite, not with her thoughts raging as wild as they had.  

“What is it, my lady?” asked Lord Stark, not unkindly. His face, however, held a grim frown that Y/N could not quite read. He seemed tired but not angry. “You have barely touched your food.”

“Nothing,” said Lady Y/N, wondering whether to even raise the subject at all. “I only … I only wished to thank you,” Lady Y/N managed at last. “I was able to speak with my mother, the Lady Whytefort, after she had spoken to you.”

“There is nothing to thank,” said Lord Stark, his frown softening some. “Lady Whytefort had given me no offence, neither you as far as I am aware. She is welcome at Winterfell if you wish her company.”

“I do,” said Y/N earnestly. “And I thank you for it,” she added quickly, her hand instinctively wrapping around Lord Stark’s forearm to profess how grateful she was. She soon realized what she had done and in front of other people of the court that shared their meal although no one remotely noticed in the midst of the music and the laughter.

“Forgive me,” said Lady Y/N quickly as she took back her hand. Little did she know that the Lord of Winterfell wanted nothing more but the small feast with the final guests who had yet not left to finish so that he may be alone with his wife. His mind had been drifting off to her all day. Even as Maester Bennard read him letters of more complains of the wildlings, of disputes over petty lands and water rights, Lord Cregan struggled to keep his thoughts on the matters at hand. His mind kept returning to Lady Y/N and her soft hair, the smell of her skin, the touch of her body in his arms. He remembered her smile when they went riding, the flush in her cheeks. Cregan never minded his duties as the Lord of Winterfell, he even enjoyed them sometimes. Yet that day every one of his lordly duties that impeded him from returning to his private chambers proved more tedious then ever and seemed to last an eternity.

“There’s nothing to forgive,” said Lord Stark whose forearm tingled with warmth. He focused on his meal to keep himself from throwing Lady Y/N over his shoulder and taking her to their private chambers. For a moment Lord Stark considered his wife had chosen the red gown to torture him for the falling out with Lord Jonos. Yet after Lady Y/N thanked him for giving her lady mother the hospitality of Winterfell, the Lord of Winterfell considered the gown either a way of thanking him or a plain but no less torturous coincidence. Carmine was indeed one of the colours of House Whytefort yet even so the red gown hugging Lady Y/N’s curves made Lord Stark’s body prickle with heat.

Lady Y/N returned to her meal, finally being able to think clearly. She could still notice her husband’s gaze on her yet he looked even more grim and formidable than ever.

Lady Y/N was already done eating when Lord Stark finished his meal. He washed it down with a cup of ale before he got up, done with displaying courtesy to his guests. Lady Y/N rose as well as did her ladies-in-waiting and the rest of the court. Before they could even do so properly, Lord Stark had already taken Y/N’s hand, nearly dragging her from Benjen’s Hall.

The moment the doors to their private chambers closed behind them, Cregan’s lips found Y/N’s. Y/N gasped but responded immediately. Her husband’s touch made all of her thoughts quieten down, all but one. Cregan’s fingers caught in Y/N’s hair as he guided her lips against his. His kisses were deep and hungry for more. Y/N could feel his hardness against her body, wishing desperately for him to take off his garments.

“S-Stop,” Y/N managed to say in between kisses. Lord Stark would not hear her at first. Yet once he realized what she had said and felt the push of her delicate arms against his chest, an alarm sounded in his head.

“If you are hurt …” breathed Lord Stark, the only reason that would have him control his desire.

“I am not,” whispered Y/N quickly, finding the clasps of her husband’s jerkin as she undid them. Then she pulled apart the strings of his tunic which Cregan gladly removed, encouraged by his wife’s boldness. He near tore off her exquisite red gown, unable to find the time or the patience to deal with the intricate lacing. Y/N turned around for him to undo the corset supporting her figure. A moan escaped her lips as Cregan’s hands found her breasts. He stood behind her and kissed her neck as his arms held her close. His hips moved as if there were no garments separating their bodies when a deep, raspy moan broke from his chest as Cregan found the release he had been chasing since that morning.

Y/N’s hands were locked around her husband’s strong forearms as he still held her tightly. She, like Cregan, breathed heavily still, yet a part of her wished it had not been over so quickly.

Y/N thought to take off her corset properly and get ready for bed but as she tried to unbind herself of Cregan’s embrace, he would not move.

“I am not finished yet,” Lord Stark whispered against her ear before leaving her neck bruised with ravenous kisses. He spun her around, his lips finding hers once again when his arms went beneath her bum. Y/N yelped quietly as Cregan picked her up and carried her to their bed. Her back hit the soft, warm furs as Y/N pulled him closer, eager to feel the weight of his strong body on top of hers. Cregan pulled of his stained breeches, a groan of pleasure escaping his chest as he entered his wife. Y/N gasped. She was still sore from last night although it did not cause her pain, rather pleasure. Her silken white chemise with the hem of Myrish lace left little to the imagination. The delicate fabric was rolled up to her waist and although it still covered her chest, the shape of her breasts and the colour of her nipples remained seen. Cregan’s lips went to them as his hands wrapped around her wrists. He had pulled out, leaving his wife for more. He took off her chemise, her body all to himself. He could not even imagine sharing the sight of her nakedness with anyone else should the bedding ceremony have taken place.

Moans lingered on Y/N’s mouth when Cregan left sloppy kisses down her stomach, teasing her until he found what they had both been yearning for. His arms locked around her soft thighs as he pulled her closer with ease. Y/N’s legs quivered with pleasure at the skill of Cregan’s mouth. She could no longer contain any of her cries and moans of wishing and wanting for more.

“Gods,” whimpered Y/N, raising ever so slightly before her head hit the pillows and her eyes shut in divine pleasure. Shivers ran through her entire body, her thighs shuddering. Y/N’s breathing began to slow down when she opened her sleepy eyes. Cregan kissed her softly, the taste of her lingering on his lips but she did not mind at all.

“I will be quick, I promise,” said the Lord of Winterfell, his voice low and as warm as crackling embers. Y/N did not think to reply, only allowed herself to be taken further away.

Cregan had her sit on his lap, his arms wrapped around her small back as he held her close. She hardly needed to do anything as he moved his hips eagerly, this time much more slowly. Although drowsy from her own pleasure, Y/N’s fingers tangled in Cregan’s hair, her arms secured around her husband’s shoulders. She kissed him deeply, trying to convey her gratitude for the way he made her feel. She moved against his hips, responding to his body. Cregan’s moans became more and more frequent, his eyebrows furrowing into a heavy frown as he neared his pleasure. He held Y/N's body greedily when he groaned against the delicate skin of her neck as he reached his climax.

Cregan lied down with Y/N still tightly secured in his embrace. Their synchronised breathing slowly calmed down in the gentle silence that their private chambers provided. Fire burned in the hearth whilst it snowed outside the castle windows and Y/N scooted even closer to the warmth of her husband’s body. Her fingertips brushed against an unusual shape in Lord Cregan’s side.

Y/N opened her eyes despite herself and her dying need for sleep. She rose her head slightly. She had not noticed last night, but her husband’s torso was peppered with scars that could only be caused by swordplay or sometimes an arrow.

“You have a lot of scars,” whispered Y/N as she unintentionally voiced her thoughts. Lord Stark’s grey eyes opened slowly. He glanced down at himself.

“Just so,” he spoke easily although his voice was even deeper than normally. Cregan ran his long fingers through Y/N’s beautiful hair.

“Do they … Do any of them still hurt?” asked Y/N carefully.

“I sometimes have an ache in my shoulder," said Lord Stark absently whilst Y/N's entire focus shifted to her husband's arrow scar right beneath his collarbone.

"A wildling arrow," he explained as he saw the question forming in his wife's eyes. She nodded and looked away when his gaze found hers.

“I wish you could feel more at ease in my presence,” said Lord Stark earnestly. “There is apprehension and uncertainty in your every move when I am near. Why is it so different when we are alone?” asked Lord Stark, his eyebrows forming a frown as he stared intently at his lady wife. But Y/N did not have an answer.

“I wish I knew, my lord,” she whispered, her fingers drawing shapes in his side. "Cregan," Lady Y/N corrected herself. She looked up into her lord husband's eyes and held her gaze longer than she would. Her eyes lowered to his lips. Y/N's fingers grazed over Lord Stark's lips as she leaned in. Cregan took her hand and kissed her fingertips before their lips met for a kiss.

***

The days and weeks went by like a breeze. Every day Lady Stark would discover a new corner of the castle grounds and every day she would assist her husband in his duties, learning how to rule Winterfell. The maester instructed her in the affairs between the noble houses sworn to House Stark, yet more importantly, he told her of the ways of the lords who attended Lord Stark's councils. Y/N spoke to her husband on Maester Bennard's thoughts and found they most often concur on the characters and motives of House Stark's bannermen.

Nevertheless, the affairs of the council and the ruling were not the only things Y/N had learned in the days before the Lord of Winterfell would have to march north. Y/N learned of her husband's character. She knew that he was sometimes quick to anger but mostly a very patient man. She discovered that he was nothing like her father, who was arrogant and greedy and more oft than not an unkind man. When he trained with his men in the courtyard, Lord Stark was a strict but patient man, whose faith in his men was unrelenting. Y/N learned the little things too. She learned that he disliked lamb and parsley but would not ask the cooks to prepare something else if it was served before him. She learned that he preferred ale over wine and snow over heavy sunshine. And when they slept, Cregan would always have a part of their bodies touch - be it the hold of a hand, their legs entwined or their bodies embracing fully.

Lady Stark watched the Lord of Winterfell and his master-at-arms train the young boys in swordplay. They would not be leaving for the north with the grown men on the morrow but they are to stay and protect their families.

Y/N's chest was heavy with worry as she watched her lord husband evade one of the boys' training sword with ease. It was already growing dark outside and this would be their last night together after he would leave for what could be months. Lord Jonos' host of warriors would meet them west of the King's Road at the foot of White Knife, the lake where sprang the river of the same name.

There was a large feast for the warriors, the lords, and the commanders of tomorrow's host against the wildlings. But neither the Lord or the Lady of Winterfell stayed long. As they lied in their bed exhausted and their arms wrapped around each other, a horrible silence threatened to settle itself between them.

Cregan caressed Y/N's cheek, brushing away the hair sticking to her face. "Will you take a cup of wine?" he asked her. She shook her head against the pillow.

The bed shifted as Lord Stark got up and poured himself a cup of wine. His back was to Y/N and only then did she feel strong enough to tell him what had been burning inside of her for days.

“Cregan,” spoke Y/N. “You … You will return safely, will you not?” she spoke quietly. Lord Stark froze before he slowly set his cup on the table. He turned around and climbed back into bed, trapping Y/N beneath him as he leaned his arms on each side of her.

"Of course," Cregan assured whispering before he kissed Y/N on the lips. "It might be some time but I will return."

"You might be great with child by then," thought Cregan, a small grin hiding in the corner of his lips.

"Mayhaps," whispered Y/N. She had not thought she would ever wish for children, not truly. But it was different with Cregan. Something changed inside of her with him. The thought of bearing him a child, of having a child with his grey eyes and dark hair filled her heart with unexpected warmth.

Cregan kissed Y/N's forehead and pulled her closer, his strong arms wrapping around her gentle frame as they lied down to sleep. Y/N’s hands found their way to her husband’s back and rested there as she nestled against his bare chest. She let out a long-held breath, savouring the last night with her husband by her side in what could be months.

***

Despite the feast lasting late into the night, the host was ready in the hour of the nightingale. The pale yellow dawn broke the darkness as the Lady of Winterfell watched her husband mount his courser. Her heart was in her throat as she neared him, saying her last goodbyes.

"I will pray that you come back safely, husband," said Lady Y/N. As much as she tried to control her emotions, Y/N's eyes welled with tears. Should something happen to him in battle, this was the last time they would see each other.

Y/N handed Cregan a silken handkerchief with an eight-pointed mountain blossom embroidered in one of the corners. Cregan's brows frowned on his storm grey eyes. His heart had never been felt this heavy leaving Winterfell. He was always battle-hungry and unremitting in defending the name of his house on the battlefield.

The Lord of Winterfell looked around at his men who were already riding out. He cursed them all as he leaned down in his saddle and took his wife's chin in his hand. He kissed her ardently and spoke the words 'I love you' before she watched him ride out into the northern winds.

PART 2

[creganslover]

Woman Like You

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Fem! Warrior! Reader

Requested?: Yes/No

Summary: Skilled as a warrior like your husband, you both made the dangerous pair... the latest battle proves just how much you mean to him.

Word count: 1.6k

Warning/s: canon-typical violence, graphic descriptions of violence, mentions of blood and death, near character death, cregan being whipped for his woman

Note: loved making this omg

GIF is not mine, credits to the owner!

It had been a harrowing battle, not knowing left from right, up from down as bodies rallied against one another, the clash and clinging of swords ringing in your ears, horses whinnying as their rider had been dismounted only to be slain. 

The amount of bodies falling over with no longer a life to them, and there you also stood fighting, a female warrior, married to Cregan Stark, the two of you making the dangerous pair through your cunning skills and Cregan’s exposure to battle.

Now both of you were fighting under the Queen Rhaenyra’s banners, honouring the oath Rickon Stark, Cregan’s late father had made under Viserys’ proclamation for Rhaenyra as his heir. 

Before the battle had started, you were in your shared tent with Cregan, as the troops were began to be rounded up to march, a thousand of his greybeards and your own army of blackwings, the two of you preparing each other in their armour, the action done in silence as you both strapped your gears on. 

It was Cregan’s hand grabbing your wrist that made you halt your movements, your eyes finally meeting his. Both of you had trusted each other out and in the field, though both of you knew every battle forward had counted, and that you would treat it as the last. 

“Promise you will return to me.” Cregan’s husky voice spoke in a whisper, staring you down with a tender gaze, blue flecked with hazel eyes searching yours, grip momentarily tightening on your wrist to travel down to squeeze your hand. As done countless times, you reply, “Always.” Never failing to give him a smile, making him mirror it with a chuckle of relief at your reassurance. 

Until you had gotten separated from your husband in the heat of the battle, you two had held out well even when separated yet it felt like the enemies had just kept on coming, banging the end of your shield at your attacker’s face, sending them lunging back as you thrusted your sword in their stomach, cutting clean through before you had pulled it off, flecks of blood spraying as the man hurled in pain, dropping to the ground.

You had not known how long the battle had raged for, all that you knew was your muscles had begun to strain, dodging and putting on the offence as you could, dirt and blood scattered everywhere. 

Successfully putting down another opponent, another came rushing to you, sword slicing part of your arm, making you cry out as they had also managed to land a hard blow to your side, that would surely be a nasty bruise. 

Still, you were not as easily felled as they thought, managing to regain back your senses, adrenaline pumping within your veins as your grip on your sword had tightened, letting out a yell as you swung and advanced, hitting left to right, sword slicing efficiently at the man’s side as you threw your broken shield away, holding your sword, Ashbringer, in both hands before thrusting it upon the man’s neck, blood running down the steel of your sword before pulling it out. 

That’s when a series of arrows had been launched into the sky, not knowing which was which as you tried to deflect some by grabbing your shield yet again, though an arrow had already dug itself onto the back of your shoulder, making you groan, using your strength to cover yourself with your shield as the arrows had landed. 

When the arrows had stopped, your mind had fogged, vividly you saw Cregan’s face in your mind as the words he had uttered to you hours before rang. 

Return to me 

・・・・・

Cregan had litters of bodies lay around him as he became the opposing side’s target, knowing his worth and they had intended to cut him off. His broad form swung his sword Ice, not opting for a shield as it only hindered his movements. 

His men yelled around him, his graybeards killing tens of the opponents as they had only managed to fell a few of Cregan’s men. They were winning, they had the upper hand. Cregan only needed to push a little further, and all of this would cease. 

“The Lady!” 

“Keep Fighting!”

“Arrows inbound!”

Cregan felt his blood suddenly run hot, head snapping around him as the shouts grew in intensity, until his eyes spot a distant blur. You as he looked to the sky to find rains of arrows, making Cregan react and haul a body from the ground, using it as his shield as bouts of arrows pierced through its body, his eyes wide and alert and searching for you. 

He was able to see you defending yourself, staggering, an arrow on the back of your shoulder, the pained look on your face.

Cregan saw red. 

The rumbling in his chest grew to a roar as he screamed, throwing the arrow-clad body to the ground before he shouted. “You want me? Come get me!” 

Enemies turned their heads towards him as Cregan swung Ice at the oncoming assailants, ignoring the burning in his whole body as he and his sword had moved as once, determined to get to you, his wife. He was covered in dirt and blood that wasn’t his, except for the minor cuts on his face, and the bruises he had felt forming onto his body. 

Alas his enemies fell one by one as his men fought valiantly, Cregan making his way to you as he managed to grab you in time before you fell, careful to handle the arrow still peeking from behind your shoulder. 

The battle had begun to die down, Cregan still holding you in his arms as he looked at you, his heart never wavered in battle nor showed vulnerability before, now it did as he shook you lightly, inspecting you. “(Y/N),” he repeated before his men had spotted the scene, immediately calling for aid. 

“Stay with me, as you promised.” Cregan breathed. 

・・・・・

Darkness. That’s all you could see, with your body feeling light as a feather. 

It felt like you were floating on some void, where it held nothing but peace. You tried reaching out, but a flicker of orange lit in the distance, a smooth glow, followed by the smell of the forest trees, like a campfire. 

You watched as the orange glow began to scatter, spreading the dark void with its own colour, and then you sensed some sort of pull, until it had become stronger. 

Your eyes opened. Blurry at first, blinking a few more moments as everything slowly began to sink in, body feeling numb as you tried to shift on the cot. Looking around your surroundings, you were in your tent, back at camp perhaps? 

A woman stood by the table, preparing her herbs, a healer, you recognized. It was your healer Taisa, and when she had turned around, her eyes widened as she placed the bowl hurriedly back down. “My lady!” She said in surprise, knowing she had been commanded by Lord Stark himself to alert him if his wife had awoken at once. 

Taisa was already running out the tent before you could utter a single word, or yet you were unable to from your body still processing what it had went through.

Your shoulder was bandaged that wrapped around your torso peeking from your loose tunics, along with your left arm that had blood starting to soak through as you moved, making you groan as you assessed yourself. 

Cregan had been manning the map room, along with the other lords and their army in ally, pacing around and spewing all kinds of forms of defenses and offenses, it had been hours since the battle had ceased, taking in few left live opponents as prisoners. 

Cregan was pacing until the tent flap shifted, revealing Taisa, Cregan immediately halting, she had not even uttered a single sound out her mouth. 

You were awake.

“My lords,” Cregan only said as he rounded the table, ducking out the tent as he forced himself to navigate his way to the tent you were in. His heart pounding near his ears as a few steps more he’d be inside, pushing through the flaps, and there you did lay, eyes open, face harbouring an expression of fatigue. 

Cregan wasted no time gliding towards you, taking you in and slowly grabbing your right uninjured hand as he knelt in front of the cot, gaze scanning you all over. “Wife.” His voice faltered. 

“Husband.” You managed to croak out, moving to sit up which Cregan refused to let you but you won in the end, now he was knelt in front of you as you sat. His huge rough hands, rid of their gloves now, enveloped yours, thumb stroking circles upon the back of your hands. 

You lift your right hand, coming to cradle his face, stroking the slight flush on the apple of his cheeks as he let out a heavy breath, closing his eyes, brows knitting as he leaned into your touch, showing his utter devotion to you and you only, making you smile.

“I thought I had lost you.” He voiced, eyes still closed, making you frown. “Look at me, Cregan.” You spoke, slowly regaining your voice back as Cregan’s eyes flickered open, staring into you. 

“You will not lose me, not now, not ever.” You began. “I’d wager it would take more to kill me.” You smirked, finding a way to still lighten a situation upon the brink of what could have been. 

The end of Cregan’s lip tugged upwards in amusement, his features softening as he chuckled, nodding along and finally letting himself relax with the fact that you were okay, you were going to live. He turned his head where your palm cradled his face, pressing his lips upon your palm before looking at you. 

“Aye, you are right. It would take more for a woman like you.”

[fairysluna]

the wolf's cage.

After being captured by the Northerns, you found yourself with the Lord of Winterfell whose strange politeness makes you doubt his true intentions.

MASTERLIST

PAIRING — Cregan Stark x Wildling!Reader.

TAGS — smut (p in v, m!oral, spanking, use of the word whore, face fucking, hate sex(?, dirty talk, degrading/praise, belly bulge), cursing, mentions of war, blood and bruises, kind of enemies to lovers, dilf!cregan, and idk if this counts as dark!cregan but I'll add it just in case. If something is missing let me know!

AUTHOR'S NOTE — it's the first time that i write smut after a very long time, and i wrote this in a rush, so it's not perfect but i loved it anyway bc i fell in love with this trope. Reader is loosely based on Osha from GoT. REBLOGS AND COMMENTS ARE ALWAYS WELCOMED.

WORD COUNT — 5.3k. (oh damn)

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤenglish is not my first language.

“We found her close to the Godswood,” one of the men said. “She was hiding and preparing herself to kill, my lord.” 

Cregan walked slightly closer to you, his curiosity peaking when he noticed how small you looked curled up in a corner of your cell, covered by thick pieces of fur. Your face was stained with dirt and dried blood. His men had told him you were a menace, but after looking at you, he didn't believe it. 

“She seems harmless,” he pointed out, kneeling beside you. 

“She is not, my lord. She's responsible for the death of three of our men,” the same man explained. They were all in combat position; holding the hilt of their swords just in case you would dare to attack their leader. Cregan, however, seemed to be unafraid, getting closer to you and trying to see more of you. He was certainly intrigued.

How was a young girl like you able to kill a group of ruthless men? 

He raised his hand and gently pulled a strand of your hair out of your face; he saw a scar on your cheek and a cut on your lip. Then, you met his eyes with yours. Your cold and mercenary haze did little to intimidate him. You were finally in the presence of the man you hated the most; the man who had killed your people in cold blood. He could see your wrath burning through your haze, and he understood it. 

With his thumb, he removed the drop of blood that was dripping from your lip — a soft touch that felt so foreign to your skin. He attempted to do it again, but you moved your face away and he knew it was enough. With a sigh, he stood up casting a large shadow over your smaller frame; you looked down at the floor, ignoring his penetrating stare on you before he turned around and walked out of the cell. 

“Tell a maid to give her a bath, then bring her to the dining room,” he ordered. 

“My lord, I don't think-”

“Tell the cooks to make a meal for two, and tell a maid to keep Rickon out of my room tonight,” he abruptly interrupted him, the guard was left in surprise. 

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but I do not think it’s a good idea at all,” The maester advised him, talking in whispers so you would not hear a word. “I believe that being in a room alone with that savage would put your life at risk. We cannot afford that, not when we're in the middle of an imminent war.” 

Cregan turned to give one more look at you before one of the guards locked your cell again. You looked so fragile, and you were probably starving after spending days in the merciless Winter cold. He knew you would not be such a threat in such a condition, so he did not follow his loyal Maester’s advice.

“The decision has been made,” he spoke as he started to walk away from the dungeons. The old man quickly followed his pace. 

“I would advise you to make some double thinking about your decision-” 

“Are you questioning my methods?” His voice came out low and slow, but it carried a bit of an intimidating undertone that was easy to catch. The Maester took a step back when his superior turned around; his Lordship was an imposing man, tall and with wide shoulders and some grey eyes that would pierce through your soul. Lord Stark was a kindhearted man, but whenever he was angry he was unrecognisable. 

And the Maester trembled when he saw a small glimpse of his anger. 

“Of course not, but it is my duty as your advisor to give you the best options… risking your life it's certainly not.” 

“That girl is craving for a meal, I will not let her starve,” he grunted. “Besides, I might steal some valuable information from her. She's just a girl, and she's unarmed. She will do no harm.” 

The old man simply nodded, knowing that it was a lost battle and not having the guts to continue to defy his lord. Cregan cleared his throat, repeated the instructions and then turned around to leave his men behind. They shared confused looks, doubting his plan and how unusual it was for him to have mercy with the people of your kind. This new and sudden sympathy towards you raised suspicion among the northern guards, but they were all too afraid to speak up. 

They just obeyed the orders of their Lord. 

Cregan was tapping his fingertips against the table, patiently waiting for your arrival as he was blankly staring at his half-empty cup of wine. The only sound that was heard was coming from the fireplace, and the rest of the room was deadly silent. He was wondering how much time would it take for you to arrive when two guards opened the door, and two others were carrying you inside. They were grabbing your arms, tight enough to leave a bruise behind. Cregan stood up the instant you showed up, and, with a slight nod from him, you were freed from their grip. 

Lord Stark took the time to look at you, shamelessly glancing at every inch of your body. He noticed how your skin was glowing now, freed of any stain or impureness on your face, except for that scar on your cheekbone that seemed to be quite recent. Regardless of that, you were such a sight for his eyes, so pretty and young and fierce all the same. The glow in your eyes was still yelling your hate for him and, somehow, that would make you even more appealing to him. He followed the trail down your neck and found your bossom being squeezed by the dress which looked a bit too small for you, but that fit your body like a glove; shaping your curves and enhancing them, he had to take a deep breath after seeing you. 

All the beauty that was previously hidden under thick layers of clothes and dirty hair and face was now starting to show.

“You can leave now,” he indicated to the guards. They nodded and followed his orders immediately. 

Once they were alone, Cregan pointed at the chair on the other side of the table, inviting you to take a seat. You were reluctant, staring at the large amount of food with distrust; you thought this was a trap, no one ever invites their foes to supper. You did not obey him at first, standing still in your place, using a pair of borrowed shoes that were almost crushing your feet and making you feel like walking on burning coal. 

You knew one thing for sure; you needed to get out of there as soon as you could. Or, better yet, you had to kill that man. 

“Please, be seated,” he spoke so softly and politely that you could not believe it. It was so blatantly obvious. “The pork it's better when it's warm.” 

A glance at the table and you saw your plate already served; this did nothing but increase your mistrust. However, you walked towards the spot, slowly and with your guard up. The sound of your shoes clacking on the wooden floor as you made your way to your seat until you finally sat. 

Then, a silence fell over the room. Cregan's eyes seemed to never look away from you as he raised his cup and brought it to his lips. You nervously played with your cup, already filled with wine. 

“I gave myself the liberty to fill your cup,” he said. 

Besides that, your plate was full of beans, pork, carrots and mashed potatoes. Everything was already cut into tiny pieces, and only then did you realize you only had a spoon; no knife, and no fork. 

“Is wine not of your taste?” Cregan asked after your long silence. “Would you rather have some ale? or juice?” 

Nothing came out of your mouth. Cregan was losing his little patience, but he knew better and he stayed calm. Upsetting you would only make things worse. 

“You might be wondering why I spared your life today,” he started, attempting a two-sided conversation. “If you were any other, your head would be in a spike by now… but you might be useful for us.” He made a pause, sipping his wine so delicately and manly. Then he added, “For me.”

Again, no answer. 

“I believe you have valuable information that would help us to understand your people better,” he explained, trying to sound likeable and friendly, even giving you a warm smile. “Maybe that way we'll understand your reasons.” 

“Why would I give information to the one who's murdering my people?” You finally spoke. 

Cregan heard your thick northern accent and a smile was drawn on his face. He hid the gesture by grabbing his fork and knife and cutting a piece of meat before putting it inside his mouth. You realized that contrary to you, he had a knife; you wondered how you could reach it without him noticing.

“Ah, so you can speak,” he claimed, cheerfully. “For a moment I thought you were mute.” 

“I am not,” you grunted.

“You could stop an imminent war, you know?” He continued the previous conversation. “Save the lives of your people, avoid a bloodbath.” 

“You are the only one causing those things, my lord,” the mocking tone in your voice when you uttered the last two words was obvious. “This war carries your name.” 

“You are the ones taking over our lands,” he debated. 

“We're escaping,” you snapped. “You have no idea what's beyond that wall. You and your men would do the same in our position.” 

“And what is it that's up there with all of you?” 

“You wouldn't believe my words. You'll have to see it.” 

He hummed, not convinced at all. He leaned back on his chair. 

“How did you get that scar on your face? It looks quite recent,” he slightly narrowed his eyes. 

“An accident while climbing the wall,” you simply explained, not wanting to give out too many details. 

“When did you cross it?” 

“A few weeks ago.” 

“And what have you been doing all this time?” 

“I already told you… trying to survive.” 

Cregan clicked his tongue, sipping his wine once more and letting the topic go. “You haven't touched your food,” he pointed out. “Nor your wine. The cooks work hard on this food.” 

“I'm not hungry.” 

“It's not poisoned,” he let you know as if you would believe his mere words. “If I ever kill you it wouldn't be with a drop of venom, that it's not an honourable way to murder your opponent.” 

“Honour,” you repeated with a mocking tone. 

“Does that word sound funny to you?” 

“It does when it's you saying it,” you muttered, clenching your jaw. “You have the blood of innocents in your hands, you have no honour.”

The tense environment was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Soon, a small child entered the room and ran towards Cregan; it was his son, his spitting image standing right next to him. His weakness. You looked closely, and you noticed how Lord Stark's demeanour was briefly replaced by a softer one when he held his child in his arms, only to get angry again when one of the maids walked in rushing behind the boy. You were observant, and then quickly an idea of escape lighted up your mind. 

“I apologize, Lord Stark,” the maid murmured, shaking and breathing unevenly. “Little Rickon wanted to say goodnight and he ran away from his chambers-” 

“Don't let it happen again,” he stopped her before she could go on with her explanations that were of little interest to his Lordship. “Just take him to bed, and don't let this happen again.” 

“Yes, my lord.”

He kissed the child's forehead and hugged him one last time before the maid pulled his arm and took him away. The boy was looking back at his sire with saddened eyes as he walked, and once he was out of sight, Cregan was back to his tough facade. However, you knew new information, and now you knew exactly how to manage to escape.

“Was that your child?” 

“Indeed,” he nodded. 

“Beyond the wall, children are taught to fight and hunt from a very young age,” you randomly told him. “Does he know how to do that?” 

“He's still learning.” 

“How old is he?” 

“We are not here to talk about my child,” he snapped, growing impatient with each passing second. 

You stopped, only for a brief second to let it rest and prepare yourself for the next thing. The suddenness of your next question left him speechless.

“Where's his mother?” You noticed how he tensed, clenching his jaw and forming a fist with his hand. There it is. “Is she around?” 

His silence gave you the answer you were expecting, you had to hold back a smile.

“Let me guess,” you murmured, “Childbirth?” 

His fist smacked against the table and you noticed how all the plates jumped due to the impact. He stood up, fuming, all the kindness and politeness vanishing from his body as he lost his patience with you. Yet, you did not seem fazed by his roughness, you barely flinched. You stood up too and slowly started to walk around the table, to get closer to him. 

“I bet your nights might be lonely now that you've lost your wife,” A false tone of empathy was heard in your voice as you kept taking step after step. “Does your bed feel empty at night?” 

“That's enough,” he growled. 

“You dressed me, bathed me and fed me… perhaps you're trying to convince me to stay by your side,” you deduced, using your seduction skills to distract him from the fact that you were getting closer to the knife on the table. “Is this your intention? To make me yours? To turn me into your whore?” Your voice lowered itself a few tones, getting raspier and more seductive.

You reached his side, his eyes were stuck on your face as his breathing was starting to get faster with each second. You saw his jaw, sharp as the knife you were trying to grab, and tensed as he tried to hide his growing arousal. Of course, he has noticed your attributes before, and of course, he had secretly —and shamelessly— fantasized about ripping your dress to see what was underneath, but now your words would only make his struggle grow. 

Perhaps the Maester was right. Perhaps this was a bad idea. 

“Have you heard what they say about the women from the Free Folk?” You were teasing him, boldly raising your hands until they went to his thick coat and untied it; it fell around his leather shoes, and only a thin shirt was beneath it. Your eyes glanced at him, noticing the chest hair on his skin as your hands felt the hardness of his abdomen; years of training with the sword had certainly made its effect. “People say we're difficult to handle, but that we fuck like goddesses. Wouldn't you want to try it out?”

One of your hands travelled lower and lower until it was able to feel the shape of his growing cock in your palm and through his pants. A winning smile appeared on your lips. His growing lust did not allow him to see the moment when your hand took the knife. Luckily for him, his reflexes were quite fast, and he was able to stop your hand right before you almost stabbed his neck. Your eyes widened as he grabbed your wrist and turned your body around, slamming you against the table. He pressed himself against you, your dress now ruined with the food beneath your frame. 

Cregan's hand grabbed a big portion of your hair and pulled it back, roughly, forcing you to arch your back. You could not help but whimper due to the pain in your skull. His breathing soon reached your neck and caused shivers down your spine; it smelled like wine. 

“You little whore,” he mocked you, “you thought you could've killed me?” 

His voice was completely different to the one you have heard before; it was almost like a growl, so deep, slow and hoarse. You would be lying if you said you did not find it amusing. His touch was rough and lacking the gentleness and delicacy that it had hours ago when he wiped the blood off of your lip. 

“It was worth the try,” you breathed out, laughing at him when you felt his arousal pressing against your arse. 

“What's so funny, huh?” he grunted, pulling you harder and making you hum. “I could kill you right here, right now,” he threatened. 

“But you won't,” you murmured. 

“That's right,” he mumbled, breathing in your scent. Even after taking a bath you still smelled of pine tree, it was an intoxicating smell. “I will prove your word first. Let's see if the wildlings whores fuck like goddesses, mhm?” 

Your eyes widened when you felt his hand freeing your hair and going towards the skirts of your borrowed dress. He lifted them, holding them in place on your waist behind your back. He saw how your pussy was already starting to glisten with your arousal, even when he had barely touched you beforehand. His cock twitched inside his pants when he noticed that all of this was because of his rough touch. 

You filthy slut, he thought. 

You heard a soft stump on the floor as his pants fell down his thick legs. It did not take too much time for you to feel his leaking tip brushing against your folds, spreading them open and smearing your slick all over it. You had to bite your lip, holding back a gasp as he teasingly rubbed against your clit; this was certainly not what you were expecting, but it felt good enough to make you want more. 

Slowly, he started to make his way inside you, grabbing your arsecheeck with his free hand and spreading it only to see your needy cunt taking him. Cregan gasped, your soft walls were wrapping around him perfectly, squeezing him just right and creaming all over him. He hummed in delight as he felt your legs already starting to shake. Gods, he was big, stretching you out as of you were a fucking maiden, providing you with that sweet pain that made your eyes close. 

When he was halfway in, he pushed himself all in with a single thrust. His head touched that sweet, spongy spot inside of you. “Fuck!” you cried out, involuntarily spreading your legs further, at the same time your hands pushed all the plates and cups away from your side. It all ended up spilt on the floor. 

He remained there for a few seconds, still inside of you and not moving an inch. Cregan's hand reached for your hair once again, pulling it back until your back was pressed against his chest and his lips were brushing against your ear. His breathing was ragged and unsteady; his tongue licked his lips as they started to get dry. You were able to feel him, his veins pulsing inside of you as he would twitch each time you clenched around him. Cregan hummed against your ear. 

Without warning, his hips started to move and your legs suddenly felt as weak and giggly as jelly. Your hands gripped the border of the table as his movements started to increase his pace. He was filling you up so good, so deep. You found yourself murmuring senseless words as you slowly started to lose your mind, which was a weird thing for you; you would usually be the one in charge. 

Though you did not mind submitting to him for a while. All your morality was soon gone, and all thanks to the man whose cock was good enough to make you forget about how much you hated him.

His hips started to meet yours with more force, thrusting hard but slow. It was just the beginning, and he wanted to make sure you would feel every inch of him, to feel every vein. All while he was also losing his mind over how good your pussy was taking him; your tight grip around him was sending him to the heavens, his eyes never looking away from the place where both of your bodies would join. Your walls contracted around him whenever he was pulling out, almost as if they were reluctant to let him go. Cregan loved that a bit too much, he might have become addicted to it. 

Then, he sped it up. His grunts and moans were falling from his lips in cascades that reached your ears. A vocal man he was, expressing his lust with the most arousing sounds you have ever heard. It brought a sense of pride to your chest, having such an imposing man as him reduced to a moaning mess. But the truth was, you were not doing any better; his animalistic movements were now sending you over the edge quicker than you thought. The sound of your bodies slapping against each other and the feeling of your arousal falling down your thighs was enough to pull you into a cloud of raw lasciviousness. Your mind felt dizzy. 

Suddenly, Cregan grabbed the knife you were trying to reach and threw it right next to your hand. You saw it through your heavy eyelids as you panted and gasped. You felt his lips pressing against your ear once again, but this time he spoke,

“Try to kill me now,” he hoarsely said. “Go on. Where's the girl who tried to kill me? Not so brave now with my cock ripping you apart, huh?” 

“Fuck off…” you managed to say in a murmur. Cregan mockingly laughed, and his hand fell against the soft skin of your rear, leaving a pinching pain behind. Gods, you hated the fact that you loved it so much.

“So fiery, and yet you're a mess…” he chuckled, his heavy breathing against your nape making you tremble under his touch. “I wish you could see how your little cunny is taking my cock… you're fucking soaking for me.” 

You moaned, louder than you should have. 

“Want to take a look?” he teased you, pushing deeper inside of you. You tried to mumble an answer, but nothing came out of your mouth. His hand met your arse again, this time slightly harder. “Answer me,” he demanded, using his lower tone which made your knees go weak. 

You had no choice, “Y-yes…” you whimpered as tears of pleasure were gathering in the corner of your eyes. 

He pulled out of you and you immediately whined, complaining about his absence. His hands went to the ties on the back of your dress, starting to pull them out to get them loose enough to remove that piece of fabric that was just bothering him. When he finally did, he pulled it down in a single movement, and just like that you were completely exposed to him. 

He took a quick look at your body once you turned around, glancing at your breasts and your perky nipples, and then looking at the glistening mess between your thighs. His hand wrapped around your jaw, and he leaned forward; his leaking cock rubbing against your belly as his nose touched your cheek. Suddenly, his lips trapped yours in a heated kiss that lacked any delicacy; he was claiming your mouth, swirling his tongue around yours and devouring you. You heard how he pushed the rest of the dishes, plates and cups on the ground, then he lifted your body forcing you to spread your legs. Only then he pulled away. 

He looked down, watching your pussy drenched with your arousal and chuckling at the sight. “Didn't know wildlings women were such whores… getting this wet when I fuck you rough,” he mocked you, tightening the grip around your jaw and forcing you to keep your eyes on him. 

Cregan guided his cock towards your slit, repeating the same teasing game as before, rubbing his tip against your now throbbing clit soaking it with the mixture of your juices and his. He gave a few taps afterwards, making you whine and your legs shake. You never, in a million years, thought you would be thinking of begging a Lord like him, yet there you were, about to plead to have him inside of you once again because the ache between your thighs was becoming unbearable. 

As if he had read your thoughts, he soon pressed his cockhead against your entrance, pushing just the tip. You sighed, biting your lip as you looked down at it. You could have come right there as you saw how he slowly filled you up and stretched your walls once more. The way your labia would spread to take him in; such an obscene sight it was, yet you couldn't bring yourself to take your eyes off of it. 

Once he was fully sheathed in you, you managed to perceive a small bulge forming in your lower belly which would appear each time he would bury himself deep inside of you. He did not take too much time to be rough this time, starting to snap his hips against yours and making you moan and drool until your mind was fully gone once again. His big hands were grabbing your hips, his nails digging into your flesh and making it slightly painful for you; yet, you didn't want it to stop. The sound of him entering your wetness was enough to make you mumble nonsense, and it wasn't long before you managed to see a ring of your juices around the bottom of his shaft. Your eyes rolled back. 

His animalistic movements were sending you over the edge, and it was humiliating how loud your cries of pleasure were; you were certain that they could be heard in the hallway, but neither you nor Cregan cared enough to stop. Both of you were consumed by each other's touch, it was rough and passionate, you could feel the heat running through your veins as he possessed every inch of your insides until you were nothing but a moaning mess. Your skin was glowing with a layer of sweat, and Cregan leaned forward to lick on your collarbone, his tongue creating a path to your breasts; his lips closed around your nipple, sucking and nibbling. You grew desperate for release. 

“Fuck- I need to… I'm so close,” you whimpered, your eyes locking with his. 

“Come on,” he hoarsely murmured. “Show me how good of a whore you are, and make a mess on my cock.” 

His words blurred your mind, sending a stimulus right into your core. You felt that sweet sensation of culmination when he touched your most sensitive point inside of you over and over again until you were sobbing with the tears of pleasure gathering in the corners of your eyes as you felt your release exploding and washing over you until your legs felt sore. You felt weak, trembling and overwhelmed. Your hair was sticking at your forehead due to your sweat and you were far gone into the pleasure he had just provided you. Yet, he seemed to not have enough. 

Lord Stark pulled out of you. His length had a layer of your release coating it, and you felt your cheeks grow warm. It was unusual for you to feel this shy in this situation, but this whole thing was something rather unusual and rare. Sleeping with the biggest foe, you were a traitor now. 

But Gods, it felt so damn good.

“Get on your knees,” he ordered. His hand wrapped around his leaking cock stroking himself, legs slightly parted as he looked at you with darkened eyes filled with lust. He was achingly hard, you could tell; his stones seemed heavy with his seed, which you would rather feel inside of you. 

Yet, you obeyed, kneeling and looking up at him through your lashes. He cursed with a sigh, twitching with the lustful sight of you ready to take him once again. 

“Open wide,” he instructed, brushing his cockhead against your swollen lips. You did what you were told. “Wider,” he demanded, and you obeyed again. “That's a good little whore…” he hummed, content. 

You stuck your tongue out and felt his salty taste as he tapped his cock against it. You moaned, and he grabbed the sides of your face to keep you still as he started to move in and out of your mouth. He groaned, looking up and then back at you; such a skilful little minx you were, taking him so well. 

Soon, your gags were echoing in the room along with your gulps and his moans. You were drooling; your saliva running down the corners of your lips as he fucked them as fast and hard as he pleased. 

“There you go, take it all just like that,” he praised you, and you felt the warmth of the tears falling down your cheeks. “Mhm, fuck. I might start to believe what they say now. You're sucking my cock like a fucking goddess…” 

You felt the back of your head pressing against the border of the table as he sped up. You were choking around him, and the sounds that came out of it were obscene and filthy, and Cregan loved it. 

Before you could tell, he spilt himself inside of your mouth, forcing you to swallow every drop that left him. And you did. 

Once he freed you from his grip, you pulled away. A string of saliva was still hanging from your lips as you desperately gasped for air, and only then Cregan noticed the big mess you had become. Hot and soaked cheeks, eyes tearing up, your lips swollen and covered with his thick and pearly seed. You were such an unholy sight. 

His thumb reached for your lip, wiping your drool out of it. Such a gesture brought you back to that very same evening when he wiped the blood out of the cut in your lip. It did not feel foreign anymore. You were breathless, trying to regain composure as Cregan looked down at you with a satisfied glance. 

“Seems like the rumours are not false,” he muttered, starting to pull his pants up again. “I might keep you so that I can feel those pretty lips around my cock again.” 

“Keep- keep me?” you asked, confused and overwhelmed.

Cregan arched an eyebrow, “You think because I fucked you I will let you go?” he chuckled. You felt his hand wrapped around your jaw once again, forcing you to stand up. You trembled a little, feeling your legs shaky and weak. “So naive of you… to think that I would have a taste of you and then let you go.” 

You felt your heart sink inside your chest as you heard him. 

“Since you offered so nicely before, I will accept,” he sighed, picking up the dress you were wearing and throwing it up to you. “I’ll make you my personal whore, how about that?” You went silent. “Oh, come on, don't pretend this was not your idea… I was going to let you go with a warning but you came out with a better proposal. How could I say no?” 

“I don't- I-” you shook your head. 

“You belong to me now,” he chuckled. “A wildling made just for me to fuck as I please… Sounds perfect, does it not?” 

You look into his grey eyes, perceiving and reading the mischievousness in them. You tried to escape and return to your freedom. Instead, everything went wrong and now you were trapped in the wolf's cage once again. 

You were not sure how to feel about that.

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[aemondwhoresworld]

SOUVENIR

pairing: cregan stark x fem!reader

summary: what will happen when lord stark's wife or maybe his son, reckon found a souvenir from his old lover?

warning: minor angst, jealousy, mention of an ex-lover, use of y/n, cregan is a single dad, y/n’s lord stark second wife

word-count: 1k

mae: english is not my native language, please forgive my lag of grammar. i do use google for a translation, if any reader could help me fix some of the grammar or vocab, that would be great and i’m very appreciate it!! 🤗⭐️ this is my first fic, please forgive me if i made any mistake. i might delete soon (idk if rhis was too flop 🤗)

you and Cregan have been weds for 36 moons. although you are Cregan's second wife, Cregan has always treated you with nothing but respect, love that every lady wife deserve that affection from their lord husband, even when you know that the betroth between you and him are duty, beneficial for both houses but you cannot help but falling for him more and more. the begin of the 5 moons into your marriage life, both admitted you had feelings for the other.

right now, in the middle of winter season in Winterfell, sitting in front of the fireplace inside your and Cregan's chambers, with your favorite book open in your hand along with all the thoughts of those sweet moment that you have had with Cregan and Rickon.

“mommy, mommy look what i found” even you are not his real mom, Rickon still always call you mommy. Rickon's clear voice pulled you out of those thoughts and immediately all your attention is on Rickon holding a handkerchief in his hand, you take it from Rickon's little hands and ask

“oh what did you find Rickon, can you show it to me?” you asked softly, the boy also nodded in agreement, opened the handkerchief and you immediately saw that there were seams and very skillful embroidery inside, and of course this handkerchief did not belong to you because you had no memory of embroidering a handkerchief to give to Cregan as a gift before or not from what you remeber

when you look a bit closer at the embroidered lines, its shape resembles a man and woman, hands in hands. at this moment, you immediately recognize the male figure in the scarf is Cregan because of the Stark family's signature scarf and then when you look at women figure, you wonder who is the girl standing next to your husband?

but then a small knock on your chambers door interupted

“my lady, Lord Cregan Stark wants to meet you in the dining hall,” said the maid, Anza. before the Anza can leave the chambers, you called for her and asked about the handkerchief.

“Anza, do you know who is standing next to my husband in this embroidered scarf?” you gently asked while pointing at the embroidery. when Anza didn't answer your question, you turned to look at her with curious eyes.

"what’s up? is there something i shouldn't know about?”

“no, my lady,” she continued, “if you really want to know, i’ll tell you.”

“then just tell me then” you said

“my lady, it's Lady Celess Ashwood. an interest lover of Lord Stark.”

hearing this, you were a bit disappointed, but you had to regain your composure, stand up and tell Anza to take Rickon back his chambers because it was time for him to rest. you walked out of your shared chamber, went straight to the dining hall where Cregan was already sitting there and waiting for you, all the way from your chamber to the dining hall, holding that handkerchief in your hand with lots and lots of thoughts running through your mind

does he really love you?

or is it because he still misses his past lover?

there are so many thoughts that make you go to the dining hall without even knowing when, with a handkerchief in your hand.

“y/n” Cregan stood up, walked towards you with a gentle smile on his face, Cregan's hands gently hugged your waist, then he bowed down his head and gave a kiss on your forehead, a kiss filled with love.

“Cregan” you said and gently leaned into Cregan's hug. then you asked him

“who is Celess Ashwood?” Cregan was a bit surprised when he heard this name, its been awhile since he last heard this name but he calmly answered

“how do you know this name?” Cregan asked you with a warm voice, his toned arms still not leaving your waist. still holding onto you tightly like he was afraid that if he let go you would be blown away by the cold, strong winds of Winterfell.

“please, cregan answer my question first.”

“Celess is…” he hesitated a bit, as if he didn't want to say it

“Celess is someone i once had feelings for, someone i once loved.”

“so you still miss her? that’s why you didn't want to say it, right, my Lord Stark?" You asked Cregan with a slightly disappointed voice, tears welling up in the corners of your eyes

“please call me Cregan, we are man and wife there are need to call me that” he continue

“and no, i don't want to mention it, not because i don't want you to know, but because i think it's not important anymore. now i have you and Rickon by my side, that is my first priority.”

“then why did you still keep this handkerchief?” you continue to ask him

"i didn't keep it, love. i thought i lost it so i had no intention of finding it again."

after hearing Cregan say that, you can’t say that your moods change completly but atleast you felt relieve when you learned that your suspicions about his loyalty were completely wrong.

“well, i forgave you my husband but unfortunately for you, Rickon is the one who found it and gave it to me.”

“oh my son, Rickon is always on your’s side. i pray to the Seven one day you will gave me a daughter” Cregan joked, then pulled you in a tight embrace. then you ask

“so you have to quickly plant your seed inside me, hopefully the Seven might heard your pray sooner or later, my dear husband.” at this point, you could only laugh, only now did you pay attention to it. the dining table in the dining hall was filled with food and Cregan let you out of that warm hug

“but before we start to try and bring another baby Stark into this Winterfell, we must have to to eat first, my dear y/n.”

[vaokses]

Anger, a daughter (Pirtir, Ch.1)

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Aegon x Rhaenyra's Daughter!Reader

Summary: You return to Dragonstone after nearly two years away, having done what was expected of you and secured your mother's standing with the Great Houses. The safety that you felt after once again doing what was expected of you is taken once you learn that in your absence, your family arranged for you to marry Aegon.

Word Count: 4.5k 

Warnings: Topic of arranged/forced marriage. Threats of violence. The usual Targaryen incest stuff.

Some AU/Setting stuff: Reader is a bastard of Daemyra (claimed by Laenor of course), firstborn child of Rhaenyra and heir to her mother’s claim. It is mentioned she has Valyrian features (the hair). She rides Vermithor. She and Aegon had a thing when she was still in King’s Landing. How relevant or impactful that ‘thing’ was depends on who of the two you ask. I’ve stretched the timeline a bit. Rhaenyra spent a few years more in King’s Landing (making Aegon around 16/7 when she leaves, and the Reader, the eldest of the Velaryons, around 14/5). Instead of six years in Dragonstone, the Blacks have spent around three there in this story. Viserys still lives (and is rotting slightly slower), Aegon and Helaena did not marry. Mysaria left for Dragonstone with Rhaenyra, but is still the information broker of the first season, just working from afar. The Reader has spent nearly two years touring Westeros, as her mother did, in search of a husband.

A/N: No Aegon or any of the greens yet, but I wanted to set up some things, so this can be considered a prologue of sorts. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy!

Title is from the "anger, a daughter" by volatilepoetry (link to the piece here, I couldn't find the author's socials)

“Cousin.” You greet with a wide smile, taking the riding gloves off as she comes closer, a mirror of your own smile on her lips. 

“Sister,” Baela greets in kind in well-practiced Valyrian, at your reprimanding glare answering with a defiant one of her own. She grabs your hands in hers, smile wide and mirrored in your own face. “I thought you would return to Dragonstone, at the end of your…tour.” 

“Even I tire of politics, of playing,” You admit, linking your arm with hers and letting her guide you towards the Driftmark castle. “I wish to rest for a while, before I am to report back to f-…to Daemon. I hoped our grandmother would grant me a few days here?” 

“I’m afraid it won’t be possible,” She tells you, pulling from her belt a rolled up message and offering it to you. “A raven brought this shortly after dawn.” 

You immediately recognize Daemon’s handwriting, as well as the parting message he directs at his daughters and you in place for a goodbye. Fly, daughter. 

Your sister is needed at home, tell her to return to us at once. You must ready yourself to fly to Dragonstone at my command. I’ll send word. Sōvēs, tala. 

“So, who did you choose? Whoever it is, you made father angry.” 

“Your father.” You correct, but she pays it no mind, as she always does. 

“So, who will be the lucky man?” 

You turn to face her as you both stand in the base of Driftmark’s stairs. 

“I didn’t choose anyone.”  

Of course, a Tyrell knight caught your eye and your attention for a while, and you could use the strength of the alliance marrying Vaemond Velaryon’s son would bring, or Rickon Stark’s. You even considered the proposal of Hobert Hightower’s grandson, if only to see your mother breathe fire at the mere idea of it, were you to propose such a union. 

But the tour was never organized for the purpose of finding you a husband, this you knew from the beginning. It is the reason you agreed to such a circus in the first place. As Rhaenyra’s first-born child, heir to the Iron Throne and future Princess of Dragonstone, you were sent throughout Westeros to remind the noble Houses of the pledges they made, of where their allegiance is to lie if they hope to remain on the Crown’s good side. 

What foolish Lord you couldn’t charm with a well-placed smile or compliment, Vermithor’s presence in their city would remind promptly of the risk of turning on your House, of undermining your mother’s claim. What wouldn’t bend to your will, you would remind how quickly you could break. Such was your task, what was demanded from you, and you played your part as you have always done. 

It matters not if by the end of this tour, after twenty months away from home -though a part of you reminds you it has been much longer than that, it has been over three years-, donning whatever face was deemed ideal to realize your objective; you cannot really remember who it is you were before it all. It matters not if it has been months since you’ve been able to meet your own gaze in a mirror, in fear of seeing a stranger -or worse, a familiar face, your mother’s, your father’s, Lady Mysaria’s- looking back. 

Your eyes meet Baela’s, and you whisper, “Have you heard I am to marry?” 

She hesitates, and that is enough of an answer. You shake your head, step away, stumble over your own feet. 

___ 

You almost feel a young girl again, in the worst possible way, dragged like a dog on a leash after your mother as she departed King’s Landing, gritting her teeth at your cries and answering with soft caresses of your silver hair to your promise that you would never forgive her for taking you from your home. 

Now, over three years later, you are to be dragged back to the city that saw you be born, away from your mother’s side, from your brothers’ and stepsister’s sides. And the people responsible for arranging for such a thing are set on hiding, on ignoring you since your return to Dragonstone. 

For a time, especially since your aunt’s death and Aemond’s claiming of Vhagar, you believed your mother and Daemon kept you unmarried, kept you here, so that if war were to break out, they would have you and Vermithor to send to battle, to which he is no stranger. You believed if you would one day have to marry, it would be to defend your own claim, offering your hand in exchange for an army, to a man that would know to bend the knee before his queen and before his wife alike. 

You believed they kept you near, they let you remain unbound and unmarried, because you served a purpose while free. You believed by playing your part as was demanded from you, twisting and turning to fit into whatever face you were expected to wear, you would have some control over any of it, you would be safe. How foolish, childish, those notions were. 

Since Vermithor flew you into Dragonstone, your mother has secluded herself in her rooms, and you have only Daemon to ask for answers to the madness that brews past the safety of the island. 

“I do not wish to leave. I will not leave, unless you tell me what awaits me in King’s Landing.” 

But you know, some part of you knows, and that part of you is gnawing at you, at your composure, at your resolve. 

Daemon shrugs one shoulder, “Why? It was once your home. That shithole of a city saw you be born, after all.” 

“My home is, as has always been, Dragonstone.” Lie, lie, lie. You remember the halls of the Red Keep better than you know the halls of this very castle. 

“Then you must be used to homesickness by now. Five and ten years raised in King’s Landing, nearly two years touring Westeros. You have spent…what? A year settled here?” 

You roll your eyes, but he doesn’t much care, walking past you to pour himself a cup of wine. He lifts an empty cup your way to offer a drink, but you hold your ground, and insist, 

“I detest games, Daemon.” 

“You sound like your mother when you talk like that,” He quips, with cruel humor, chuckling at a joke that only amuses him. You turn to look at him with narrowed eyes and jaw set tight, and he lets out another mad little chuckle, “You also look like her when you glare like that.” 

“I only ask that-…” 

“When in your life have you asked for only one thing?” 

“And yet you have always indulged me. Indulge me now,” You ask, walking to him, forcing the tension in your shoulders to loosen and your face to reflect the softness of the child he has always had a weakness for. What is expected, what is needed, if you are to win this particular battle. Your mother, your brothers, they are to be faced with callous strength, with a temper and a certainty you inherited from the man who made you who you are; but the man himself is to be faced with the pleading eyes of his daughter, with the docile manners of a maiden who needs his guidance, his protection. And so, you show the face required to get the upper hand. Quietly, softly, you plead, “Do not insult me or my intelligence by acting as if I cannot understand whatever game is being played.” 

“You wield lies effortlessly,” He concedes, head lolled to the side as he considers you, “But you should know better than to try with me.” 

You allow yourself a smile, despite yourself, and let go of pretenses. Even so, you aren’t sure if the face you show Daemon now is an honest one, or merely yet another mask to try and gain his favor. 

Shrugging one shoulder as you lean against one of the stone pillars, you admit, 

“It was worth a try.” 

“It is more of an instinct than a choice by now, I’d say,” Daemon corrects, taking a few steps in your direction. You don’t miss the fact that he has positioned himself between you and the door, a physical reminder that whatever he is about to say is as inescapable as this room. “A useful instinct, now that you are to marry.” 

Your refusal is immediate, “No, I’m not.” 

At his answering look, halfway between surprise and anger, you wonder absently if this is the first time you’ve denied him since he married your mother. 

“You are aware this is not a request.” 

“I’ll feed to Vermithor whatever man you try chaining me to. You are aware this is not an empty threat,” You tell him. It feels good, to admit such a thing, to promise such a thing, because it feels true. “I told you I wouldn’t marry unless the war demanded it.” 

“It does. You are to avoid war, and marry my brother’s son, Aegon,” He promises, and he knows it, you see it in his eyes, that at the uttering of a single name your threat is made null. You realize then why it is your mother hides from you. “It is done, a deal has been brokered with my brother and his wife, y-…” 

“You have no right to make arrangements in my name.” You blurt out, a desperate attempt, not unlike a cornered beast lashing out and wounding its own maws as it bites the approaching spear. Now this, shamefully, terribly, this feels yours. This anger, this desire to hurt. With all the venom of a lifetime of wasted deference, of useless loyalty, you ready yourself to speak a lie once again, “You are not my father. Whore out your sons to the Hightowers if you wish, but you have no right t-…” 

Your words die in a gasp as Daemon hurls the cup in his hand at a wall and advances towards you, quick strides until he stands before you, towering over you with quickened breath. He doesn’t strike you, never has. But it is no less of a threat. A warning not to step out of line, a reminder of what your lies protect you from. 

A twitch in his expression, a glimpse of a snarl, before he warns, 

“Careful now.” 

“We both know there are things my mother won’t forgive,” You answer, “It is you who ought to be careful.” 

“She has approved of this union.” 

You doubt it. You want to doubt it, need to. It is one thing to try and link the warring branches of the House of the Dragon by joining Jacaerys, kind and gentle Jacaerys, and your sweet aunt Helaena. 

It is another to send her only daughter, her heir, to one of Alicent’s sons. 

Still, because some part of you, small and still in the carriage as it drives away from King’s Landing, grasping your mother’s hand in yours even as you curse her and her choices, cannot stand the thought of standing corrected, of being made to face that for the security of her claim Rhaenyra would give you away to a man on the far end of the Crownlands; you do not voice an argument, and instead clarify,  

“I was speaking of what you are threatening to do with your hands,” Daemon leans back with a thoughtful hm that does nothing to hide the way he still bristles at the faintest reminder of powerlessness. Careless, you push forward, insist, “Let us wait, let me stay, and…” 

“And what, hm? Let war come to us? Let those vipers continue to undermine your mother’s claim? Let them put Otto Hightower’s pawn on the throne our forebears forged?” 

You are shaking your head before he is even done speaking, and you can only offer a sigh as an answer, a plea as a retort, 

“Let me fight.” 

“You will fight as I see fit that you do,” He answers, simply, carelessly. “You will play your part, as is your privilege, your duty.” 

“If I had been a son, y-…” 

“I have had a lifetime of hearing your mother speak the same nonsense. I will not hear it,” Daemon interrupts, before leaning closer and reminding you, cruel, mocking, “You are not a son.” 

“I ride the second largest dragon in the world, I-…” 

“Then you should find it easy to tame a smaller one,” Daemon promises, not without cruelty. “We will depart in a month. The betrothal will be officially announced then, with us all in King’s Landing. Plenty of time to say your goodbyes.” 

“There have been…whispers of a royal event for months now. I didn’t know, I-…” 

“Did you think they were setting up a tourney for one of those shits? Or that my brother had somehow managed to sire another child?” 

You shake your head, but your heart races and your breath quickens, because how could you not see it before? 

You served your purpose, without faltering, without question. You amended the bonds your mother’s carelessness and her husband’s viciousness had broken, you strengthened the claim her mistakes had weakened, you lied and charmed to protect your brothers from the fate she imposed upon them. And now your use is through. 

The reward for your deference is a noose around your neck. 

“You had me travel the entire continent, entertaining countless proposals from the most insufferable of men and breaking bread with the most boring fucks alive, while you planned on giving me away.” 

“The tour was never meant to find you a husband, you knew that. A future Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, birthing children for a…a…Tyrell? Or a Stark?” Daemon asks, as if the mere idea is unfeasible, ridiculous. “You are the blood of Old Valyria, and as wretched as that little cunt is, Aegon is my brother’s. A Targaryen.” 

You do not care for his tales of superiority, you do not care for those fantasies. Instead, you merely insist, “You plotted against me, while I was far from home.” 

“No. There is a plot, but it was not against you. If anything, this was done in your name, for your benefit,” He argues, pragmatically. Daemon leans closer, head bowed to meet your eyes. “Everything I’ve done has been to secure your claim, to ensure your ascension after your mother’s.” 

“To ensure your blood sits the Iron Throne.” 

He doesn’t deny it, and you don’t expect him to. The faintest of gestures of his head towards the door orders you to walk. You follow the unspoken command, for what else can you do but obey, and walk towards the door. 

“It is settled.” He calls out after you. At the absence of your answer, of your compliance, Daemon barks a call of your name. An order, a threat, even if it isn’t voiced as one, making you stop in your tracks. “You are a loyal daughter, and you know better than to forsake your duties to your mother. You won’t betray her.” 

“What you are asking of me is betrayal,” You argue, turning to look at him over your shoulder. “To marry our enemy, to lay with him, what is that if not a betrayal of my mother, of her claim?” 

“It is a sacrifice,” He corrects, but such appeasements, such manipulations, better suit Lady Mysaria. He has too much pride for the deceit to work, and so the lie stumbles in his tongue, rushing forward a truer sentence, “And I don’t ask.” 

___ 

Lady Mysaria finds you in the eastern balcony overlooking the sea, welcomes herself into the room and walks towards you, stopping only a few steps behind you She doesn’t announce herself nor ask for permission to speak, and you know better than to expect her to do either, after years of knowing her as your parents’ advisor. 

“I’m guessing you do not come here bearing good news.” 

“What would be good news to you, Princess?” 

“A freak dragon-riding accident leaving my future betrothed somewhere in the depths of the Narrow Sea?” You ask, rueful smile curving at your lips. 

“You speak as if you wouldn’t grieve for him.” 

“I would not grieve Aegon, or any of them, for I do not know the people they have become in these passing years.” 

“Is that why you ask my spies about him when they reveal themselves to you in your travels? To know the man he has become?” 

You sometimes wonder why you bother arguing with her. Not once have you been able to hold the upper hand for more than a breath. 

“I asked once.” 

You were wary, and far from home, and the flutter in your chest when Alasdair Tyrell laid a crown of Dragon’s breath on your lap -after his victory in the tourney organized to welcome you into the Reach- had felt familiar but wrong. Nostalgia and something else, something far more stupid, overwhelmed you, and you summoned one of Lady Mysaria’s spies, sent with you as a handmaiden, and asked her to tell you what she knew about how Aegon fared, who he had become in these passing years. 

You told yourself that while you knew better than to reach for a past and a bond long gone, neither could hurt you, so many years removed from the girl you were, so many miles away from what you once called home. And it didn’t, the past didn’t hurt you. What could have been did, however. 

“I will concede that you have learned to request information more subtly, but it does not mean you don’t ask, Princess.” 

“No, your spies offer information freely. Information I do not ask for,” You argue, but she breathes a short little laugh in response. It irks you, unsettles you, and you find yourself arguing further, explaining further, “I wanted to know if he was well, long ago, a-…” 

“And my spies told you he wasn’t.” 

“And so I never asked again.”

“It is a smart choice, to feign ignorance, but you should know better than to attempt to hide something from me.” 

“I have hidden nothing, for there is nothing to hide.” 

She hums lowly, considering her words with a sly smile on her lips. 

“You must refrain from defensiveness if you are to lie efficiently, Princess.” 

You grit your teeth but refuse her the satisfaction of knowing she prodded at a still-unarmored part of you. Instead, you bow your head as you did when you were barely five-and-ten and she had issued her first lesson on how to survive a world such as this. 

“Of course, Lady Mysaria.” 

“I would have expected you to be relieved, if nothing else, at the revelation of who you are to marry,” She muses. If she understands the threat written in your eyes when you turn to look at her, she cares not for it, and presses on, “You were quite close when you were younger.” 

“I was close to all of them.” 

“I mislike repeating myself. You cannot hide things from me, Princess.” 

You take a breath that feels a tad too shallow, you grit your teeth until you hold yourself under control, you hold your tongue until you’re certain it won’t betray anger, sorrow, something else. It feels invasive, unbearable, like fingers prodding at a well-hidden wound. 

“It was nothing. A passing infatuation of youth.” 

“Passing fancy,” She corrects. “The words the Queen used were passing fancy. If you are to shield yourself with the words of others, do so properly.” 

The troubling and annoying thing about sharing a home with someone that trades secrets is that none can be kept from her, and the frustrating thing about counting amongst those closest to you the person that taught you to lie and deceive is that you find it impossible to fool her. And with no secrets, with no lies, there is no fun in playing the game anymore. 

“What is it you mean to ask, Lady Mysaria?” 

“Aren’t you at the very least relieved? Contented?” 

You shake your head. 

“I do not know who Aegon is any longer. Who I-…” The revelation stumbles in your tongue, remains sealed past closed lips. The admission that you have forsaken yourself somewhere in the road to this day is something she might know already, but you refuse to admit aloud. “I have spent the last two years on lands foreign to me, many of them hostile to me. I am…I am wary, and I do not wish to do so again. I am tired of feeling…defenseless.” 

Mysaria lets silence linger for a few moments as you both watch your brothers’ dragons at flight in the skies above you. 

“You want war,” She states, “You deem fire and blood the only future in which you are safe.” 

It is a truly horrifying talent that she possesses, that uncanny ability of hers of digging under your skin until she finds the truer face out of all you wear and brings it to light in all its ugliness and its monstrousness. 

But perhaps that is why you can allow yourself to speak in honesty now, for the first time since you left Dragonstone for a royal tour, or perhaps for the first time since you left King’s Landing. 

“In war, me and my dragon are useful here, defending my claim. In war, I remain unbound, able to fight back,” You tell her, not caring about considering your words, about guarding your back. Turning your head to look at her, you argue, “In times of peace, I am sent away. Twice over, I have lost my home for the sake of peace.” 

“Hm,” Mysaria muses, and when she walks past you towards the balcony, you cannot help but follow. Your eyes seek the horizon, while the White Worm’s linger on Arrax and Vermax playing in the clouds above you. “You will not find yourself without allies, Princess. A spider can spin a web anywhere in the world, it needs only time.” 

“Speaking of time,” You start, straightening yourself and turning on your side to face her. You bow your head, in goodbye and in something else, something closer to gratitude than your hurt and your pride let you admit right now. “I fear our time together has come to a close.” 

“Your family isn’t leaving for King’s Landing for another two days.” She argues, but she knows, you are certain she does. It is no coincidence, that she has come to find you now, that she has come to say goodbye. 

Because honesty comes easy with her, you admit, “I dislike feeling like prey.” 

You could swear there is the beginning of a smile curving softly at her lips, but Mysaria merely bows her head and whispers a wish of, safe travels, Princess. 

___ 

Daemon approaches, you know him by the cadence of his footsteps by now, as you stand on one of the cliffs near the castle. He says nothing, joins you in watching as Vermithor stands before you, proud and stubborn, head held high despite your request that he bow it to allow you to climb onto his saddle. 

“Are you two having a fight?” 

“The old brat doesn’t want to leave the Dragonmont, and thinks we have a choice in the matter!” Your last words, hissed in Valyrian as you argue with the old dragon, make Daemon chuckle. “If I ask that Silverwing fly with us, y-…” 

“You know better than to ask that from us.” 

“He doesn’t want to leave her side. Vermithor, sweet thing, I feel for your broken heart, I truly do. But I won’t go by boat, much less carriage,” Vermithor answers with a huff of steam, and flaps his wings slightly, a warning that he will shake you off like he would a bothersome fly if you attempt to mount him regardless. You heave a sigh, “Stubborn fuck.” 

Vermithor understands the Common Tongue, you are certain he does, for he lowers his head for a moment as if to taunt you to try, and the call that echoes from deep in his chest truly sounds mocking. 

“It is your own restlessness, your own fear, that make him refuse you. You do not wish to leave, and so he doesn’t want to take you there.” 

“I did not want to visit half the places we did during my tour, and yet he took me anyways.” You argue, and though for a moment you think to ask him if he will try to stop you, you refrain.  

Daemon somehow knows that you have decided to take flight to King’s Landing tonight, and he has chosen not to stop you. Perhaps he understands the restlessness that has only grown in you since you were told of your betrothal, as perhaps that same restlessness consumed him once, when he was also young and sent off to marry for duty. 

“You weren’t afraid during your tour.” Daemon argues, but you shake your head. 

“Of course I was afraid. I did it anyways, because…because it was what you and mother demanded from me, but I was terrified,” You admit. Perhaps it is the darkness and quiet of a night in the vast openness of the Dragonmont, perhaps it is the defeat that clings to your very bones like the most bitter cold, but you do not care for lies, for masks, right now. “I haven’t stopped being afraid since we left King’s Landing.” 

Daemon turns to you, but you cannot look at him. You dread to look into your father’s eyes and see disappointment at your admission; you dread to see anger at your weakness. Most of all, however, you dread to see a shadow of regret, at what he’s done, at what he has failed to do. 

For it wouldn’t change a thing. You would still be sent off, you would still be given away, you would still be left with no control over any of this. 

At your silence, Daemon turns back to look upon the Bronze Fury. 

“And yet you do not want to return. And your dragon defies you because of it.” 

“He took me there once already, you know. A month or so before the tour began,” There’s a ghost of a smile playing at your lips as you share the memory. “It was…the worst storm I can remember, and he had us fly right through it. I cursed his name until I was hoarse and once it was over, I demanded he take me home at once. He took me to King’s Landing.”

"Did you land?"

"Of course not. It is hostile territory."

“It is your birthright,” Daemon promises. It used to feel liberating to hear him reaffirm your claim and your mother’s. Now it feels heavy. The weight of a crown you do not yet wear is entirely too great, and you bow your head. Daemon continues, “It was Vermithor who called to you, who allowed you to claim him. Vermithor, a dragon who only ever bonded with Kings.” 

“But I am no King,” You argue, returning your gaze to him. “For I am not a son.” 

Thank you for reading, i hoped you liked it! I would love to hear your thoughts on this!

Next chapter >>

[dipperscavern]

ugh my most fave account in the whole WORLD can I ask for bathing w Jon??? Doesn’t even have to be smutty (tho I wouldn’t complain) just like spending time with him after a stressful day, maybe a massage, maybe some ogling idk 🤷‍♀️🤷‍♀️

most fave account in the world… you’re just saying that… [batting my lashes] absolutely u can!! thank u for the ask <3

jon snow x fem!reader, set after the battle of the bastards

jon’s not sure who’s blood he’s covered in anymore. dirt & grime cling to him like moths to a flame, and he’s exhausted — in all senses.

it’s emotional, being back in winterfell. it’s halls echo with the haunted laughter of the ghosts that once roamed them, and jon can almost feel the memories etched onto the bricks under his fingertips. how many feet have walked these halls?

he knows winterfell it’s just a castle, a place that’s been here & will remain here long after he dies. he knows it’s the people that make a place a home — knows the castle doesn’t take sides or have favorites of its inhabitants, but he can’t help the feeling of possession that licks up his spine. a strange sense of family, like the castle itself has been waiting to hold them all in its walls once more.

and, he feels a sense of pride. accomplishment. finally does he have back that which was taken from him and his family when the realm fell apart. he’s been guarding the wall for years, and he vows to guard winterfell with the same ferocity.

he thinks all this while he stands at the window of his old room, watching the banners of flayed men be cut down & replaced with direwolves. bolton’s, cut down. replaced by starks. a hot bath awaits behind him, waiting to wash his sins clean, but he hasn’t so much as looked at it yet. he feels so much, all of it all at once. grief, shock, pain, nostalgia — all which make his head spin.

the adrenaline of battle quickly disappears from his system, making his knees buckle as he leans against the windowsill. little black spots dance in his vision as he tries to regain his balance. rickon chipped a tooth on this sill, he thinks. the memory uncomfortably squeezes at his heart.

as his brain assesses he’s not in danger anymore, various injuries now come to light. the ache of his knuckles, bruised & wet with blood. whether it’s his or ramsays, he can’t be entirely certain. his legs hurt, his arms hurt; the cuts on his face scream as dirt mixes with the open wound. he can feel the plethora of grime in his scalp, and the strain of his hair being pulled back. he should- needs to be back out there, checking on his men, surveying winterfells grounds, helping with the cleanup — but he can’t do that until he gives his body some respite. he needs relief, but where does he even start?

he’s smoothing a hand over his jaw when the door opens, and he turns to see you. you exhale, visibly relaxing at the sight of him as you close the door. your eyes rake up and down his body, seemingly checking for any mortal wounds. he understands, you lost sight of each other as soon as the battle started. well, you lost sight of him as the entirety of the bolton army ran at him full speed.

“Sansa said you’d be here.”

albeit less than him, you’re covered in the aftermath of battle yourself. while relieved to see you, jon doesn’t have the energy to respond, meeting your eyes with a tired look & nodding. you smile at the sight of what he’s leaning against, moving to join him at the sanctuary of his window.

“Rickon chipped a tooth on this sill.”

when he thought of it, it hurt. but when you mention it, it only makes him smile — huffing out a breath of laughter.

“Aye. He did.”

you look out the window for a moment, relishing in seeing the stark banners hang once more, before reaching a hand up to cradle his cheek. you have it angled to not touch any of his cuts, and the small gesture makes him only fall more in love with you, if even possible.

you look at him for a moment, and then move to reach for jon’s gloved hand. he almost pulls back at the thought of sullying your clean hands with his own, caked with blood both metaphorically & physically — but he fails to realize you took lives today too. your hands are just as sullied as his own, but never in his mind will they be equal. either way, you don’t seem to mind, eager to reaffirm the idea that he’s okay by feeling him under your hands.

you begin to slide off his glove, and he winces at the exposure of his bloody knuckles. they’re bruised, skin partially cracked from the force he used to have a conversation with the bolton bastard. your brows pinch, muttering an apology as you toss the glove on the floor & move to take off the other.

he looks at you as you work, and he suddenly feels a surge of emotion. how lucky is he to have someone that understands him so? you know what he needs even when jon himself doesn’t, and he has to resist the urge to interrupt you by pressing a kiss to your temple. he settles on allowing the corners of his lips to quirk up in a small smile.

even in his gratefulness, he can’t help the thought that lingers in the back of his mind. the thought that he should be out there, tending to the wounded or helping in some other way (as if he wasn’t part of the fight to win back winterfell). anything other than remaining warm in the castle halls while there’s still work to be done. he can’t help himself, and eventually voices as much.

“I should be out there.”

“Sansa has it.” you say, not even glancing at him as you begin to fiddle with the buckles of his outer layer.

sansa. he thinks back to the spoiled princess that left winterfell, and now to the politically-savvy ruler that’s been left in her wake. from what he’s seen, she’s become strong, and if you say she has it — she has it. he selfishly relishes in letting someone else take the lead, even if only for a moment.

he feels exhaustion beginning to settle in, taking root deep in his bones. the prospect of you, a bed, and warm furs currently entice him more than any offer of gold or jewelry, but he knows it’ll be long before he can get what he desires. he decides to compromise, settling for the present until time calls for sleep.

once you get his outer layer off, he begins to strip himself bare. he has no care for you seeing him, you’ve both been as naked as your name day before the other countless times — who is he to hide from you now?

as the dirt, sweat, and blood that were trapped underneath his clothing get released, the reprieve is palpable. his skin appreciates its liberation from the suffocating fabric, beginning to assuage its protest.

eventually, he steps in, sinking into the bath & letting the hot water turn his mind off. his eyes flutter shut at the instant soothe it provides, and he’s thankful to have all his uncomfortable clothing off. his injuries sting at first, making him grimace, but they eventually calm down. he’s vaguely aware of you approaching behind him, moving to sit on the stool handmaidens usually use to assist their lord or lady.

your hands come to fuss with his hair, untying the portion of it that’s held back. the tension that snaps free from his head has his brows knitting, a shaky exhale falling from his lips. your hands run through his curls, lightly scratching at his scalp. the ache of it is delicious, and goosebumps litter his body at the feeling.

you look down at jon, a light smile adorning your face at the sight of his relief. watching the bolton army swarm him had your chest tightening, uncomfortably compromising any hope of air entering your lungs. you watched as ramsay paid his debt for his transgressions, as jon lost himself in his anger, and as sansa snapped him out of it. and truthfully, horribly, you’re just glad he’s alright.

you lean forward, resting a hand on the edge of the tub as your head leans against his own, tipped back. your other hand comes over his shoulder, finding purchase on any skin available to you. you’ve done this dance before — almost losing him, and then having to convince yourself he’s okay again. you can only do that by feeling him through your fingertips, greedily soaking up his touch like vultures during winter.

you both don’t need words. you became fluent in the language of your comfortable silence long ago.

you sit there for a moment, relishing in his presence, his touch, being in winterfell again. you look to the window, thinking of all there is to be done, and sigh. you need to get back out there. you press a kiss to his temple, then retract, moving to stand up. the water lightly sloshes around as jon looks at you.

you lightly caress the back of his neck, looking down at him. “I should return. Offer assistance where it’s needed.”

you move to walk off, but jon catches your hand. “You could join me,” he says. “If you like.”

you look to him, your gaze accidentally flickering to his chest. his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and you look away. you never did have any resolve when it came to jon.

you squeeze his hand, then turn to start undressing. you didn’t even realize how uncomfortable you were until you started shedding your layers, freeing your irritated skin. your head drops down, and you run your hands through your hair. gods. how long had you been fighting?

you don’t notice how jon’s gaze is trapped on you, mapping the expanse of your body. if he’s ever doubted the existence of the gods, your presence reaffirms that belief. you were hand crafted, created with the intention to embody beauty in human form. if you asked of him absolution, jon would pray — kneeling before you as his altar.

you discard your clothes, moving to step in opposite from him. you’re fairly unharmed, other than the few small bruises that litter your body. the hot water enveloping you is everything and more, and you mutter a “Gods..” as you sink in. jon’s gaze hasn’t left you once.

you sigh. “It’s strange. Being back.”

jon only nods, looking out the window, expression becoming distant as he recounts the experiences had in the safety of these walls. hide and seek games that lasted well into the night. sneaking into the kitchens. archery and sword training. nan’s old ghost stories. your shared first kiss.

the last thought has his lips quirking up in a smile, returning his sight to you only to find you already looking at him. he leans forward, arm outstretching for you.

“Come here.”

he reaches for you, and you oblige — letting him turn you around & pull you to his chest. the water sloshes as you both move, getting more comfortable than you’ve been in weeks.

his touch has always been grounding, anchoring you in a way you weren’t made to understand. right now, it’s just you and jon in your own world. no sickness, no death, no cruelty. only serenity, and you think you could stay in this moment forever. still, you know you can’t, and that the aftermath of battle awaits just outside the old wooden door.

but, for now, you both lay against the other — gaze trapped on rickons’ sill as the banner of the wolf flies once more.

[bumblesimagines]

The Beasts of The North

Part 2

Request: Yes or No

Summary: While he's meant to be convincing the Wolf of the North to send his men to fight a war for his mother, Jace cannot help but grow enthralled by the love between Lord Cregan and Ser (Y/N).

CW/TW: Typical GoT/HOTD warnings, mentions/implied homophobia/homophobic religion (The Faith), slight age gaps, slight suggestive content, Cregan and (Y/N) are head over heels, (Y/N) is not a stepfather he is the father that stepped up, bicurious Jace

I know I said I was gonna focus on UTM but my motivation left as quick as my dad did so here we are 🤷🏻‍♀️

~~~

A low, heavy sigh escaped Jace as he sank further into the tub, the heated water digging pleasantly into his skin and ridding it of the cold that'd sunk into him the moment he flew into the North. His head drooped back, the back of his neck resting along the wall of the tub as he slipped in further until the water brushed against his chin. His palms rubbed along his thighs, massaging away the soreness from riding Vermax for so long. 

His eyes glided around his new room, taking in everything around him. It reminded him of his bedchambers in Dragonstone with the stone walls and smooth, warm floor but it was sadly where the similarities stopped. It lacked the salty smell of the sea breeze wafting in through the windows, the sound of the waves crashing with the rocky cliffs, the clinking of metal from guards walking around. Most of all.. it lacked his beloved family. It lacked his precious brothers... it lacked his beloved mother. His skin warmed from embarrassment. He was man-grown and the Crown Prince, yet he desperately wished to have his mother near so he could ask her what to say and do.

Jace pushed himself up and began washing himself, scrubbing his skin clean until he no longer smelled of leather and dragon. He remained in the tub for a while longer, soaking up the heat of the water until it became tepid, before rising from the tub and drying himself. His mind raced as he changed into new clothes, his thoughts surrounding Lord Cregan and what to make of him. 

He'd flown to the Eyrie first to meet with Lady Jeyne Arryn and managed to garner her support through promises of protecting the Vale of Arryn with dragons, managed to sway the support of the Three Sisters in their favor through Lord Borrell, and arranged for Lord Desmond Manderly of the White Harbor's youngest daughter to one day wed little Joffery in exchange for his support. But what could he possibly offer Lord Cregan Stark to lessen the impact of his men undoubtedly dying once war finally began?

Jace had no younger sisters to offer as a potential bride to Rickon Stark; no lands or titles that could even amount to the lands of Winterfell and the title of Warden of the North; no dragons that'd be pleased to call the North home; no older female relatives to offer as the new Lady of Winterfell (and he certainly wouldn't wish to upset a Mormont); no riches or coin that'd be worth sending men to die. He had nothing to offer, nothing the lord would care for, at least. 

His fingers buttoned his white undershirt, his legs leading him toward the window to peer out to the ground below where he had a perfect view of the training grounds. Ser (Y/N) stood by below, his eyes closely watching the squires and boys given to him for training and lips contorted into a frown. He looked older in certain lights, more mature than the age Jace presumed him to be. His lips quirked when Ser (Y/N) smacked the back of one of the squires with his wooden sword, the exasperated expression on his face reminding him of all the times he practiced with Luke and had to scold the boy. 

His concerned, borderline anxious thoughts surrounding his host shifted, recalling the words Ser (Y/N) had spoken before he'd left. The Faith of the Seven viewed relations between those of the same sex to be a sin, something septas and maesters warned young children against. But Jace was no fool, nor was he blind or deaf. He'd heard plenty of rumors in court, seen lingering touches between a noblewoman and her favorite handmaiden or fleeting glances between a lord and his personal guard. His own father, Laenor Velaryon, had been said to enjoy the company of men over women; and looking back on his youth, Jace recalled the times he and Ser Qarl Correy often left together, smiling big and lovingly at each other.

Jace liked ladies, he'd be a fool not to with their beauty. But he'd be lying if he said he'd never looked at a lordling or knight and wondered what it'd be like to be with them. He often brushed those thoughts away and told himself it was simply admiration or envy but something in his heart had fluttered when he laid eyes on Lord Cregan and Ser (Y/N), something that blossomed when he witnessed the adoring exchange between the two. 

Lovers.

Ser (Y/N) had said it so proudly, so sure of himself. Jace wondered how many times his father had dreamt of declaring his love for Ser Qarl, dreamt of being himself publically without facing the scrutiny and denial of everyone around him. He wondered then, if the longing stares exchanged between his mother and Queen Alicent meant something other than a desire to rekindle a long-lost friendship. 

"Prince Jacaerys," He startled and turned away from the window, noticing Sara Snow lingering by the doorway. She smiled politely at him and entered the room, crossing the distance to stand beside him by the window as servants slipped in after her and drained the tub. The servants collected his discarded clothes and bowed before retreating, leaving the two in silence. Jace turned back to her and returned the smile with one of his own. 

Snow. A bastard of the North, yet treated as if she were a full-blooded Stark; perhaps because she looked so much like one with her shoulder-length raven hair and those pale blue eyes that resembled Lord Cregan's. Jace couldn't help the prickle of envy that slipped into his veins. If he'd been born resembling his mother over his real father, nobody would've questioned his parentage nor brought insult to his mother and brother. He'd spent so many years fighting to prove himself to everyone around him that he was Targaryen, that he was meant to be Crown Prince. Everything would've proved much easier if he and Luke had been born with those striking violet eyes and silver locks.

"I hope you're settling in well," Sara's gentle voice pulled him of out his thoughts. She glanced toward what'd captivated his attention moments prior, the corners of her mouth lifting knowingly. His skin warmed, though he couldn't pinpoint the reason why. "I know my brother and (Y/N) can seem... standoffish. They were both raised to be guarded and suspicious, but I can assure you, once they've grown used to you they'll be kinder." 

"I cannot fault them for their hesitance in welcoming me. I am the bearer of bad news; a symbol of war after so many years of peace." Jace straightened his shoulders and posture, clasping his hands behind his back as he spoke. He needed to be seen as princely as possible, needed to be someone worth paying attention to. "Lord Cregan's support would mean everything to us."

Her eyes crinkled and her head tilted to the side. There was a warmness to her presence that eased Jace into relaxation. "I could help you convince my brother as he does seek out my advice but (Y/N) is our master-at-arms and the one who trained many of our warriors in the past few years. He will need as much convincing as Cregan. The Starks have never broken an oath but it is better to have a willing commander over one who feels forced." 

"I agree." Jace nodded, his eyes flickering back down toward the figure below, hearing the muffled groan that escaped the knight when a squire slipped and fell. "And... how would you suggest someone goes about that? He hardly seemed keen on showing me around." Was keen the right word? Ser (Y/N) had seemed outright distraught at the idea. 

"How would you go about taming a bear?" The light, almost teasing tone in Sara's voice made him chuckle softly. "Cregan would know all about that, it seems. (Y/N) came here to Winterfell as a ward under our father many years ago. He and Cregan had been at odds then, bickering and fighting but under all that was the beginning of love."

"What of Lady Arra?" Jace asked. He'd heard how her death had brought much pain to Lord Cregan, how he'd mourned her for many months. Sara sighed softly at the mention and Jace winced, hoping he hadn't overstepped by asking.

"Cregan loved her as much as he loves (Y/N)," Sara told him softly, the glint in her eyes turning distant, her mind drifting back to the past. "Cregan was captivated by both of them, I remember. I was a child, hardly old enough to understand what was so charming about love, but even then I knew he cared for them both, even if (Y/N) occasionally brought out the worst in him. Arra forced them to become friends, for her sake, since she cared for them both. In the end, she brought them together both in life and death."

A comfortable silence settled over them, one that made Jace's thoughts flicker back to Baela. He cared for her, he had since they were mere children, but was it like the love between his father and Ser Qarl? The love between Ser (Y/N) and Lord Cregan? He hadn't minded when his mother announced her intent to marry them. He preferred an old friend over a stranger, and he certainly wouldn't mind having children with someone as passionate and caring as Baela. He believed he'd grow to love her, as many arranged couples eventually did, but what if his love for her remained... friendly?

"There'll be a feast in your honor later this evening. The boys should be in better moods by then." The boys. Jace almost snorted, his lips rolling into his mouth to prevent the noise. He wondered how long it took for little Sara to begin bossing them around, the image of her lecturing them as a child floating around in his mind.

"I look forward to learning more of the North." Jace smiled. 

Sara returned it, though it held a hint of both mischief and pity. "And I hope you're a heavy sleeper, My Prince." 

When dusk fell, the feast began with all kinds of lords, knights, ladies, and squires filling the Great Hall. A proper welcome to the North, if Jace had to admit, finding ale in his hand and delicious food on his plate that he happily ate. He spoke with those around him, his chest brimming with pride and relief whenever he enticed a hearty laugh from a northerner with a jest or a tale. They considered him a southerner, a boy prince who'd hardly fit in amongst the men who looked more like mountains and ladies who knew their way around axes. But with each laugh, grin, and approving nod, he cemented himself further amongst them. 

However, Lord Cregan and Ser (Y/N) paid him little mind, allowing the others around to keep him entertained. 

Jace watched them as he slowly ate some of his apple cake, the lovely flavor dancing on his tongue but his attention focused on the two despite the tale Russal, the castle's steward, recounted a tale of a hunt that had many leaning forward in anticipation. Jace had been among them until he'd caught sight of Ser (Y/N)'s vibrant and pleased grin at something his lover had said. 

He watched with softened eyes as a fussy Rickon finally ceased his whining once Ser (Y/N) took him into his arms, settling the boy on his leg and sparing the briefly distracted Lord Cregan a glance before he scooped some honey cake onto his spoon and offered it to the boy. Rickon wiggled with delight, his small hands grasping (Y/N)'s wrist as he eagerly ate, accidentally smearing frosting over his top lip and just below his nose. Lord Cregan turned back to them and arched a brow at the mess on his son's face, an amused smile stretching across his lips. 

"You know you mustn't have sweets before bed, Rickon." He gave his lover a knowing look, one that (Y/N) responded to with an innocent shrug. Rickon merely giggled and licked his lips, reaching for the spoon once more to lick it clean. He reminded Jace of Joffery, his little troublemaking brother who could sway anyone with just a few bats from his eyes and that toothy grin. Jace watched little Rickon, a longing for home forming in his heart once more. 

The table erupted in loud laughter that snapped Jace out of his thoughts, flickering his gaze toward Russal as the man drank some ale and took in the hearty laughs and cackles his story received. He smiled and chuckled, the laughter of northerners amusing by itself, and took another gulp of his ale. When his eyes slid back to the couple, he found Ser (Y/N) watching him and nearly choked on his ale, managing to cover up the coughs with wheezy chuckles. 

"Princeling," Ser (Y/N) pulled Rickon further against his chest so he could rest his chin on the boy's messy dark hair. The table largely quieted down, save for a few conversations here and there, most of the attention turning onto the prince and Ser (Y/N). Jace straightened his back instinctively with all eyes on him and gave him a nod to go on. "Tell us of dragons."

"Dagons!" Rickon cheered, drawing soft chuckles and coos from those around. 

"Well, uhm," Jace cleared his throat, his mind flickering back to all the lessons he'd received through the years, primarily on the histories of his family. "There are different tales on how dragons came to be. Those who came from Old Valryia claim dragons came from the Fourteen Flames but there are tales that dragons were brought forth through blood magic used on wyverns. Regardless, Valyrians tamed and rode them. It was said Valyrians themselves were descendants of the beasts and were kin with those they rode. Many believe a dragon will accept anyone of Valyrian blood but it is simply not true. A rider does not choose its dragon, the dragon chooses its rider. They will not allow anyone else to ride them for as long as their rider lives and breathes."

"Your dragon chose you, then? It looks quite young." Ser (Y/N) tilted his head. Jace wondered what tales were told in the North about dragons, about his family. Lord Alaric Stark had hosted King Jaehaerys Targaryen and Queen Alysanne Targaryen at Winterfell once many years prior, surely leaving a good enough impression for things to remain amiable between the families. Jace could only hope to leave the same impression.

"The tradition started by Rhaena Targaryen where eggs are placed in the cradle of Targaryen babes allows for a bond to form in youth. Vermax hatched in my cradle so we were raised together as... brothers, in a way. The bond between a dragonrider and their dragon runs deep. It is said a dragon may feel everything its rider feels. They may grow restless when their rider falls ill or is gravely injured." Jace couldn't help the burst of pride in his chest at the curiosity and intrigue in the eyes of those around him. Velaryon blood never ran through his veins but it hadn't made him any less of a Targaryen.

"Interesting." Ser (Y/N) said flatly, and the pride died a little. 

By the time night properly fell, the buzz in Jace's veins had been undeniable. Northerners liked their drinks strong, and Jace had never been one to back down when faced with challenging smirks and glints. Drinking their ale and beer had earned him many burning claps on his back and shoulders but as he stumbled through the halls and toward his bedchambers, he wondered if perhaps he should've paced himself. He almost tripped over his own foot and gave a soft giggle at his clumsiness before his eyes shifted to the streak of light pouring from a cracked open door. Against his better judgment, he approached it like a moth to a flame and raised his head to peek into the room.

"Byran thinks we ought to do a hunt soon. The hounds have grown restless, says they could use the exercise." He found Ser (Y/N) first, the many layers of clothing he'd once worn gone, leaving him in loose beige-colored sleepwear. The knight tilted his head up toward his lover, the warm candlelight and peaceful look on his face chipping away at the slight fear that'd gripped Jace's gut when he'd first seen him. 

"Aye," Lord Cregan responded, and Jace's face warmed when he raked his gaze over his muscular back and strong-looking arms, a shirt pinched in his hands before the lord tossed it aside. His chest and pudgy stomach were covered in dark hairs, ones that Jace tracked until they disappeared beneath his pants. "We could take the princeling, then. Show him how the North works."

"And how does the North work, love?" Jace's veins bubbled when he heard Ser (Y/N)'s light laughter, when he watched Lord Cregan take a seat at the edge of the bed while Ser (Y/N) slid up behind him. His fingers dipped into Lord Cregan's hair, brushing and pulling back his dark strands gently, a gentleness he hadn't given those he'd been training. Ser (Y/N) tied his lover's hair back into a bun, some shorter strands slipping out and framing Lord Cregan's face. 

"The North is... full of surprises." The older man murmured, tilting his head back and ghosting his lips over Ser (Y/N)'s cheek as the knight's arms wrapped around his broad shoulders. When their lips connected, Jace's stomach flipped with a new feeling of longing, surprised by the warmth and sweetness of the kiss. 

Lord Cregan's body tiled and his arm moved, sliding around his lover's waist and dragging him onto his lap. Laughter and giggles freely fell from Ser (Y/N)'s lips, a wide smile on his face as he settled happily across Lord Cregan's thighs. They stared at each other, lips curled upward and eyes crinkled with delight before Lord Cregan pressed a kiss to Ser (Y/N)'s forehead and murmured something in his ear. When Lord Cregan's hand dipped into the knight's pants, Jace jerked back, a violent heat darting up his spine and spreading through his veins. 

Despite his drunken mind, he staggered away from the door and toward his bedchambers, tossing the door open and slamming it shut behind him. His back pressed against the wood when his legs grew too wobbly to keep him up without help, a shaky exhale escaping him. It was hard to pinpoint what swirled around so violently in his stomach; too many emotions threatening to swallow him whole in a single gulp. He felt them prickling along his back. 

Desire, want, longing, mortification, embarrassment. 

He was the Crown Prince, Seven Hells! It was entirely unprincely to act no better than a peeping tom, even if the coils around his stomach and heart yearned to be under such an adoring gaze and needy hands. Jace groaned and brought a hand to his face, pushing himself off the door and stumbling toward the blanket and fur covered bed where he collapsed. He buried his face into one of the furs, feeling the soft strands brush against his skin soothingly. He prayed they hadn't taken notice, hadn't realized he'd been watching. 

He was a guest in their home. A temporary guest who'd leave once he ensured he'd secured the North's loyalty and support... even if he had to withhold from indulging in his growing curiosity.

[agentrouka-blog]

Jon the future Father

An early hint that it's Jon and not Robb who is destined to carry on the line of House Stark is how GRRM chooses to portray them with children, especially their younger siblings.

It's Jon who advises Bran, gently guides Rickon, comforts and encourages Arya, who is shown jubilant when Bran wakes, who worries about his sisters. It's Jon who gave Bran a fish to take home, Jon who tells Tyrion to comfort Rickon with the promise of "all my things".

GRRM could have given Robb similar scenes to interlink with the way his younger siblings idealize him in his absence. But we get no such thing. He is overwhelmed with Rickon's distress, receives comfort from Bran rather than giving it, leaves Bran behind in the woods, is given zero interaction with his sisters and only mentions them to complain about Sansa's lettter, compassionlessly unable to comprehend her obvious situation. He'll go on to refuse to trade for them, remains focused on his role as Ned's avenging son, rather than as protector of his living family.

While Robb needs an "heir", it is Jon who is described to have dreamed of "children". It's not Robb who mirrors Jon in what he would name his sons, that was only ever Jeyne, the only one whose grief is shown over the lost opportunity. "He liked that, I think." She isn't even sure.

Robb is a warrior king, but GRRM utterly avoids showing him in a position that could be interpreted as fatherly. And he never gets to live long enough to become a father to the next generation of Starks. GRRM makes sure to emphasize that his enemies prevented it from ever happening. He remains the Young Wolf forever.

Jon, meanwhile, is shown in a paternal caring light in his very first appearance.

Jon likes children. He is good with children. He wants children. This matters because of the massive role parenting styles play in the books. Tywin's children are monsters because he made them that way. Ned's children are resilient because he and Catelyn raised them responsibly, lovingly, in spite of some failings.

Jon being emphasized to have the skillset to raise children well is a very important signal that he is fit to have a hand in the next generation of House Stark, that his presence and influence will be not just possible but vital. It's not his "blood and seed" that is required, it is his whole person.

[aphroditelovesu]

Yandere House Stark Headcanons (Platonic)

"Winter is Coming." — House Stark.

❝ 🐺 — lady l: and another headcanon was made! Yay, I hope it turned out good and that you like it! Forgive me any mistakes. 💙

❝tw: obsessive and possessive behavior, mention of murder, unhealthy platonic relationships, messy writing.

❝🐺pairing: yandere platonic!house stark x gender neutral!reader.

The Starks are one of the most, if not the most, loving families in Westeros. They are fiercely loyal and protect each other with wolf-like intensity and strength. They care for each other and love each other devotedly.

When you were brought into the care of this family, these feelings did not change, but only increased further and became unhealthy. That didn't matter, however, to any of them. They showed their fury towards anyone who dared to get too close to you or threatened you.

Ned was the one who brought you into the wings of his family. You were the child of an innkeeper who ended up being murdered by some thieves, while still a small child you were found by the Lord of Winterfell and he, compassionate about your situation, brought you to his home.

Catelyn didn't know how to react, at first, when she met you. She feared that you were another bastard child of her husband and that he had brought you to be raised just like Jon. But as soon as her husband told her the true story, Catelyn felt a weight lifted from her shoulders and she became closer to you.

Robb gave you a warm welcome. As soon as he met you, he picked you up, hugged you tightly and welcomed you to the family. He adored you immediately and didn't hesitate to treat you like a member of his family. Robb is overprotective and takes care of you like an older brother takes care of a younger one.

Sansa adored you, simple as that. Although a little skeptical of you, like her mother, any worries or reservations she had were gone the moment she laid eyes on you. You looked so small and helpless, her instincts were screaming at her to take care of you. Sansa found herself overwhelmed by this feeling.

Arya is probably the closest to you. She is bold and courageous, she adores you and loves spending time with you, constantly picking fights with others for your attention. Arya is somewhat possessive and gets irritated when attention is stolen from her. She absolutely loves you and loves taking you with her to get away from boring chores.

Bran is the calmest one in his family, he doesn't demand so much of your attention nor is he possessive, he takes everything he can, but his only demand is that you read to him. In return, he'll love reading to you or, if you are interested, teaching you how to climb. He is very calm and the least dangerous.

Rickon is the youngest and, in some ways, the most spoiled. He constantly wants your attention and is always fighting with Arya about it. He likes to follow you around Winterfell and snuggle into your arms. He is quite jealous and will sulk when someone steals you from him.

Jon didn't know what to think of you at first. On one hand he was jealous of seeing you receiving all the love he so desired, on the other hand he was happy to have you around, since he started to like you a lot as he got to know you better. Any animosity he had for you would be forgotten once his obsession consumed him. Jon is very overprotective and will fight anyone to protect you.

Benjen doesn't spend much time by your side because of the Wall, but the few times he visited Winterfell, he adored you and telling you stories or holding you in his arms were his favorite things to do with you.

Ned didn't know things would come to this level. He knew his family would care and love you, but he didn't know how much. He even tried to be rational, but it was no use, not when he found himself obsessed with you. Once you called him "dad", there was nothing more to be done. You were a Stark until your death.

Catelyn acts like a caring and protective mother, which she is. She loves to brush your hair, reading to you or just being by your side. She fulfills your every whim and can never scold you for something. In her eyes, you were her baby and you could do nothing wrong.

Robb and Jon are always fighting over you, although their fights are never serious, they still happen and it's always up to you how to resolve them. A hug and a kiss on the cheek usually does the trick. Robb wants to be your favorite brother and Jon wants your unconditional love.

Sansa and Arya fight more than their brothers, they both want your attention all the time and this always leads to more fights. It's usually Ned who solves them. Sansa wants you to brush her hair while she tells you something and Arya wants to play or train with you.

Bran and Rickon don't fight that much, but sometimes a disagreement can happen when you pay more attention to one. It usually resolves when you threaten them that if they don't stop fighting, they won't have you. They are quick to apologize and hug you.

The Starks are wolves and we all know how protective wolves are of their litter, of their family. They will be ready to eliminate any threat to you and they will do so with a smile. Nothing is more important than you to them. Once the Lannisters arrive, the Starks will be ready to show their claws.

After all, leave one wolf alive and the sheep are never safe.

[misguidedasgardian]

The Hour of the Wolf (8)

VIII. Your Obstacle

MASTERLIST

Summary: You want to get out of Cregan’s way

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Targaryen!Reader

Warnings: Cursing, war, death, mentions of killings, genocide and war, threats, arranged marriage, SPOILERS for ASOIAF, and Fire & Blood, also, might spoil House of the Dragon, pregnancy, sickness, pandemic, unrealistic timing and portraits of a pandemic, might miss some warnings

+18, MINORS DNI

Wordcount: 3 k 

Notes: Now Reader and Cregan will be even... you might not like me after this 😬 anyways! Merry Christmas!

“Arra”, you woke up as he was again lost in his mind, “Arra my love”, he was dying, his mind was delusional in fever and yet, you felt your chest tightening, “Rickon”, he only whispered the name of his first wife, his childhood friend, and the one of his son

“I will care for him”

He whispered 

He was burning up again, after getting better the day before when you got there to tend to him. You stood up, and searched for the Grand maester 

“I can’t lower the temperature of his grace”, you cried to the man all the way in the tower of the hand

“Your grace, you should be in your rooms”, he said urgently, “if you catch the disease, we are all lost”

“I need you to help me with Cregan, he caught it”, you cried.

The man and Arryk ran to your side, and towards Cregan’s rooms, he had not eaten not drink anything since the day before, no matter how much you tried to give him sips of water.

The Maester checked on him dutifully

“His temperature is great, your grace”, he said, in his eyes… you didn’t even want to think about it, you didn’t even want to think about what it meant

“No, do something! anything!”

“Let’s prepare him a bath”. The Red Keep had been deserted, but by a handful of servants that were obligated to stay in the palace ground and have no contact with the exterior, those helped you and Arryk make a bath for Cregan.

The maester placed his boney hand on the water, the other, on Cregan’s forehead

“It’s ready your grace”, both the water and Cregan’s high temperature being the same, Arryk, the maester and you grabbed Cregan and placed him on the water slowly

He whined and grunted

He was chanting another woman’s name in his fever induced dreams, and his son’s name. She had died in childbirth, or rather after, but his son? you had kept him from him, from seeing him and taking care of him like any father should

You didn’t know what to do about that, could it be that he dreamed of the life he once had rather than the one he had now? He hadn't muttered your name not once, and you tried to focus on rather doing whatever you could to help him instead of this… silly things

But you were his wife now, and you were expecting his child, even though you haven't confirmed it with the maesters, and… he didn’t know yet, but still…. would he hold you in his thoughts as he did his former wife?

After all, the child you were carrying was not going to be his, he belonged to the Targaryen dynasty, and the Iron Throne, it was not a normal child, his heir… was in Winterfell…

You hold him as he rested in the tub, the theory was that at matching temperatures, as the water started to get more tempered, so will he, his body temperature lowering

With a cloth you kept his forehead and head also wet, with the current temperature of the water.

As minutes trespassed, his face seemed more relaxed, his temperature was indeed lowering

Would he regain consciousness? would he ever look into your eyes and speak to you again?

You had to believe he was going to

As he grunted into consciousness, the maester made him drink some tea with other herbs, and he did, that itself was an improvement.

Once the water was cold, you removed him from the water, dried him, and even he himself stood, with your help, and you laid him back down on fresh sheets.

His fever was no longer there, almost, it had worked, but the Maester had given him milk of the poppy so now he had fallen on a thick sleep.

“There it is your grace, soon he will wake, and when he does, he most likely, left this disease behind him”, muttered the Maester, “if the fever doesn’t return, if it does, please, call for me”

“Thank you”, both men left you alone with your husband

You sat by his bedside, taken his hand on yours, scared his fever will raise again

The night fell over the Seven Kingdoms, and you were so tired, that you fell asleep, your head laying on the rough sheets by his side, his hand on yours

Sleep took you without you fighting it, letting you slumber in dark dreams as dark tides swallowed you whole.

You dreamt about being in one of the royal vessels, it wasn’t nighttime, but it looked like it, the clouds so gray, so dark, they could swallow you whole. The boat was at the mercy of the waves, the sea was wild and dangerous, you felt like you lose your footing on deck

There was no one in sight but you, but you felt ghosts of people all around you, moving the sails, working the ship

You knew you had a destination and that you had come from King’s Landing, but the uncertainty as you crossed the storm was making you tremble. You were alone, nobody you knew was in sight, and in your dream, you knew… Cregan was not there with you.

Behind the clouds, you could hear a dragon, it wasn’t Vhaelar, it was someone else…

You woke up because you felt a squeeze, a gentle squeeze, you opened your eyes, alarmed, and when you managed to focus them, some gray eyes were staring back at you

“What are you doing here my love?”, he asked, and you couldn’t help but cry out of happiness and relief, once you placed your hand on his head, making sure he was clear of the fever

Two months, you had been battleting the disease that stretched out far and wide, but as it came, it went away… for those who survived…

Within the castle, it had taken many lords and ladies, but the most important within your circle was… Alicent and Lord Tyland Lannister.

The former, that sick woman, literally and figuratively, has snuck out of her rooms, sick with the winter fever, and tried to barge into the nursery, Jahaera and Aegon’s rooms. According to Arryk, she had screamed the name of your baby brother with “murderous intent”, she wanted to see him, to make him catch the disease as she screamed, scaring the children, which only worsened the situation because then the mad Queen was conscious that Jahaera was there… her only living descendant

She lost it then, but she was a sickly and weak woman, and once the soldiers gathered she was easily taken back and locked in her rooms.

She refused her green dresses, she wanted to jump off a window, in the end she died with sorrow on her face and your mother’s name on her tongue.

You felt relief, and you couldn’t hide it

But the loss of Tyland did strike you and your family. He had been there since you could remember, even if sometimes he was an idiot, he was there, and had been faithfully for you since Aegon died, probably poisoned with his help

Anyways, you were barely getting the hand of your small council.

But the Lannisters did not want to let the post go, so they were going to send Tyland’s cousin. You were looking forward to him, now with Tyland gone, and Jason dead in the war, the line had to change within the Lannister House, but it remained strong, as they assured you. 

You wanted to be so relieved that Cregan survived, but every time you saw his face, you were reminded of his face twisted in fever and agony, chanting another woman’s name like a prayer. 

You felt so terribly guilty for keeping him here.

So you… as soon as he was better… you demanded of him to go to Winterfell

“No, I’m not leaving you”, Cregan said, passing around the room

“You need to go home, Cregan, to aid in this crisis, the maester suggests that once you caught it and survive, you won’t caught it again”, you said quickly

“The disease is still raging, you are still…”

“I won’t catch it”, you said firmly, “I’m from the blood of old Valyria, blood forged with magic”, you said, he chuckled, mocking you, but you were not joking

“My love..”, he said condescendingly, but you didn’t budge.

“Tyland’s cousin is coming, the realms are at peace, it’s time”, you sentenced 

He didn’t fight you anymore, and it broke your heart even more to see the excitement in his gorgeous eyes. He might be trying to deny you, but he couldn’t hide it, he was excited to leave, and you couldn’t blame him

The mere thought of being without him for so long made your stomach twist, you hand instinctively went to your lower belly, Cregan noticed

“Are you well?”, he asked, you nodded

“I’m fine”, you said

“You look different”, he said with caution

“It was a hellish week”, you answered back

“I see”

You had yet to confirm your doubts with the maester, but you were certain

You were with child

And you were about to send the father back home for spite, well, not quite, but, you were pushing him away, to leave your side. Without him knowing.

So as Cregan was distracted with preparations for his departure, you went to visit the Grand Maester.

“Wonderful news, you are indeed with child your grace”, the old man said, he had been your mothers Maester, he probably aid in your own birth, his eyes filled with tears of happiness

“I’m so glad”, you muttered, “but we must keep this between us, it’s to soon”, he nodded eagerly

“Are you going to tell Lord Cregan?”, he asked

“I’m not sure”, you admitted 

“But the hand is leaving your grace”, he said softly. 

“I know”, you said shortly

Within a week, Cregan was ready to leave, and even though you wanted to cry and hold onto him, you stood in front of him in the Royal Harbor 

“If you take a lover, please be careful, and don’t let him plant his seed in your belly”, he whispered, you only looked at him

“The same goes to you husband, don’t plant your seed on another woman’s field”, you answered meaningly

“Wouldn’t dream of it”, he whispered

“Good”, did he really think you could take anyone who isn’t him? Now you wanted to cry even more 

You were angry, you didn’t even know why… Your heart was breaking at his departure, and you did not want to feel like this, you wanted to get it over with

Your marriage still did not feel concrete enough, he, Cregan, has as well been forced to marry you, nothing else, and even though he and you too have taken joy in bedding each other, there was nothing else there.

Yes he cared for you, but like a sworn sword would care for his princess, nothing else

He frowned when he saw how you evaded him with your eyes

“You are alright? I’ll be back before you even notice”

“You will lose the tide, my love”, you said soulesly, “you should go”, that would have offended him, if he hadn't seen you all angry and offended like you were. He only smirked.

You were angry because he was leaving 

And that made him glad somehow

You cared 

“I’ll be back before you know it, the small council already promised to keep you entertained”, he said softly

“Yes husband”, you muttered, not feeling it, you were like a little child, being comforted by a parent. 

“And I wouldn’t oppose a visit from you, on dragonback”, he teased, you barely smiled

“Very well”, you muttered

“I will arrive in Winterfell in three weeks”, he said with hope in his voice, you barely nodded, again, evading his gaze.

You weren’t angry at him, you were angry at the situation, but it still hurt, very much so, his departure, the thought of not having him by your side, in your bed, not waking him to his hand on your body and his lips on yours

But he had called another woman’s name on his sleep

He leaned in, grabbing your face on his hands softly, and he kissed you hungrily, with longing, you did as well

“Please send word, whatever happens, anything”, he demanded against your lips, you only nodded

“Yes my lord husband”, he gave you a last smile and nodded.

He was taking a grand part of his army with him, those who wanted to return home, but many stayed, in King's Landing or in the Riverlands. 

As you watched him go, you turned to the maester

“Your grace! you didn’t tell him”, he chided softly 

“What kind of wife would I be if I kept him from his son this long? the fever almost took him, what if he never saw his child again?”, you whined, but as you watched the boat sail away, you wiped those thoughts from your mind. You turned to the maester with a soft smile

“We shall tell the small council, that I am with child, now that my husband has just left, I will not give ground for doubts on the paternity of my unborn child as were my brothers”

“Never, my sweet gracious lady”, he said, “we shall tell them this very meeting later today”, you only smiled softly 

You summoned them as soon as the ship’s sails were no longer visible in the horizon

“Lord Cregan just left, we expect him to return in less than a year”, you said firmly, you didn't know where the strength came, you wanted to be curled up in your room, crying, hugging your pillow, your chest was constricted against the fabric of your dress.

You missed him already

You can’t believe he is gone, that you were not going to see him for the next year, or so… that you were expecting his child, and you were going to give birth to him or her… alone, completely alone, without your husband

But it was the right thing to do, you knew it, you couldn't be this selfish, he had a family of his own, a whole country that he needed to see. If you would have told him, he wouldn’t have left, another year far from home, another year away from his son.

You couldn’t have that

“The year will pass swiftly your grace”, muttered Lord Redwyne, “not to worry”

“There is something else”, you said, sharing glances with the Maester, “I’m with child”, there was a few awkwards silent seconds, and then the room exploded with cheers and words of encouragement

“That is great news, your grace!”

“A new prince or princess! A new era!”

“The country is flourishing again”

You only smiled

“Congratulations your grace”, said Lord Celtigar by your side, “But Lord Cregan just left”, he muttered

“Yes, in reality he does not know, and we must kept it that way”, you said firmly and the room was quiet, “he needed to go back home, to resolve some matters of the greatest importance, and he wouldn’t have gone if he knew the news”

“Very well, as your grace commands”, said Lord Redwyne

“This is for the greater good”, you assured them, and the men at the table changed their concerned looks.

You didn’t even wanted to go back to your rooms, you wanted to keep yourself distracted, the castle was still in high alert because of the disease, but still, you finally were able to visit your brother Aegon and Jahaera, who, against all odds, had finally bonded in a somewhat sweet friendship.

They already know how to read, so all this time in confinement had allow them to read and read, history books, children’s books, books about animals, their minds were distracted and absorbed in other things, they had finally managed to reach some other emotions rather than sorrow, and you were so grateful

Their nannies were excellent and had aid them in that as well, keeping them distracted

But the night came anyways, no matter how distracted you kept yourself, and even though if for the past two months you had been sleeping alone, now that you knew Cregan was not even in the castle, that each passing second he was sailing further and further away… you couldn’t sleep

And when you did, terrible nightmares tortured your mind

You were again on that ship, Cregan was with you and… the waves and the storm dragged you to the bottom of the ocean, the waves tearing you apart. 

You were alone again, and it was of your own making.

Cregan could already feel the cold breeze hit his face, he was excited, he couldn’t wait any longer to get home… 

He looked over his shoulder, back towards King’s Landing, where you had remained, he had second thoughts about leaving you, he did, but he knew you were going to be alright, you had to be. You were stronger than you seemed

You were surely going to visit him in Winterfell, right?

You didn’t want to admit it, but you cared for him, you did, you had challenged a dangerous disease just to tent him, made sure he survived. Being with you strengthening your relationship was vital, but… either way, you were not yet with child, once you were, he was never going to part from your side, so it had to be now, that is what he thought

He didn’t need to stay one year away, he was going back home with news for his sister and to feel the current climate, that wat, he might even be able to return sooner to you, perhaps you even felt stronger to fly back to Winterfell to see him, that would certainly improve everything, he thought

When he came back, he was going to tell you to make a tour throughout the Kingdoms, they needed to see you, see their Queen.

He breathed in the fresh sea breeze, and smiled.

He was coming home to see his son, and yet, he couldn’t wait for you to see Winterfell, he couldn’t wait for you to meet his son… He couldn’t wait… for your future together.

He had survived, thanks to you, he had survived the deathly fever, for you, for his son, for the children he knew you were going to give him, for the future of the Kingdoms.

He just needed to… learn to combine his worlds together.

taglist!

@lyannesworld @tremendouswolfsaladranch @unlesshouse @mimsie95 @ostricx @amelia26200 @marihoneywk @ahristata @happinessinthebeing @dd122004dd @lyannesworld @aestmilky @lightdragonrayne @delaynew @mxtokko @stargaryenx @good-night-starlight @yentroucnagol @beebeechaos @brakingboundaries @duds31 @persophonekarter

[creganslover]

Hiiii I’m so happy your request are open but I think a Cregan x reader would be absolutely amazing and. I’m kinda thinking like cregan x reader but they both have children from previous marriages (reader has 4 sons older than 13) and they have more children! I just love the idea of so many chaotic stark children and just there children in general and how her would navigate it! (I also love the idea of the only girls being twins and they look the opposite)

the pack survives, cregan stark x targaryen! AFAB reader

wc: 1.0k

warning/s: mentions of death, suggestive themes, slight violence(?)

note: omg... yes that man is absolutely insatiable, i tweaked it a little bit, i hope you enjoy!

GIF is not mine, credits to the owner!

Your marriage to Cregan had been… a wild ride, from both of you being widowed and happen to have children from previous marriages, it was quite the blessing of the Gods that both of your children had easily bonded with one another.

Your sons, older than three and ten, Aeryn and Daemion being the youngest had grown into tough boys, though will take the first chance they would get to butt heads together if given a chance, from where you could only let out an exasperated sigh at.

However, they had seemed to take upon their late father, as they were skilled in swordsmanship, often pairing together to train against other knights. 

Not only that, you have seen how these two boys would vye for the praise of their mother, after the loss of their father in which you were absolutely devastated with, they had now made themselves to look out for you despite their growing tasks and responsibilities, in which you were grateful for, knowing you had raised these children right. 

Now onto Cregan, he had also been widowed, left behind with children of his own as his first wife had died of childbirth, his now eldest Rickon Stark, and his youngest, Brandon Stark. Cregan deep within himself knew the life he had wished to live, Winterfell’s keep to be filled with sounds of his family, of his heirs and his wife by his side, having lived through many winters strong. 

And that’s when he was caught at the first sight of you trying to reign in your two boys from bickering, the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, who had been proposed to marry him, the Lord Cregan Stark of Winterfell. 

Fast forward many moons, your sons had immediately bonded with Cregan’s, them being of around the same age a huge aided factor while you had relocated to Winterfell. At first, you were intimidated by Cregan’s presence, or mostly with the thought of loving again, that you had a difficult time opening up to your new husband, and Cregan felt the same, understanding that you both had been recovering from being widowed.

Surely in time, love began to blossom with the two of you, and that soon you had borne twins. Not just any twins, they were two of only your precious girls.

There was Kyra, taking after his father’s Stark features, hair as dark as chestnut brown, eyes matching Cregan’s, with its own tenderness to them. Then was Daena, taking after your Targaryen features, hair as platinum white, eyes of purple, matching your fiery gaze. 

Cregan loved both of them, possibly more than his boys yet he would not dare to voice such a thing. To add to it, Aerys, Daemion, Rickon, and Brandon would treat their only twin sisters the best, except for the brotherly teasing here and there. 

As Kyra and Daena grew, you would be by their side, supplying their curiosity for the world. Cregan often liked to take your sons, with Aerys and Daemion considering Cregan as their second father, and his own out of Winterfell often to bond over hunting or yet taking trips to the Wall where Cregan often reminded them of the importance of responsibility and duty, telling them tales of the North. 

And when they’ve come home, Cregan had always sought you first, greeting you with a tight embrace, lips finding yours, before he would subtly lean in your ear due to his towering size, murmuring of how he’d like to properly reconnect with you later at night, sending your cheeks to fill with heat, a hand coming to smack at his furs, making him chuckle deeply, looking at you with mirth in his eyes that you’ve missed to see the days he was gone. 

Then he would scout for his twin daughters after he shrugs off his cloak and armour, his sheer strength allowing him to lift both your growing toddlers in both his arms, your girls laughing and toying with Cregan’s hair and his growing stubble. 

In turn you would be then greeted by your sons, with you tutting as you messed about them, inspecting if they had any signs of strain or hurt on them, in which they grumble and complain that they were old enough to take care of themselves, but in secret loving the affection from their mother as they boasts about what they had did in their journey. 

“Thus Rickon remains unscathed after wrangling a boar with his own bare hands!” Aeryn nonchalantly commended as he leaned against the wall, crossing his arms with a smirk as he just finished getting inspected by you. Your hands froze on Daemion’s cheeks, leading them to be squashed in your hold, Daemion only looking back and forth at his mother and siblings whilst Rickon looked close enough to smack Aeryn on the head. Aeryn then realized his mistake as his chuckle died down and his eyes widened. 

Snapping your gaze to Rickon who was now sheepishly grinning but glaring at Aeryn, you were about to open your mouth when Cregan rounded, letting your daughters finally escape from his loving grasp to bother their brothers. 

“Ah, do not worry, wife, it was just a test of strength, and the boar was a mere size of a fawn at most!” Cregan said, approaching to pat his eldest Rickon on the shoulder. You sighed in relief, letting go of Daemion after a squeeze to his shoulders. “Should have seen him wrestle with it in the mud, it was unbelievable!” Daemion added. 

You looked at Cregan who only shrugged, sporting the same boyish grin you grew to love as he approached you from behind, wrapping his arms around you in which your sons now busied themselves with their little sisters, boasting their tales and trinkets they had bought for them, their voices filling the room. 

A warmth flooded within you, relaxing back into Cregan’s chest as he took in the familiar scent of you, pressing his nose against the side of your head, making you close your eyes, hands resting atop his arms as you turned your head to smile at him. “Do they ever grow tired?” You wonder.

A chuckle, “I do not think so, my wife. Not if there’s another one to follow.” He whispered playfully, rough palm resting atop your stomach through your dress. 

Oh Gods. 

[fairysluna]

a dragon's fury.

Once you found out that your beloved husband was wounded in battle, the dragon within you comes to light, and you're eager to help him during these war times.

MASTERLIST

PAIRING – Cregan Stark x Targ!Reader.

TAGS/TW – fluff, a bit of angst, hurt/comfort, winterfell is at war with the wildlings, the greens won, dilf!cregan, cursing, mentions of murder, mentions of blood and wounds. If something is missing let me know!!

AUTHOR'S NOTE – this is the 4th part of my Cregan x Targ!Reader stories, but it can be read as a standalone too. People have ask for it and I'm here to provide.🤗🤍

WORD COUNT – 2.7k

FEEDBACK, SHARES AND COMMENTS ARE ALWAYS WELCOME!!

"Lord Stark has been wounded in battle."

Your eyes immediately left your son’s shape and reached the guard in front of you. Your softened haze soon turned into one filled with worry and fear, rage even. You carefully removed Lysara from your arms and stood up from the fur carpet beneath you. With your now shaky hands you fixed your thick dress before sighing deeply, trying not to raise any alarm to Rickon, who was already old enough to understand what those words could possibly mean.

“Where is he?” You asked. Your usual sweet and charming tone was now replaced by the hardness, stern words which demanded an immediate answer.

“He's in his bedchambers being attended by the Maesters,” the guard informed, to which you only managed to nod.

“How bad is it?” Those words came out as a whisper as you grabbed his arm and started to walk away from the children, so they would not hear.

“Lord Stark is conscious, though some of his wounds are quite deep according to what the Maesters had said,” He replied with the same low tone as you, noticing your intentions.

Your hand went to your belly, trying to find some comfort in it before you realized it was now empty. Your sweet boy had been born just a few weeks ago; Elion Stark. A beautiful babe that was now sleeping in the crib, right next to a white dragon egg, a gift from your brother King Aegon. You looked at the crib where your son was peacefully resting, and after you made sure he was alright you wiped the sweat of your hands on the fabric of your dress. Before you could even notice it, your legs were taking you out of the nursery room and towards your husband’s chambers.

Each step made your heart beat faster, the overwhelming sound of it making your ears buzz and your breathing to tremble. Your loyal guard was walking behind you, following your quick steps with his hand on the hilt of his sword, his guard up just in case you would find some intruders in your way. The war with the free folk had left Winterfell as a target for your foes, leaving you and your children exposed to the danger and risks that this war entails.

You have learnt how to live without fear after being raised with a dragon by your side, you also knew that your children, including Rickon, will be shielded by the same beast that brought you comfort and protection when you were their age… but Cregan was another story. The stubborn man would reject that much needed protection, leaving him exposed to any risk that may come his way; and as consequence, you would spend your days sitting in the nursery room with your babes, praying to Seven for the well being of your beloved husband.

But you decided it was enough once you crossed the wooden door that separated the halls with the chamber that you shared with Cregan, and saw how the maids and Maesters were running from one side of the room to another while your harmed husband was staining the white sheets of the bed with his crimson blood. Your eyes shifted with the purest of terror at the scene, and your nose started to itch as a sign of the upcoming tears that were threatening to escape your eyes. You stood there, right in the door frame, looking horrified at the scene in front of you and holding the handle of the door with such a strength that your knuckles turned white.

Your lower lip quivered as you slowly stepped inside the room, your hand pressing against your chest, which was moving rapidly and unsteadily. A maid was the one who first noticed your presence and bowed before you, staring at you with frightened eyes. You came to wonder which expression was the one on your face for her to have such a reaction.

The silence ruled over the room once they noticed your presence. They all bowed and stepped back, leaving you a path to follow towards your husband's bed. You managed to see his bare chest covered in bruises, a deep cut in his left arm and his gorgeous face swollen with violet stains and cuts that were still dripping blood. His left eye was now red, the gray color you so dearly loved was now replaced by the crimson tint that you so deeply hated to see on him.

Cregan saw you, and he took a deep breath that seemed to have hurt, for his expression furrowed with the signs of the immense pain he was suffering. Your eyes were clouded by tears, your heart aching at the sight. It was unbearable.

"My love," you whispered softly as you walked closely. "Who- who did-" you were unable to keep talking, for your voice broke in mid sentence as your soft hands fell gently on his chest. You felt his hand covering yours, he squeezed it three times and you lifted your face to see his. A little smile appeared on his face, as if he was trying to make you know that he was fine; but you were not blind, he was obviously not fine at all. "Who. did. this?" You spoke again, this time swallowing your sobs and using a more demanding tone.

"My princess," he weakly muttered, "no need to worry, I'm fine-"

"Cregan, I am not playing right now. Who did this?"

His eyes squinted with the unusual pronunciation of his name from your lips. You used to save it for two different occasions; for those which were filled with lust, or for those in which your inner dragon was about to spit fire. "My love-" he tried to excuse himself again.

"Who did this?" You insisted, starting to feel the worry leaving you and being replaced with anger. "Tell me the truth."

He looked around the room, observing the servants and Maester eavesdropping the conversation without trying to hide it at all. You pressed your lips with discontent as you noticed this, and you quickly stood up straight. "Out," you demanded of them, but no one moved. This only made you frown, increasing the anger in you. "All of you, out!" You repeated.

"My princess, our Lord requires our attention," a Maester said to you. Your jaw clenched at the defiance. "His state is-"

"I know what his state is, do you think I do not have eyes to see how my husband is harmed?!" Your voice rising as your cheeks turned red with fury. The middle aged man in front of you shrank in his position after he received your words. "Now get out, but stay around. I will call for all of you once we're finished. Now!"

You saw hesitation in his eyes, but the man simply nodded and with a small gesture he took all of the people out of the room. They quietly left the chambers as you shared stares with your husband. He looked up at you with those gray, puppy eyes, as if he had done something wrong and he was expecting you to scold him anytime now. He looked defenseless.

Only when the door was closed, you said, "Spit it out."

"It was a giant," he confessed, as quickly as you finished pronouncing your words.

"A giant?" You repeated, incredulously.

"I was fighting against the wildlings and this giant came to me out of nowhere…" He took a brief pause, shifting his position to a more comfortable one. You could see in his expression how it pained him to move, and you felt your heart break after seeing him in such a state." Last thing I knew I was flying across the field and landing on the rocks covered by the snow."

"You dumb, tall child," you muttered as you sat next to him. He immediately reached for your hand once again.

"For a moment I thought I was about to die," he confessed, "my mind played a memory of your laughter and I could've sworn I entered the heavens." You almost blush at his charming words, feeling the warmth of his love filling your heart with joy once again. "But then, I got really scared, my love, because I thought, for an instant, that I was leaving you behind… that our pups would've grown without his father, and that our Elion would've not known how to recognise my face."

And just like that, it was as if he was storytelling your worst nightmare; something that you were unable to think without shedding tears. The mere thought broke your soul into pieces. "But you are here," you whispered as you leaned to touch his face, "the gods had brought you back to my arms, because they know I cannot live without you." You grabbed a small bowl on the nightstand which was filled with water, and with a small cloth you started to wipe the blood out of his face. "You have no excuses now, I'm coming with you next time."

"Are you insane?" He quickly said. "Look what they did to me!"

"I would be riding my dragon, love… patrolling the skies so no other being can hurt you again," you spst with rage. "Look at you! They almost took you away from me, I will not allow this to happen again."

"My love-"

"I will not accept defiance from you, husband. I will burn them all, all those savages will die screaming for what they did to you," your voice broke mid sentence as tears streamed down your face. Cregan carefully stretched his arm to cupped your cheek, your immediate response was to lean towards his touch. "You forbade my participation in this war because I was carrying our child, but now I'm prepared enough to fight, and I will call my brothers, they will-"

"Do not," he stopped you, "there's no need."

You frowned, shaking your head. Your stern look was enough to make your husband know that you were disagreeing with him. No words needed, he knew you too well.

"You cannot," he muttered.

"Winterfell is my home now, the place where my children were born… the place when I married the love of my life. It is my duty as Lady Stark to protect it."

"I will not allow it," he shook his head. "I refuse to put your life at risk. Our children need their mother."

"As well as they need their father," you added. Cregan haze softened and his jaw was unclenched. He sighed, tired, hurted, but you did not bend to his words, you were firm in your decision. "Ten years ago we made a pact; you fulfilled your part of the deal by taking your tropes and your bannermen to secure my brother's claim. Aegon is king because of you, my family is alive because of what you and your men did," you reminded him. "It is time for us to return the favor. We got married because of this alliance, remember?"

"We got married because I fell in love with you the instant you arrived in your dragon," he confessed. You leaned back, a bit incredulous.

"You're a liar," you accused him.

"I swear I'm telling no lies, my beautiful princess," he smiled softly, still showing signs of his pain. The hand that was holding your face shifted its position to let his thumb wipe your tears. He scoffed after seeing your expression. "What? Did you really think I would let myself be seduced so easily?" You blushed, remembering the boldness in your attitude on the day of your first encounter. "I let myself go because you were something I just could not resist. You're my greatest weakness, my love, and for that exact same reason I cannot put you at risk."

"I can't let you come back out there alone, not when I have a dragon to protect you. Not when this happened."

"Please…"

"I love you, Cregan," you interrupted him, "and I cannot make it without you. I'm begging you, let me help you… allow me to call my brothers, they will be here within days."

"But-"

"No," you shook your head, "no buts. Let me protect our home, let me fight for it. Together we make a marvelous team, my love… we will win this just if we are together." You got closer to him, close enough to press your forehead against his. The blood of his wounds stained your skin but you did not seem to care, you needed to feel him close. "I don't care if I have to fly my dragon across the Wall, as long as I kill every single one of those who harmed you." You whispered your words, Cregan could taste the rage in them.

Your hands were caressing his wounded face as he moved his chin up in order to reach your lips in a tender and soft kiss. You felt the drops of blood coming out of the cut in his lip and being spreaded against yours. You could not care less.

"Promise me something," he whispered, your eyes remaining closed. "promise me that as soon as you feel something is wrong you will return here…"

You frowned, pulling away from him and opening your eyes. A confused look in them as you said, "and leaving you behind? No way."

"Y/n…" He sighed.

"No, I will not leave you there, Cregan," you shook your head. "As soon as I feel like something is wrong I will make you get up on my dragon and i will fly away with you."

"No, it's too risky."

"I do not care!" You grab his face, softly to not hurt him but strong enough to force him to look at you. "I will be by your side until death do us apart, get used to it. I will not abandon you, no fucking way. So either you accept this, or I will go to ride my dragon and kill them all, without you."

He knew you meant it. He knew your words were not lacking sincerity. He knew you too well. A small nod was all you needed to let go of the air contained in your lungs. He had accepted, making you feel some kind of relief. He was too tired to keep fighting against your ideals, and some part of him knew that, no matter how hard he tried, he would not change your mind.

"Send ravens to your brothers, my love," he said. "I'll send them to my bannermen."

"Okay…" you whispered, leaning forward just to press a gentle kiss on his forehead. "I will."

You stroke his brown thick hair before straightening up and attempt to walk out of the room. He held your hand, however, making you stop before you could move away. You turned to look at him, and Cregan smiled.

"I'm so in love with you, my little princess," he murmured. "My little dragon."

You felt the warmth in your cheeks as you pressed your lips to repress a silly smile. You had been married for more than ten years, and you still feel like a maiden being courted every time he would say those things to you. Your heart jumping out of excitement, making you forget all the problems that existed on the other side of the door. You allowed yourself to soften your hard demeanor, just for a few seconds, and only for him to see.

"We're going to protect our home," you said, "we're going to bring peace to our children's future… I promise you that."

"I know," he nodded.

A small silence was present afterwards, but it was quickly interrupted by your words, "I love you."

Cregan smiled.

"And I love you too."

You kissed his hand before letting him go. Walking towards the door and allowing the Maesters and the maids to come inside to attend your husband once again.

You gave one last look inside the room, and once again your hand fell on your belly out of habit. As the door closed, your facade became hard and stern. Your jaw clenched as your haze became one full of anger and hate; you asked for forgiveness to the gods, for you promised to yourself you were going to make all those savages scream in agony for what they had done to your sweet husband.

You were going to make sure of that.

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