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slytherinslut0 · 4 months

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tom riddle. | this is your punishment

PAIRING: tom riddle x fem!reader

SUMMARY: prefect tom riddle catches you breaking the rules again, and this time decides to provide a different type of punishment he’s certain you won’t soon forget.

WORD COUNT: 4.7k

TAGS: 18+, SMUT MDNI, dubcon (entirely consensual), dom!tom, brat!reader, BDSM (light), intense humiliation kink, sexual punishment/ forced orgasm, inappropriate use of magic/spells, clit-stim orgasm, begging.

You had thirty minutes.

Thirty minutes to dance with disaster. Thirty minutes to dodge destruction. Thirty minutes to descend into the depths of the library, infiltrate the restricted section, slip the book on occlumency you clandestinely borrowed back into its rightful place, and ascend back to your dormitory before the harbinger of your nightmares—Head Prefect Tom Riddle—emerges from the prefects' bathroom and winds his way back down to the dungeons.

Thirty minutes felt like both an eternity and a heartbeat. The weight of impending doom pressing down on your chest as you crept through the darkened corridors, each shadow a lurking menace, each creak of the ancient floorboards a deafening scream that could betray your presence.

And though the stakes were disastrously high, you weren't entirely worried; you knew Tom Riddle's schedule as intimately as the lines on your palm, and he was nothing if not a creature of habit. But of course, there was always the chance. The slim, terrifying possibility that he might deviate from his usual routine. And being caught by him was the absolute last thing you needed right now.

Every second felt like a blade poised above your head, ready to drop at the slightest misstep. It was no secret that Tom Riddle had it out for you. By now, it was practically etched into the very stones of Hogwarts, a fact as immutable as gravity. Everywhere you went, every step you took, he was always there—watching, waiting, eager to catch you in some transgression.

The relentless scrutiny was exhausting. The number of detentions you'd served was staggering, the punishments you'd endured endless. Not to mention the droning, entirely condescending lectures and disappointed yet gleeful stares he always made sure to give you as he personally hauled you to Dumbledores office.

It was all bullshit, and certainly had nothing to do with your frequent rule-breaking or constant sneaking around. No, of course not. You most definitely never toed the line. You were as innocent as they come. As pure as the driven snow. In your mind it all boiled down to the fact that Tom Riddle had it out for you, plain and fucking simple. A personal vendetta written into the fabrication of his identity.

Because even if he did. Even if he did somehow manage to track you and uncover your clandestine activities by just being the perceptive cunning bastard that he is, there are certain things that simply defy logic. Some occurrences that just don't add up.

There are just some instances that can't be explained, save for the simplest conclusion: Tom Riddle has been inside your mind for months.

And that was precisely why you sought out the book on Occlumency—you needed it. Needed to learn how to block Tom out because if he wanted to play mind games, you were determined to play better. You were determined to keep up.

You knew Tom took pleasure in continually getting one step ahead of you, and as much as it utterly ticked you off—perhaps a twisted part of you enjoyed being caught by him—savoured the banter you shared including his threats that next time he'd take matters into his own hands, since even Dumbledore was growing tired of your antics. Perhaps you revelled in provoking him, in defying him like no other student dared, relishing the thrill of the chase.

Perhaps you simply loved to hate him. Because he was always so goddamn good at everything, always in control. It was maddening, intoxicating, and you couldn't deny the rush it gave you. His perfection was a thorn in your side, and yet, you craved it, sought it out like a moth to a flame, even if you'd never admit it.

Not to yourself, and most definitely not to him.

As the night droned on, you managed to make it to the library unscathed, slipping into the restricted section unseen. Everything was going according to plan, not a soul around to forsake you. And yet, just as you slipped the book back onto its origin shelf, you heard a distant yet distinct voice, accompanied by the determined clacking of perfectly polished dress shoes.

"—ah, yes. I believe I informed him that I would have an answer by tomorrow evening."

That voice. You could never fucking mistake it.

"—well, yes, Mr.Riddle—but he said—"

"No matter." The footsteps ceased. "You'll both await my determination until tomorrow's eve. Continue pressing and I will see to make you wait two more."

The bile rose in your throat, threatening to spill over onto the floor beneath you. His arrogance had always been a towering monument, casting shadows that seemed to suffocate all reason. Sure, he was the brightest star in the firmament, undeniably brilliant with features rivaling the gods themselves—chiseled jawline, captivating dark eyes—practically born to bask in his own glory.

Yet, for all his outward perfection, his self-assurance bordered on the verge of the grotesque.

"—yes, o-of course, Mr. Riddle..." you stifled a distasteful scoff. You weren't sure how that individual was even standing with such lack of spine. "—t-thank you, sir."

You didn't stick around to hear a response or the lack thereof. The voices were far enough to keep you breathing but close enough to damn near make you faint because you knew he was most likely just outside the iron gates. You couldn't afford to ponder the improbability of his presence or the surrealness of your predicament. You had to move—deeper, further out of sight.

Which was going perfectly well until you rounded a corner with a little too much intensity and collided directly into a small round table. The sharp screech of wood against wood cutting through the thick silence like a blade, echoing ominously in the vast, dim library. Panic seized you, every nerve electrified, as if the table's cry had been your own.

And it was roughly ten devastating seconds after this that you heard the creak of the iron gates opening behind you, and those same polished footsteps drawing forward with haste.

Fucking hell.

You'd spent enough time in the Forbidden Forest to know how to keep your calm, to know how to effectively avoid being noticed—how to silence your footsteps and slip around obstacles without leaving a trace, how to mask your scent with earth and leaves, how to blend into the shadows to avoid becoming prey to the creatures that lurk in the depths. Yet, the only predator you'd never been able to successfully evade was the one you were currently running from.

Tom Marvolo Riddle.

A shadow that clung to you, a hunter whose senses were always sharper, whose instincts were always keener. No matter how well you hid, he always seemed to find you, as if he could sense the very beat of your heart.

Tonight—to your naive surprise, was no different.

"Think you can hide from me, do you?" Tom's voice slithered through the narrow gap between the shelves, smooth and dark as midnight. "Not quite stealthy enough, I'm afraid."

You pressed your back against the cold wood, trying to steady your breathing, but his words seemed to wrap around your throat, squeezing the air out of your lungs and replacing it with something dizzying.

"Why don't you come out, little snake?" He purred, his footsteps drawing closer, each one a death knell. "We both know how this game ends."

Little snake. Two words that rooted you to the spot. It was impossible, inconceivable that he could know it was you. Yet the nickname, the venomous familiarity of it, left no room for doubt.

You slipped around the corner, the two of you making calculated moves like chess pieces. Your board was one of evasion, his one of domination. The gates were in clear view now as you paused to determine his position, silently mapping the space between here and there, certain that if you ran fast enough you could make it—if you moved quietly enough he wouldn't know which direction you were heading.

"You're only making this worse for yourself, darling." Arrogance so thick you weren't sure how he wasn't choking on it. And as much as you detested it, something about it sparked heat between your thighs. "You know I always win."

With the desperation of a cornered, wounded animal, you decided you were done playing and began making a silent yet brisk path toward the gates. You knew you could get about three shelves deep before you needed to take cover again. The silence was deafening, urging you to move faster.

And just as you were about to reach your next hiding spot, just about to duck back in between the shelves, a sudden sensation of pressure coiled around your ankle, cementing you to the spot.

"What the f-"

It was as if the very air had turned to iron, suffocating you with its weight. Your breath caught in your throat as you stared down, disbelief flooding your senses. The once innocuous carpet beneath your feet now glowed with enchantment, its fibres twisting and contorting, snaking around your ankles and climbing steadily up your calves.

"There she is." It was an echo from behind you, deep vocal inflection choking you with its pride. "Always so deliciously predictable.”

The fibres wound tightly around your upper calves, constricting tighter against your leggings as you squirmed, struggling to free yourself. Tom appeared beside you with a leisurely saunter, his smirk so smug it seemed almost tangible.

Your frustration bubbled over into a groan of disbelief. "You charmed the fucking carpet?"

"Of course," Tom replied. "Why do things the hard way when magic can do it for you?" He stepped closer, his eyes roaming over you, drinking in your entirety, running the tip of his wand up your arm. "You should know, little snake, I always find a way to catch my prey."

You watched as two dark eyes dipped low, lingering over the thickness of your thighs, fighting against the tendrils of the enchanted carpet that had now crawled tightly around them. You certainly felt like captured prey, tangled in a web of his making, awaiting his next move—and he certainly didn't miss how tantalizingly prepared for him you were, like a gift waiting to be unravelled.

"Impressive, Riddle—you've really outdone yourself this time," you spat the words through clenched teeth, fighting the urge to smack his wand away, battling the unwanted heat pooling in your core. It was the way he was looking at you. The way you wanted him to keep doing it. "Guess you can add 'carpet tamer' to your long list of accolades now, huh?"

Tom huffed, a glint of amusement dancing in his dark eyes as he forced them up to meet yours. The corners of his lips curled upward in a smirk, every pore radiating control. He looked at you as though you were a puzzle he had already solved, a game he had already won.

"Now now, darling, no need to be so dramatic." His free hand reached up and grasped your jaw, kinking your neck back as he stepped closer to you. "Though, I think 'little fucking brat tamer' might be the more notable achievement to add to the list."

Your stomach leapt, your teeth sinking into your tongue for a moment as you fought to gather your sanity. Your defiance was draining like sand in an hourglass.

"Hm." You huffed, the grip on your jaw firm as steel. "Quite the mouthful."

"So I've been told," he shot back, his eyes glinting like shards of glass under the dim light. "You'd know all about mouthfuls, wouldn't you?"

"You fucking wish." You hoped he did.

His smirk deepened, his fingers digging into your skin like iron claws. You could tell he was amused by you, as though you'd just delivered the punchline of the century, as though you were the world's most revered stand-up comedian. It was maddeningly infuriating and dangerously captivating all at once.

"Still wielding that weapon of a tongue, even when you've so clearly lost." He remarked with a click of his own tongue, releasing his grip on your jaw. Stepping back, his eyes devoured the sight of his spell tangled around your thighs. You caught the tension in his jaw before his eyes snapped back to yours. "Tell me, little snake, do you know why I admire this spell so much?"

Your gaze remained fixed on him, anticipation crawling over your skin like a colony of ants as he scrutinized you. You offer him a shake of your head, a scowl etched deep on your features. "Can't read your mind, Riddle. Not everyone is a skilled Legilimens like yourself."

Tom's chuckle rang out, swallowed by the thick tension in the air, suffusing the oxygen you desperately tried to gulp down. He moved to circle you, and you felt his presence looming behind you, his body brushing against yours like a whisper in the wind. One hand found your hip, however softly, as though he was reluctant to touch you.

"It's a very versatile spell, darling," he dismissed your sass, his voice stripped of all emotion as his lips hovered closer to your ear. "The best part being...I know exactly how to manipulate it to get you to listen."

Words withered on your tongue, attitude wilting in your lungs, and oxygen fleeing from your veins—never to return. Tom's looming presence behind you was enough to make your chest constrict, but his words—his words were a different beast altogether. In the countless times he's caught you, never once did you imagine yourself here, like this, with him.

And never once did you imagine yourself enjoying it this fucking much.

"One might describe it as remarkably adaptable, catering to a multitude of desires..." his hand floated away from your hip, his fingers subtly dancing—the coils responding to his ministrations and slithering higher up your thighs. "And you, little brat, have a plethora of desires at this moment, do you not?"

Your jaw nearly smacked the floor as you watched him command the spell without the aid of his wand. You felt your stomach twist into an iron knot, something heating your blood to flame. Perhaps you underestimated him, perhaps you-

"F-fuck-" you gasped as the charmed fibres slithered between your thighs, coiling higher and higher, wrapping around your waist and ensnaring your arms at your sides. The pressure on your cunt sent your head reeling, your entire body quivering. "Tom...what..."

You know Tom is just beaming with satisfaction, the tremor in your voice eliciting a low growl from deep within him as his hold on your hip resumes, his lips teasing the sensitive skin behind your ear.

"Speak up, little doll, articulate your thoughts," he murmured, his words dripping with cunning like poison. "I know you possess an abundance of them."

You suppress a groan, squirming in a futile attempt to free your wrists, to move against the relentless hold. The heat of Tom's presence behind you has your senses in a frenzy. Your head spinning, your body silently yearning for more. You despise how much you're enjoying this, whatever this even is.

You whimper, lids fluttering. "This...this isn't fair..."

"Neither is disobeying the rules every fucking chance you get—but here we are," his hand brushed against your thigh, fingertips barely grazing, his voice drifting further from your ear. "You should understand, this is all your own doing...the charm merely responds to your desires, adapting to fulfill them.”

That insufferable bastard. The list of descriptors you'd use to paint his portrait would stretch longer than the very library you're standing in, and then some. Every time you think you've unraveled his mysteries, he unveils another layer that exposes just how brilliantly twisted he truly is. How charming. How intoxicating.

You loathe him, relish in despising every fiber of his being. Yet you can't deny the fact that he outmaneuvered you, in the most tantalizing manner imaginable.

But still, you attempt to deny it. "That's...that's not..."

He muses. "Isn't it?"

Tom withdraws his hand from your thigh, and almost immediately, you ache for its return, the absence of his touch leaving you yearning. Caught off guard by the tendrils of the charm exerting pressure against your core, teasing over your clit, you squeeze your eyes shut, teeth sinking into your lip to stifle any sounds.

"It appears you have a penchant for challenging me..." his voice is a certain murmur. "It seems the charm knows precisely why.”

All the smugness of a deity himself, a walking, talking colossus among mere mortals. As inevitable as the sunrise each morning. It made you want to bare your teeth at him, but instead, all you could manage was a groan, struggling against the pleasure his charm inflicted upon you.

"I'm not quite certain what you would deem a fitting punishment..." he continues, voice as deep as the depths of your desire. As dark as an all encompassing black hole. "—given the countless ones you've endured in the past months, which have clearly taught you nothing."

You groan again, your head bowing as you gaze down at the tendrils of the enchantment, ensnaring you in the clutches of a man with teeth of diamonds, fingers like razor-sharp claws. It'd been a relentless dance of dominance between you for years, a battle of wills that always seems to end in his favor.

You despise how he effortlessly wields his power over you. How he has so easily read between the lines of your story—knowing precisely the effect he has on your body, knowing exactly what you crave.

You fight back a moan. "Mmmff—fuck..you..."

Tom maneuvers his mouth to your ear, his presence pressing against you from behind, the ghost of his breath caresses your skin as he whispers;

"You wish you could."

Beautiful, insufferable bastard.

"Fuck," you huff through gritted teeth, sweat gathering behind your neck, fingernails biting into your palms as you clench your fists, still battling against the overwhelming pleasure. "Get out of my head.."

You feel a low chuckle resonate against your back, its vibrations stirring something primal within you, his fingers grazing against your side.

"Do you truly believe this is mere manipulation, little snake?" Tom's touch begins to ascend, feather-light and elusive, barely registering against your clothes as he presses closer behind you. "I am intimately acquainted with your desires, darling. I've been privy to them for months." You can almost taste the smugness in his voice. "The truth is fairly simple—you crave me, and you despise yourself for it."

Tom takes a deliberate step back, circling around to stand before you, his gaze sweeping over your disheveled form. Your breath comes in rapid gasps, your skin flushed with desire, and you find yourself unable to tear your eyes away from him. You yearn for more of him, yet you resist acknowledging it, even to yourself.

It's as though he can see your thoughts, his eyes darkening as he drinks you in. "You'd go to any lengths to avoid admitting it, wouldn't you?"

"Gods—" he's right, and you hate him for it. “Mmmf.”

Tom hums softly, his lips barely suppressing a smirk as he steps closer to you. He reaches up, his fingertips brushing against your skin as he tilts your chin, compelling you to meet his gaze.

"How about we try a simple question?" His dark eyes bore into yours, their depths ablaze with a devilish glint. "Do you wish it to stop?"

You're rendered speechless. The egotistic side of you wants you to say yes—while the other, larger part is consumed with an insatiable hunger for more, for him. The charm swirls over your clit, applying increased pressure against your leggings, causing you to bite down on your bottom lip again to stifle a desperate moan. You couldn't answer him if you tried.

Tom's eyes roam over your face, not willing to miss a thing. "Use your words...tell me what you need..."

The sensation against your clit intensifies further, as if dancing to the rhythm of his words. You can feel his gaze boring into you as the heat between your thighs surges, and you realize you're on the brink of climax. And Tom knows it.

"Fuck..." your hips twitch involuntarily—torn between craving more friction and fleeing from it—your mind a whirlwind of uncertainty. Tom brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, his gaze fixed on his own movements, and you feel yourself unraveling, succumbing to the scorching intensity of his eyes—two dark pools of permanent ink. "Tom...please..."

His grip tightens. His jaw clenches. "Say it."

Shame courses through your veins, searing your skin like molten lava, the prickling sensation drowning you. You're on the verge of climaxing from an enchanted carpet, a manifestation of his spell, and the humiliation threatens to consume you.

"I need you-" you gasp, the words tumbling from your lips in a pitiful plea, desperation sinking its claws into your soul. So close...too close. "Please—please, I—I don't want to cum from this—I..."

Oh, but you do. You most certainly fucking do though the mere thought of admitting it feels like a dagger twisting in your gut. Tom's eyes glint with amusement, his head cocked slightly as he regards you with a faux expression of pity, as artificial as the plastic plants in the common room.

"I've truly made a mess of you, haven't I?" His hand glides down from your face, tracing a path along your neck, lightly grazing over your collarbone. "Tell me what you want from me."

Gods, you ache to strike him—yet crave to kiss him and cry out his name with equal fervour. Your defiance lies shattered, a broken relic at your feet.

You peer up at him, pleading. "Please, Tom, please touch me—I need you..."

A smirk toys at his lips, his fingers slipping under your jaw once more to hold you steady as he leans in closer.

"Touch you?" His voice is like a loaded gun, his fingers the bullets—intent cocked and ready to annihilate, but instead he taunts you, keeps you on edge, pressing the barrel against your temple just to see the look in your eyes. "You want me, the man you so madly fucking detest, to touch you."

You lack the strength to command him to go to hell, but oh, how you wish you did. Just to witness his reaction, to see what he’d do next. Despite his appalling self-assurance, you can see behind the mask—see how he is genuinely taken aback by your submission, as though he never expected you to surrender, to confess your desire for him.

"Tom, please..." you beg, trembling with anticipation, your impending climax a rapidly swelling tide. "I want you...I want you to make me cum—you-you win."

Tom pulls back from your ear to regard you, his gaze fully focused this time. He takes in the sight of you—trembling, panting, wide-eyed before him—his expression conveying complete contentment in simply observing you as you struggle to persuade him to touch you.

That familiar taunting grin lingers upon his lips, uncontainable, and you know he's relishing this moment far too much.

"I know," he says softly, his thumb tracing your jawline as his hand falls to your neck. "I always do, don't I, little doll..."

His voice drifts over you like smoke, thick and intoxicating, wrapping around you in a dizzying embrace. The intensity of the charm wavers slightly, granting you a momentary reprieve to catch your breath as Tom leans in, so close that you can feel his exhales caressing your lips. Your head spins, every sense overwhelmed by his presence.

"But you deserve this—" he continues, his voice a rumble like thunder through your veins. "—you deserve to be humiliated like this, to break for me without my hands ever touching you." His mouth hovers just millimeters from yours, taunting you with its nearness. "This is your punishment, little doll...and you're going to take it."

The pleasure between your thighs swells once more as the charm resumes its sinuous movements and you can't suppress the moan that escapes your lips, mingling with the groan of utter frustration. All you can do is stare at him.

Tom hums, amused. "Because you revel in it, don't you? Being a little disobedient brat..."

Your eyes glaze over, your pulse soaring as Tom's breath once again brushes against your parted lips. The ache for him is almost unbearable, as if he's injected something into your veins, rendering you unable to function without him. It's maddening, in the most exquisite way imaginable.

"You're-ohh-fuck.." your voice comes out as a moan, low and breathy, the words trailing off as the charm adds pressure to your clit, stars dancing at the edges of your vision. "Gods..."

"There we go, just as I like you,” he murmurs, his fingers tracing over your jaw. "Unable to unleash that pretty little mouth. Perfectly shattered for me."

You clench around nothing, yearning to scoff. "Mmmf—never..."

Tom chuckles at your feeble attempt at defiance, though the sound carries a hollow, half-hearted quality. You both know you've passed the point of return. His fingers trace along the edge of your jaw, until his palm cradles your face, his thumb brushing gently across your lips.

"Is that so?" He murmurs softly, his dark eyes locked onto yours. "Well then, go ahead...let that pretty mouth run wild...prove that your defiance is more than just an act..."

The way he wields his power has you teetering on the brink of madness, and you despise the fact that you've revelled in every torturous moment of it. You long to snap back, to wield your tongue, to curse him—anything to grasp onto even a shred of control. But every fucking word is a struggle, every moment not focused on your breathing is an achievement.

You squeeze your eyes shut, channeling all the energy you have left. "You...you're such an...arrogant—mmf—I...I hate you..."

"Mhm. You hate me." He cooes. "And yet, here you are..." his voice is as soft as feathers, as warm as the morning sun, the unmistakable taunt laced within. His thumb presses against your bottom lip, slipping between your teeth. "...falling apart for a mere spell, begging for me, for my touch..."

You feel Tom's thumb pressing against your tongue as you whimper. You attempt to speak, to convey something, but instead, you find yourself instinctively sucking lightly against his thumb in response.

"Mm." Tom's brow lifts slightly, amusement dancing in his eyes. He seems pleased with your reaction. "A much better use for that mouth."

You're beyond caring about the way he's taunting you, how he's systematically humiliated and debased you, stripping away every ounce of defiance without ever even touching your skin. Tremors wrack your body from the overwhelming sensations, rendering coherent thought nearly impossible.

Your head lolls to the side, constrained by his hand, as waves of pleasure crash over you, your climax approaching rapidly and dangerously.

"Fuck-I'm..." you manage to squeak, his thumb still nestled in your mouth. "Mmmf-"

Tom's eyes darken with satisfaction as he watches you unravel, his thumb pressing deeper into your mouth, a silent command for you to keep sucking. The enchantment continues its relentless assault—tightening around you, swirling over your clit and amplifying the pleasure until it's almost unbearable.

"Go on," he murmurs, his voice a blend of silk and steel. "Let go for me. Show me just how much you need this."

Your body trembles violently, your muscles tensing as the climax rips through you. You can't hold back the moan that escapes around his thumb, your entire being consumed by the intensity of the release that you've desperately fought off for so long. Tom's grip on your jaw tightens, keeping you in place, ensuring you can't escape the exquisite torment he's orchestrated.

"There it is," he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. "Perfectly broken, just for me."

Your eyes are squeezed shut so tightly it's almost painful, his thumb buried in your mouth muffling any sounds of pleasure that threaten to escape. The evidence of your desire pools between your thighs, your embarrassment stripping you raw as you slowly begin to return to reality, the spell gradually losing its grip around you.

You struggle to find your breath, your thoughts, your sanity, but Tom doesn't grant you much reprieve before he's tugging your head back towards his, forcing you to focus on him.

"You should see yourself." He withdraws his thumb from your mouth, trailing the remnants of saliva over your cheek as he assesses you. "You're a vision."

You try to summon the strength to argue, to reclaim some semblance of defiance, but the attempt dies in your throat, unable to comprehend the fact that those words sounded like a fucking compliment. Your body is trembling with the aftershocks of your climax, and you can only manage a soft whimper. He looks at you as if you are his masterpiece, perfectly crafted and beautifully ruined.

"Remember this, little snake," he whispers, his breath ghosting over your lips. "Remember how easily I can break you. How much you crave it."

You exhale slowly as you feel the charm dissipate, the carpet settling back into its rightful place at your feet. Tom's hand falls away from your face, but the tension between you remains palpable, neither of you daring to make a move.

"And as for the book," he adds, his eyes flashing to the bookshelf behind you, the one home to the Occlumency text you borrowed. "You may want to keep it. You're not nearly as skilled as you think you are."

And with that, he smooths out his uniform and strides past you without a second glance.

thank you to my babies @doremimosasol and @pizzaapeteer for proofreading this. means the world to me🖤

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shiny-jr · 6 months

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➸ damnation [ the raven retainer ]

– Summary: When you commit a crime, you receive a punishment. This is especially true in your society. No matter the crime, your punishment is the same: banishment. But to where you will be sent in exile and how miserable will it be? No one knows, because no one has ever returned.

– Warning: Yes, this is a yandere thing. Gender-neutral reader.

– Characters: Epel Felmier, Rook Hunt, Vil Schoenheit.

– Note: Hopefully everything transferred over okay from the quiz. Been holding off on this one because I know with the amount of Pomefiore and Vil admirers, posting this is like lighting up a firework by hand and having to run before it goes off.

– Pages: 42

– Not satisfied? Try looking here for the quiz to take it yourself and see where you end up banished!

The Vizier's Vassal | The Raven Retainer | ?????

A dark robe. Wrapped around your shoulders was a black cloak, like wings folded in. Speaking of feathered appendages, there was a single shiny feather tucked behind your ear. You had felt it tickling your earlobe, leading you to pluck it out of your hair to examine it. It was long and black, huge in size, making you imagine it came from a beast of a raven. Slowly you looked up, confused to find yourself at a desk surrounded by books, bottles of odd colorful liquids, and there was even a cauldron in the corner of the stone wall!

Returning your attention back to the feather, you were perplexed but quite liked it so you placed it back behind your ear where you had originally discovered it. Upon standing from the wooden chair, you noticed your change of outfit. A simple white ruffled shirt and black pants, although nearly every inch of you was covered by the black cloak on your back that reached all the way to your ankle and draped around you like a curtain. Lifting up the cloak, you could feel a short sword strapped safely and securely in a hilt on your back hidden away from sight. What was this place…? Why were you dressed like this? Why did you have a sword? What was going on? Was this your punishment?

Just then, your eyes drifted over to a book stand where a heavy leather tome sat open to prying eyes. Your prying eyes, to be exact. Curiously you stepped toward it, your fingers ghosting over the crisp pages of the aged book as you squinted incredulously at the words printed on the surface in a large font, occasionally dotted with red ink. “Poison apple…?” Beside it was the painted image of a ripe red apple, and in its shining reflective skin was the distinct shape of a skull. “One taste of the poisoned apple and the victim’s eyes will close forever in the sleeping death.”

But that… that was from a fairytale! The story of Snow White and the Beautiful Queen! A page about a poisoned apple, the tome, this basement filled with ingredients and suspicious concoctions… So it was true, criminals were often sent to dangerous tales where they would perish. And you... you were a criminal and you were here, but... what role did you play? Lifting your hand up to your ear, you suddenly felt the familiar soft sensation of the black feather accessory and realization dawned on you. Didn’t the queen have a pet raven…? Could that explain why you were here in these strange but fancy clothes? Of all things, why did you have to be the raven?

How did the story go again? The Queen was vain and wicked, she wished to be the most beautiful of all. It was said that she consulted her magic mirror every day and would inquire as to who the fairest of them all was. Should the mirror ever reply with another’s name instead of hers, she would find a way to kill her rival and would only be satisfied once the mirror answered her name. So when her step-daughter, Snow White, grows to become the fairest of them all, the Queen goes mad with jealousy and has a huntsman attempt to kill her. When that fails, the Queen takes matters into her own hands, eventually turning herself ugly as a disguise and even causing her own untimely demise by falling off a cliff and being crushed by a boulder, her remains left as feed for hungry vultures. That was the Queen, but what about the raven? Well, it’s never disclosed as to what happens to the bird, at least to your knowledge. The last the raven is seen, it was being tormented by the wicked Queen as she was creating the poisoned apple. Actually, maybe being the raven wasn’t so bad afterall… At least it didn’t perish or receive some other horrible ending.

Knowing this brought you some much needed relief. At least you didn’t end up as the raven in that other story about a sleeping princess. That raven was turned to stone! You pity any poor sucker that might’ve ended up in that position. This outcome was adequate, for now. Perhaps it was best to venture outside, to attempt to find this beautiful queen. To be honest, it was a little exciting. You had always wondered how beautiful she was, since the novels always claimed they could never do her justice. But that's besides the point. Once meeting her, you then had to decide what your next move would be.

Keeping all that in mind, you climbed the spiraling stone staircases just barely lit by candles. You winced whenever you heard the squeak of a rat or spotted a rotting corpse of a forgotten prisoner still in chains. Quickening your pace until you reached a wooden door, and stepped into the sunlight. It was warm and delightful, the sun’s rays shining on your skin. You felt free. As of now, this was far from punishment. But knowing that you were sent here to be punished or even die, was what kept you from being completely at ease. You could almost just relax here in the calm and beauty of this garden–– key word, almost. Shrieking and many voices shattered your temporary peace, even scaring away the white doves that had flocked in the open courtyard.

Grumbling, you followed the sound of the commotion. It sounded like it was coming from over the high palace walls. There was one portion of the wall that was shorter than the rest, if you climbed onto the smooth edges of the railing by the stone steps, you could successfully scale onto the top of the wall where you decided to lounge about and spectate the action. On the other side of the wall, you could see a young man getting closer and closer, nervously waving at a large group giggling and following him. It was obvious that he was a little uncomfortable, and that he was trying to lose them without hurting their feelings by how he continued to smile even as he picked up the pace.

When his eyes landed on you, he appeared surprised, and as he walked the path he was getting closer and closer. Feeling pity for the lad, you sighed and stretched your arm down, to which he hesitated a moment before finally deciding to place his hand in yours. You heaved him up and slid down to the safe side of the wall, the palace side, just before his apparent fans could catch him. Their whining and complaining was amusing.

“Thank you…! You saved me!”

Oh, right, he was still here. You glanced over at the young man peering happily up at you with the brightest smile on his lips. Your eyebrows furrowed as you slowly began to notice his features. Hair black as ebony, skin white as snow, dressed head-to-toe in rags… No way––

“Ah, I know you!” He exclaimed, delighted as he took a step closer. “You’re my elder brother’s attendant! I’ve seen you around the palace countless times. You are always working so hard that I’ve never gotten a chance to properly meet you! Of course you may already know but my name is Neige, it’s truly so wonderful to finally talk like this with you!” He performed a small but polite bow. Such manners for a prince in rags. “I never knew you were so kind! Is there any way I can repay you?”

“Ah, no, there’s no need for that…” You studied his face, attempting to make sense of it all. If this Neige was Snow White, it did make total sense. His skin was flawless, it looked like a marshmallow, so pristine but soft. He was cherubic. His beauty was more of a one of innocence and cuteness, and it seemed the townsfolk noticed his looks judging by how they focused on his physical features instead of his worn and tattered attire. You force your gaze away. This was the prince who the Queen would try to kill. But there’s a chance it may be King in this version, because you’re fairly certain that Neige had just mentioned something about having an elder brother that you apparently worked for. “It was nothing.”

“Please, don’t be so modest! Your actions were selfless and heroic. Had it not been for you, I’m afraid I would’ve been stuck outside all day with no choice other than to interact with all those that followed me. And I couldn’t have that! I promised my brother that I would do my chores.” A sad frown appeared on his face as his gaze traveled back over to the wall, “Although I do regret having just left them without so much as a goodbye…”

So he was kind… Makes sense. Most princesses, or prince in this case, were kind-hearted souls that were far too naive or trusting and had the strangest ability to communicate with woodland creatures. However that last part worked, you weren’t entirely sure.

“The doves of the courtyard gathered by the well with me this morning! And we all made a wish! I, well… It's a bit embarrassing, but I wished for something truly special. And I believe that my wish may have come true!” A pretty pink blush made his cheeks rosy as he clasped his hands together, looking so truly content as he peered up at you.

“Is that so…?” Well, magical animal talking ability, check that off the list. He really was like the princess from the fairytale. But you didn’t like where this was going. You outgrew fairytales a long time ago, but when you read something so fantastical and magical in your innocent imaginative youth, it sticks with you. Perhaps that was a good thing, because even now you could recall the small details of the story.

In the beginning of the story, Snow White is cleaning the courtyard when she meets the doves at the well where she makes a wish to meet her true love. Not too long after, the prince appears on horseback, hearing the princess’ song that leads him to climb over the palace walls to get to her. When you got older, you quickly realized how creepy that actually was. The prince crept up on her, and essentially trespassed on private palace grounds. But that’s besides the point right now. The point is, Snow White made a wish to meet her true love which happened to be the prince. Well, right now, you have yet to see another so-called dashing prince or princess. There was just the courtyard and you were alone with Neige, and he was gazing up at you through his lashes and with a pretty smile that appeared too fondly. The Queen, or King, really needed to stop cooping up Prince Neige within the palace walls. It was dulling his sense towards social cues and common sense.

“Hey! What the hell are you doin’...?!”

Surprised at the sudden presence beside you, you looked to see another stranger. This one you couldn’t automatically connect to a role. It was a short young man with a cuteness that could possibly even rival the prince. He had such wide blue eyes and odd soft lavender curls that framed his face. Unlike you and Prince Neige, his outfit was of much finer detail which consisted of a white tunic and long dark blue sleeves from the shirt he wore underneath. A red cloak was draped over the shoulders of his small frame, the ends brushing against his simple pants and boots. But despite his fine clothing and adorable appearance, he spoke with such brashness, irked for whatever reason.

“Ah, you must be Epel! My brother speaks often about you! He says he sees great potential in you!” Neige interjected, oblivious to this Epel fellow’s irritation. Epel… the name didn’t ring a bell. You could accurately deduce what Neige’s role was based on his appearance and the fact that his name meant snow in French. But you still had no idea who Epel was supposed to be. Again, Neige bowed his head in polite greeting as he exclaimed, “Today must be my lucky day! Not only have I met you now, Epel, but I’ve also met–– Um…” He paused, turning to you and inquiring softly, “I’m sorry, I’m so excited that I’ve forgotten to ask your name.”

The lavender-haired boy quickly snatched your attention away from the prince, grabbing your cloak where your arm would be as he hissed in a whisper so as to not involve Neige. “Are you crazy? Talkin’ to the prince…! Vil is gonna fly off the handle!” Not-so-discreetly gesturing to the window right above them with his eyes darting to it and back to you, but not moving his head, so as to not alert the onlooker behind the glass.

You froze, not moving your head but your eyes moved up to where Epel had been glancing at. Out of the corner of your eyes, you could just barely make out a tall and thin figure in purple standing at the large window, holding the red curtains open with both hands. They were watching, and just as you moved your head the tiniest bit to get a better look, you only caught a glimpse of a deep angered frown before the curtains were abruptly shut, barring you from seeing anymore. That could’ve only been the beautiful royal, the monarch in charge that sees Prince Neige as a rival. When you looked back at Neige, he was still smiling at you with his hands folded in front of him, patiently awaiting an answer. Poor guy doesn’t know what’s coming.

“We gotta go, or Rook is gonna drag us back himself…!” Without even waiting for you to give Neige your name, Epel took your hand and ran like a bat out of hell. Making a beeline straight for an entrance to the palace, you attempted to keep up with him. He was surprisingly strong for someone so small.

Behind you, you heard, “W-Wait, I never got your name…!”

Well, that’s a crying shame. Focusing your attention on where you were heading, you began to lose track of all the twists and turns within these palace walls. Epel led you forward, he certainly knew where he was going. But you? You hadn’t a clue. That is, until after a few minutes, you arrived at a long hall where at the very end there were double doors already opened. The few soldiers standing guard paid no mind to you and the lavender-haired fellow, probably because in their eyes, you belonged here. And yet that couldn’t be further from the truth.

You felt so incredibly out of place as you stood on the lengthy blue carpet that stretched forward toward a small yet intricately designed throne of gold and jewels formed in the shape of a magnificent peacock with its feathers fanned out. But what was more entrancing than the priceless throne, was the person sitting atop it. Oh, how the novels did not lie, they truly could not do the monarch any justice in portraying their beauty. The King, who must’ve been Vil, could’ve been a world-famous model. His face looked like those perfect sculpted marble statues, it was the type of look that would incur the envious wrath of gods and goddesses in mythology. There was not a single blemish or flaw. Not even a single hair of his golden locks fading into lavender was out of place. The long purple robes under the longer black cloak flowing down his body, complimented the color of his amethyst eyes. Those eyes looked even more shiny than the golden crown perched atop his skull. You weren’t a simp but wow.

The King appeared less than pleased, it actually made you incredibly nervous when he bore a frown and silently beckoned you closer with a single curling movement of his index finger.

Walking past Epel who stood by the door, you took a deep breath as you recounted what knowledge you had on etiquette during this time period. Once you were a few feet in front of him, you began to kneel, when he spoke it caused you to freeze.

“Don’t.” Intense gaze glued to your form, he watched you carefully as he instructed, “Come closer.”

You slowly stepped forward, closer to him.

“Closer.”

Hesitating, you took another step so one foot was on the step in front of his throne.

“Closer.”

Pausing, you inched forward, now standing on the same elevation as the throne. Now you were just centimeters away from him, and it was putting you on edge. When he appeared seemingly satisfied, that’s when you finally kneeled in front of him. With a bowed head, a common sign of respect in customs with monarchies, you greeted simply, “Your Majesty.”

The King peered down at you, silent for a moment as you kept your head down and eyes glued to the ends of his purple robes and how his black cloak that matched yours, but his was much longer, pooled around his throne to look like a black void. After a few moments, you felt his hand at your chin, his slim fingers urging you to look up. When you did, he hummed, “Well, my lovely pet, have you had your fun with my little step-brother?” He gave a question, but it became obvious that he didn’t want an answer. At least not yet. This king must not be too fond of the prince. As his thumb stroked your chin and raised it so your head was almost at his knee, he continued slowly while gazing down at you, “You know that I loathe sharing, don’t you? So why would I share you with my step-brother, hm? Have you perhaps… begun to favor him over me?”

It struck you then that the royal must be an extremely envious person. Not only did they want to remain first in standing when it came to beauty, but he also wanted to monopolize people’s attention so that they may focus on him. Replying carefully, you spoke while keeping your eyes glued to his enchanting yet intimidating gaze, “Of course not, Your Majesty. It was merely a coincidence that I encountered him. I cannot be as easily swayed as the masses.” For a moment you hesitated, seeing that he seemed unconvinced as you proceeded, “... My loyalty to you cannot be broken by a prince in rags.”

After a few moments, the tension in the air evaporated as the king graced you with a smile that made your breath hitch. You had said the right thing. Tempted to glance at Epel for a possible clue on what to do next, you refrained and instead remained still as a statue when the king reached forward with his other hand to remove your hood. “Let me see your face, my retainer.” As soon as the hood was removed, he examined your face in the light. It took an incredible amount of calm to keep composed and not squirm in place under his intense scrutinizing gaze. Finally, he frowned and sighed, “I’ve been keeping you confined beneath the castle for far too long. You’re beginning to look ghastly, and I can’t be seen with someone beside me that’s less than appealing to look at.” Removing his hands from your face, he motioned for you to stand, which you did. “You’ve done enough. Getting rid of our guests and covering it up must’ve been challenging, especially for you to do it all on your own. This time, Rook will take over while you will be receiving enough sunlight to revitalize your complexion. Do not overdo it. Rook.”

Guests? Cover up? This wasn’t in the story. There wasn’t any time to fully process what you heard before you detected yet another voice just right beside your ear.

“Good day, petit corbeau!” You felt your soul leave your body for a single second when these words were said beside your ear by a voice, an extremely close and unfamiliar voice. When you jumped, startled, you noticed there was another young man literally only an inch behind you. When did he even get there? You didn’t even notice him until now! When you stepped to the side out of the way, you furrowed your eyebrows at his smile.

The young man was blonde, with hair styled into a ridiculous looking bob-cut but he somehow made it work as he wore a wide-brimmed brown hat with a black feather. Over his shoulders and back he wore a large hunter green cloth that wrapped around his shoulders like a scarf and extended over his back like a small cloak. Underneath, concealed by the cloth, was a dark tunic and black pants with a belt and knife at his hip. However, what unnerved you wasn’t the knife at his hip or the bow and quiver chock full of arrows on his back. It was his eyes.

His forest green eyes were glued to you, and he bore a wide and charming smile. “Ah, to see you without your hood and out of the undercroft, what a rare sight! Marvelous! I must thank you, Your Majesty, for making this possible! It is not everyday we see your dutiful, striking, mysterious little raven. It is truly a spectacle to behold! I will treasure this rare moment where I’ve not only heard you speak, but have seen your visage without being shrouded by shadows and concealed by your hood!”

You did not like this. The way he was looking at you as he spoke so dramatically made a shiver crawl up your spine. Yes, he spoke nothing but praise in such an honest tone and declaration, but there was something in his eyes. Something that placed you on edge as his smile turned slightly ominous and his eyes narrowed at you. There was a twinkle in his green eyes as he tilted his head at you inquisitively, as if sensing your unease without you even saying a word. This had to be the Rook fellow that Epel mentioned offhandedly, and now it made sense as to why he ran back so quickly just to avoid encountering him.

Much to your relief, Vil sighed and interjected without even standing from his throne. Furrowing his eyebrows, he scolded in an irked tone, “I didn’t summon you to pester my little retainer, Rook. Stress from you is not what my retainer needs right now. It causes wrinkles.”

“Apologies, Your Majesty.” Rook chuckled, obediently turning to fully face the royal as you stood stiffly beside him, keeping a safe distance between you two.

Behind you, out of the corner of your eye, you could see Epel quietly closing the doors once Vil gestured for him to do so. It seemed the king wanted privacy, he wished to say something not even the guards outside the thick wooden doors were allowed to hear. The only ones that would be witnesses to his words were you, Epel, and Rook. You had to wonder what was so secretive that he didn’t even want his soldiers stationed outside to hear, and why were you allowed to hear? Was it because you were supposedly in the role of his trusted retainer? Maybe it had something to do with that cover-up he mentioned just a short time ago.

The tension in the room was thick, it disturbed you and you can tell it bothered the short purple-haired young man too if his growing perturbed frown was anything to go by. Despite this, he took up the space beside you. The blonde with the bow, Rook, who you now were assuming to be a huntsman if his attire and weapons were any giveaway, continued to smile without much of a care. Rook was on the left, Epel was on the right, and you were in the center, and still on his throne was King Vil. With luck, you’ll be able to keep up this act. It wouldn’t do for a retainer to fail. It might cost you and be the slip-up that would put an end to this charade of survival.

“I’ve decided. Rook, the duties I normally give to my retainer will be passed onto you today. You’re much more suited for this job. It involves my little step-brother, Neige.” The way he said the prince’s name made it sound like it pained him just to utter it, like it burned his tongue just to mention him. But he continued. “It seems he’s been working hard at completing his chores, hm? He’s been begging for a day out, and he adores flowers so… Rook, you will take him far into the woods, a secluded meadow where he can pick as many wildflowers as his little heart desires.”

Once you processed his words, you froze. It dawned on you that it was happening, this was the moment in the story when the beautiful queen commanded her huntsman to murder the princess in the woods. Vil must’ve already consulted the magic mirror and was told that he was no longer the fairest in all the land. That title now officially belonged to Neige, but it wouldn’t for long if the king had anything to say about it.

The other two loyal and trusted by the king had no idea, as Epel appeared vaguely bored and disinterested while Rook seemed elated. “Of course! I’ll see to it that it is done, Your Majesty––!”

“I’m not finished.” Vil interrupted, frowning tersely as his gaze turned cold. Tapping his well-manicured nails against the armrest of his throne, his eyes narrowed and he leaned an inch forward while instructing, “There, you will kill him.”

The shock was immediately evident on the face of the two beside you. Epel, who had been quiet throughout this entire exchange, finally broke his silence with a small gasp as he moved to cover his mouth with one hand. But it was too late, everyone had already heard him and seen his stunned expression. And yet, no one seemed to really care. Everyone was far too engrossed in what was just said by the king.

Rook appeared just as confounded before disbelief took root, as if he didn’t even wish to believe his own two ears. Removing his hat, he held it to his chest and lowered his head respectfully as he placed a hesitant foot forward. “Your Majesty, our beautiful and lovely Vil, you can’t possibly mean–– our prince Neige…!”

“Silence!” Immediately standing from his seat, he scowled, the prince’s name only making his rage more bitter. And then, he said something unexpected, something off script and never in the story. Gesturing to you, he hissed, “My loyal retainer here could make six souls vanish without a trace, why can’t you do it with one mere prince? Must they do everything? Must I have to dirty my own hands? Hm?”

Lowering his head further, the huntsman replied quietly, somberly, his smile now gone. “Of course not, Your Majesty. Your delicate hands aren’t meant to be soiled…” It’s as you suspected. Rook stayed alive and was one of Vil’s closest servants because he was witty enough to think of something on the spot that was complimentary enough to appease the bitter royal. At least, that’s what it seemed like at the moment. For now, you were grateful you weren’t him. Some people who read the story of Snow White liked to theorize that the huntsman was murdered by the vicious queen for failing to assassinate the princess.

Vil was quiet, not completely calm judging by his sneer but he was composed enough not to say anything more. Standing tall, his gaze honed in on you and Epel, to which he spoke, “My loyal, diligent retainer, escort my successor out. I need to have a word with Rook, privately.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” You replied hastily with a slow bow. He didn’t need to tell you twice. Just from your few moments here, you can already tell that the king was frightening when vexed, and you did not want to stick around to see if that got worse when he spoke privately with his huntsman. And yet, as you turned tail to retreat back into the hallway past the closed doors, you knew the heir he mentioned could have only been the only other person in the room: Epel.

Epel, much like you, didn’t seem to have any desire to stick around longer than necessary. Once you and the heir were out and the doors were closed shut, simultaneously you both heaved a sigh of relief, although short and brief as the heavy weight of the king's command was still prominent. There must’ve been even more on the young heir’s mind, because his gaze flittered over to you and he began to eye you suspiciously. With a surprising amount of strength for someone of his short stature and delicate appearance, he grabbed your arm and began to drag you down the halls away from the throne room, soldiers standing guards, and anyone else. Until you were in a different setting, by one of the castle’s exits to a dark backside corner of the garden where there was just one big oak tree that provided shade underneath its huge branches. What was this about? Why did he bring you here?

Those questions were answered when he finally stopped underneath the tree and let go of your limb, only to whip his head back at you with such an angered expression that caught you off guard. The location now seemed like some place he could yell in frustration without being caught, because it was so quiet and isolated here. “That entire time, when that crazy old goon with that stupid metal crown basically kidnapped me from my home and brought me here for his little contest I wanted no part of, you knew he’d want the losers dead, didn’t you?! Hell, you helped him get rid of the bodies! I trustedyou, you big fat lying s––!”

Quickly clamping your right hand over his mouth to shut him up, you stared at him as he gazed at you wide-eyed, as if shocked you’d even try to stop him. It dawned on you then. “You don’t want to be here, do you?” Just then, you felt a sharp pain in your palm. Hissing, you immediately retracted your hand, shocked to see some broken skin and feel it sting. He just bit you––!

Epel spat onto the ground, infuriated as he yelled, “Are you daft? All that time in the undercroft made your brain rot or something?” An idea came to him. Still angry, but brightening up substantially, he lifted his head and glared at you. “Rook’s busy with Vil, and if I beat you there’d be no one to take me back to that stuffy prison of a room.” From his hip, he unsheathed a dagger and pointed it at you. “Out of my way, or I’ll make sure you join the rest of those duds you buried!”

Removing your own weapon, the short sword from your back, that you thankfully were still carrying and was larger than his own blade, you pointed it at him. “You were saying, Epel, was it?” Seeing his confident expression falter, you decided to add quickly just in case he tried to act recklessly and try attacking you with his dagger anyways. “I’ll tell you this because it seems we both want to live and I believe we might be able to help each other get what we want. So let’s get something straight, I am not the retainer you know.”

You gave him a moment to process what you said as you both lowered your weapons. In the quiet of the brief moment, you listened for any sign of prying ears but there was none. Upon seeing Epel’s confusion and suspicion with his guard still raised, you continued,

“It’s unbelievable, I know, but I’m not the same person. Where I come from, this place is a lot like a fairytale story but different. I was arrested back home and sent here as punishment. This means my punishment was to take the role of the pet or servant of the royal and face some unknown demise. Now, from what I’ve picked up, it sounds like you’re here against your will too. Both of us might end up dead if we’re not careful.”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of Epel watching you closely and deciding on what to do, he lowered his dagger completely after he saw you lower yours. “That sounds like a load of crap but… the real retainer would know better than to talk to Neige of all people. You didn’t, which explains that.” Maybe he wasn’t entirely convinced by your narrative, because he proceeded to ask, “You said this was like some kid’s story you read once or somethin’? Tell me what happens to me.”

“That’s the issue. It’s an old story that doesn’t go into detail, you weren’t even a character and my role is just a raven.” Placing away your sword that you handled a bit awkwardly, since you really had no idea how to use it, but the heir didn’t seem to notice that as he placed away his own weapon. “From what I got, you were brought here against your will and there were others that are no longer here. Now, you’re the royal heir. Care to explain?”

Raising an eyebrow, Epel demanded, “If I tell you, you have to promise to tell me something. You know what’s gonna happen, don’t you?”

“I do.” Nodding at his words in confirmation, you then answered, “Of course I’ll tell you since we’re helping each other out.”

After a second, he sighed, “Fine. I’ll trust you, but only because you’re not really the retainer. Ya see, I’m from a small farming town near the borderlands. A few months ago, Vil gave a secret proclamation. He wanted the seven of the most beautiful candidates gathered at his castle, status or talent didn’t matter, as long as they were younger than him and had looks up to his high standards. Rook, you met him already, was in charge of finding these candidates and bringing them in whether they liked it or not, and you, or well… the old retainer, were in charge of taking the loser home whenever someone failed one of Vil’s challenges. At least, that’s what they told us. My guess is that the king doesn’t want his little brother to inherit the throne since he’s so jealous and all. All the candidates had a chance to become the next in line for the throne if they won all the challenges, and if they lost they got to go home. But no matter how hard I tried to lose, you kept me from losing so I guess I owe the old retainer for that because without them I’d be… probably lying face-down in a ditch somewhere.”

Slowly he shrugged, those words he uttered now being processed in his mind. It seemed to have struck him, because he became quiet.

“... I was the last one standing, even though I didn’t wanna be. Ever since then, I’ve been stuck here, forced to spend my days with strict lessons being taught by Vil. All my escape attempts were stopped by Rook, of course, that crazy loon…” Gazing up at you, he slowly regained his confidence and nodded, “But now, I’m gonna escape for sure this time and go back home! Screw the crown and these dumb silk clothes!”

“Easy, Epel, for now we just do as we’re told. I don’t want things to get too out of hand if it isn’t necessary. In the original story, the queen, king in this situation, causes his own death. As long as we avoid angering him AND avoid Neige, we should be fine. But…” You considered your next words carefully. What if something goes wrong? What if things had to change drastically in order to survive? Would you have a better chance at surviving if the protagonist, Neige, were to actually die and the antagonist, Vil, receive a good ending instead? You didn’t truly want to kill the prince, even if he was naive, he seemed like a truly good person. But if it was you or him… “I still need to see how things play out. If it comes down to it and things take a wrong turn, how far will you go to survive?”

Epel gave you a look before scoffing and taking out his dagger as a reminder, “I was about ready to stab ya just to escape and get back home. I’ll do anything to make it outta here alive, to make sure both of us live. But now since you’re helping me out, and I’m helping you out, we gotta stick together. Got it?”

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

For your own safety, you deemed it better to do nothing in the meanwhile as you waited to see if the plot would progress as it did in the story. What you hadn’t taken into account was how long the wait would be. Apparently when Vil instructed Rook to escort Neige out to be discreetly killed, he didn’t mean right at that second. It was something he had planned to happen soon, but not quite yet. This gave you enough time to assess the situation.

One thing you were grateful for was the former retainer’s work ethic. The beautiful king had deemed you had done enough by assisting in his endeavors that included potion-brewing and murder, something you hadn’t actually done, at least not for him. So, your responsibilities included keeping Epel in check as a prince-in-training and staying out to receive enough sunlight as per Vil’s strict orders.

For the remainder of the first day and the following second day, you and Epel reviewed the lessons he loathed and quietly retreated to garden grooves to discuss possible plans of action including what to do afterwards when you had both gained your freedom. Additionally, you learned from the heir that you were not so different from the character you replaced. Even Epel admitted he was fooled until that one mistake you made of acknowledging Neige. So, all you would have to do was keep calm and be yourself, but also not yourself. You were technically playing the role of someone else that just happened to act like you.

Your superior had summoned you on the second night. When you arrived, you saw servants around the ballroom decorating the area with fine silk curtains and candelabras. Round tables set up in another section of the extensive room, tables set with sheets and porcelain. Vil stood at the edge of the room, noticing you out of the corner of his eyes as another attendant brought to his attention something about outfits.

As Vil began to strut towards another room, you could do nothing but follow as he commanded, “Hurry now, my retainer.”

You did as you were told, following and noting down the little details from the dark colors used in most of the decorations as well as the mention of flowers being prepared. Once in a private room with you and his entourage, he delicately removed his crown from his blonde tresses. “Epel is much more tame with you. I swear, that boy is giving me white hair.”

No, but you’re going to do that to yourself, you think as you recall the scene from the story where the beautiful queen turns herself into a ragged old hag. “He can be… a little troublesome, yes.” You stand closer to the door as the beautiful young man disappears behind an elegantly patterned dressing screen.

Judging by the servants there carefully handling various types of clothes, you could only assume he was trying on different outfits for whatever event he was preparing to host. During a review of Epel’s lessons, you were able to learn as well. Despite Vil being a person of great envy and cruelty, he was actually a fair leader that was beloved by most, so long as they didn’t incur his wrath. Reportedly, multiple nobles, knights, and other royals have vied for the beautiful king’s affection, but to no avail. All were turned down.

“Troublesome, hah, you’re being much too kind. That wouldn’t be my choice of word.” Vil scoffed as he changed behind the screen. Once he was seemingly satisfied with an outfit after throwing multiple aside, he emerged in a slightly long, dark, and exquisite dress-like garb with large sleeves. Snapping his fingers, he stood straight as his eyes lingered on you as he said simply, “Jewels.”

Picking up his meaning, you gingerly plucked the intricate golden necklace a nearby servant was carrying on a pillow and assisted him in placing it on. You steadied your breathing as you noticed that he was watching you carefully. Moving in front of him, you placed the detailed and sharp claw rings on his index finger and ring finger as he raised his hand.

“How is this?”

You took a step back and looked him over when you realized he was speaking to you, not anyone else in the room. You knew what he wanted to hear, but you couldn’t help but think that the evil king was indeed…. “Gorgeous.”

He didn’t respond. Instead, he extended out his arm, the tip of the silver claw he wore on his finger at your neck as you instinctively lifted your chin at his gesture to avoid being poked. You weren’t really sure what he was thinking, and it was making you anxious. Had he seen through you as Epel had? Or perhaps he was cross? There were a million different ways to die in this story. There was a reason you were sent here and that was to meet a cruel end.

“You flatter me, my retainer. I know you don’t sugarcoat words.” Vil tilted his head, analyzing you from another angle as he smiled. Unexpectedly, his soft and pale hand was placed on your cheek. You felt your heart stop, whether from fear or something else, you couldn’t be sure. “You see, proper sunlight and sleep does work miracles. You no longer have those horrid eyebags.” Lowering his hand, his smile was gone as he seemed to recall something. “You’re the only competent and trustworthy person in this entire castle, my pet, besides myself, of course. What would I do without you? Always there for me, even before I ascended to the throne. Even when my father married that awful woman that brought the perfect lovely boy that became my brother and a stain in my life…”

After a moment of considering your response, you replied quietly, “You have always loathed Neige, haven’t you…?” The prince’s sweet words and shy smile instantly came to mind.

Upon detecting your words, you watched his expression sour as he instantly commanded everyone, who were too far and busy to hear anyways, to leave at once. All except you. Now, you remain alone with the king. It seems like you hit a nerve with your words, and you feared what he would do to you now that the two of you were alone.

Vil took a sharp breath before raising his head to meet your eyes. Under his intense gaze, you felt small but you merely swallowed your growing restlessness and kept your lips shut as he began, “I’ve always told you that I do not want you to ever utter his name. I lost the kingdom’s people to him, my friends left me for him, even my own father was beginning to favor him! I refuse to lose you too! If that boy takes one more thing away from me––”

“I’ve stayed this long.” You attempted, interjecting with words that you thought would fit this character you were playing.

“Because I demanded it.” His response caught you by surprise, but what was more unnerving was what came out of his lips next. “Father accepted my request for you to become my retainer, but the woman he married did not. And so, I concocted my very own poison, more lethal than cyanide, and slipped it into her wine. You are here because I wanted you here. Of course, I never revealed that to you until now.” You were given almost no time to process his words as he changed the subject, lifting his hand to admire his silver claw rings and painted nails. “I must admit, I was beginning to become a little concerned with you hardly leaving the undercroft in recent months. I was afraid you had become dull as I kept you to myself, and you know I don’t exactly like dull people by my side. I didn’t want to toss you aside after all we’ve been through together.”

Pursing your lips, reeling from this wave of new information, you murmured, albeit unsurely, “I don’t believe I’m dull… I like to think of myself as interesting.”

Amethyst eyes landed on you, the blonde man scrutinizing you as he gibed with a frown, “Was I asking your opinion or stating mine?”

Staring right at him, your snarky reply is already pouring out before you can even stop it. “Well, are you asking me my opinion…?” It’s silent as his cold gaze instantly lands on you. Shit. You instantly avert your eyes downward and bow your head in apology, knowing you fucked up. This was why you kept everything to yourself. This king poisoned his own step-mother for not giving him what he wanted, he ordered the former retainer to kill six innocent candidates for his competition to become heir, and he was willing to murder his very own brother who admired and loved him. What would he do to a raven with a sharp tongue? Just as possible scenarios begin flashing in your mind and you remain bowing, you clenched your fist, prepared to unsheath your hidden sword under your cloak and fight back if necessary–– when he laughed. Vil laughed.

It wasn’t a mocking one of ridicule, but rather an amused one. Lifting the back of his hand to his lips to partially cover his mouth, his laughing ceased. There was amusement, a wicked and eager look in his eyes as he hummed, “There’s that plucky side of you I missed so dearly!” Smiling, he reached forward, carefully tugging your hood down as he scolded lightly, “What have I said about wearing your hood around me? Especially indoors. Honestly, you never learn. I should strip you of that cloak you always stubbornly refuse to remove, that way you always show your face as you’re told.”

“I apologize, Your Majesty. It won’t happen again…” Unsurely you kept quiet, only offering to change the subject once the king had reached over to trail his fingers along the side of your face. “If I may ask, what’s the occasion? I wasn’t notified of these ongoing preparations.”

“A funeral.” Vil noticed how you went quiet and how your eyes widened. At your reaction, he chuckled, lowering his hand away from your face to tap his sharp finger against his chin. “Why so quiet? Don’t worry, it’s not for you. It’s merely… a preparation in advance.” Oh. You realized who it was for now. The thought of his rival dying seemed to bring the king joy as he smiled so cruelly. How morbid. Then, his attention returned back to you. It seemed he was thinking of something else now once his sights landed on some trashed envelopes in the bin, because his expression had turned to one of mild annoyance. “These suitors from afar are so bothersome. No matter how I refuse their advances, they continue with their gifts and letters filled with flattery, thinking that’ll be enough to win me over. How wrong they are. Love affairs are of no use or any interest to me…”

You gazed at the bin chock full of paper and shattered gifts. Your voice was quiet, but it carried in the silence of the room. “It must be difficult to be so admired…”

“Indeed it is.” Vil nodded, continuing to tap his chin thoughtfully. Those eyes on the trashed envelopes slowly made their way over to you, his slight frown morphing to an amused smile. “Although, perhaps I’ve changed my mind…” Extending his hand, you slowly and unsurely slid your left hand into his palm. Vil stepped closer, so close you could smell his sweet perfume and all you could see was him. You felt like a caged bird, cornered, as he leaned just a tad bit closer and continued to smile. However, now his smile was more teasing, but it felt wicked and dubious, “Once Neige is gone, all that time I spent being tormented and pestered by him, can now be dedicated to you. Lately, I’ve been watching you, and there’s something intriguing about you now. It’s as if you’re no longer so absorbed in your work, like you’re finally seeing me as something more than just your superior. You haven’t been brewing potions of passion in the undercroft, have you?”

By now your face was hot, burning at his implications, by his close proximity, by the look in his eyes that made you think he may genuinely be interested but the tiny voice of reason in the back of your head waving red flags at his notions. When he suspected you were even considering looking away from his intense gaze to avoid eye contact, he squeezed your hands in warning, his nail rings pricking your skin ever so slightly. So you were forced to meet his gaze and reply awkwardly, “Of course not… I’m not you.”

The king cackled, raising the back of his other hand to his lips again. With a tone of confidence, he did not even hesitate to respond, “Oh, you’re funny. My poor pet… I would say you’re bird-brained, but you’re not that.” He leaned his head right beside yours, until his painted lips lingered by your ear. The proximity was making you dizzy. His voice was like honey as he whispered, “I don’t need a potion to win you over––”

“Your Majesty, our wondrous Vil!”

Saved by the huntsman. You resisted the urge to heave a sigh of relief while Vil continued to grip your hands and slowly pull away, his head turned to glare at the one who dared to interrupt the moment he was so engrossed in. It seemed he wanted to say something, but he managed to control himself as he merely hissed, “Speak.”

During the pause, you were able to shift your gaze over to him. The huntsman was at the open window, one foot inside already and hands gripping the sides to heave himself up. Why didn’t he come through the door like a normal person? Wasn’t this room on the second floor?

“I have to remind you of your meeting with your precious heir apparent.” Rook smiled as he fully entered through the window, seemingly paying no heed to the scene he just stumbled upon or the vexation in the king’s tone.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake.” Releasing his hold on your hand, he sent you one last chilling glance. When he leaned closer once again to whisper in your ear, your breath hitched as he purred, “Later.” Once he stepped away, he gave you one last mesmerizing look before exiting the room. Yes, you were thankful you didn’t have to deal with the king until next time, but now you pitied Epel for having to stand his presence for hours of lecturing and scolding.

Once the king was gone, you felt vulnerable. While he was pushing you on the edge with his advances and you knew any sign of rejection might tick him off, it was a different kind of unease now that you were alone with the huntsman who you eyed warily. By the time your eyes drifted back to him, you felt your heart rate spike as you noticed he was staring. Upon your gaze meeting his own, he merely smiled a little wider as he hummed.

There was no way you would willingly stick around to be alone with him.

As you slid your hood back on, prepared to take your leave as well, the huntsman’s sharp green eyes landed on the palm of your right hand that was lifted up to move your hood. For a moment, his narrowed gaze vanished and instead was replaced with a quizzical look and a curious smile. Stepping forward, he took your hand in his gloved grip, but he was careful as the tip of his finger traced the now fading injury caused by Epel’s bite. He gasped lightly.

“My, my, what kind of beast could have caused this damage that tarnished your skin? How dare they, for a creature as lovely as you to be wounded like this, why, it should be criminal!”

You hesitate, looking down at the mark that had partially healed on its own. It wasn’t that deep anyways. “Dog.”

Those watchful green eyes flickered up to your expression for a moment, before he chuckled and shook his head. His blonde hair swished back and forth a bit with his head movement, as he removed some gauze from his satchel. There was a hint of amusement that appeared in his smile, and while he wrapped the gauze around your hand, he spoke, “A dog? Ah, I see… But, dogs have much sharper canines that would have cut deeper into the flesh. I’ve hunted an untold amount of wildlife in my time, and encountered nearly every species in the animal kingdom. And this bite mark doesn’t match any creature that comes to mind. It’s truly odd, isn’t it? The shape of the wounds nearly looks like it was formed by something… human.”

He knows. He knows you were lying. You go completely still, allowing him to complete what he was doing. It felt like he was purposefully taking his time in wrapping the gauze securely, as if he were going slowly just to get some sort of reaction. What was his goal? Seeing his eyes on you as he finished the task was unnerving. Could he hear your rapidly increasing heart rate? Was he able to detect the growing alarm you felt?

At your silence, he merely shrugs and finally lowers your hand. That cursed gaze travels away as he says in a near-whisper, “Marks such as those aren’t meant for the hand, they’d do nicely elsewhere though.”

“What?”

“Ah, forgive me, I haven’t apologized for my sudden earlier intrusion between yourself and His Majesty.” Was he seriously going to gloss over what he said as if it were nothing? Now he was back to his positive demeanor. Although his smile was different now, it seemed more harmless, that didn’t do much to place you at ease in the slightest. “It wasn’t my intention to barge in! But I will admit, while the sight was exquisite and it was the very picture of romance, I did feel a twinge of jealousy.”

Did the huntsman like the king like that…? For a moment, your heartbeat steadied as you got a hold of your composure. Honestly, that moment with Vil is probably the first and last you’ll ever get to a romantic moment with a gorgeous person. “Oh, was it because of me?”

You were about to put out a quick and simple apology, but you didn’t get a verbal response. No. Rook only smiled with mirth, his eyes glimmering with amusement appeared to narrow again as he crossed his arms. At his lack of a reply, you feel right on the edge once again, your heart rate picking up immediately again.

“... You were jealous of the situation I was in with His Majesty, right…?”

There was no response yet again. However, the bridge of his nose crinkled slightly as his shoulders shook with the quiet laughter that came out of him. Much like before, he doesn’t answer. Instead, he continues to speak as if this were nothing but mere pleasant conversation. “I must admit, it is always a joy to see you. I must have done something favorable by lady luck, because our paths continue to cross much more frequently. Ah, I’d like to share with you something I experienced. Just a few hours ago, I happened across writing and I could not help but be reminded of your being which remains shrouded in mystery. I believe it went something like…” Rook cleared his throat as he recited somewhat dramatically, “This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing. To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core. Ah, those fiery eyes of yours are exactly what I envisioned in my mind as I read those poem’s lines…! To finally be the one who those focused eyes lay upon––” “Are you done? I’m busy.” You interject, managing to keep an even tone and stoic expression, but it was difficult considering that you just could not relax around the huntsman. You did not forget how he didn’t answer the question about jealousy, which made you nervous as you imagined the possibility that maybe he wasn’t jealous of you with Vil.

Not offended by the curt response, Rook only continued positively. Not only was his reaction, or rather lack of one, very slightly annoying, it was worrying. Most people would have been surprised and maybe even upset by the interruption, but he didn’t appear negatively affected in the slightest. You couldn’t predict his behavior, and that alone was cause for concern. “Forgive me, I’m simply thrilled to finally be holding a proper conversation with you! Normally by now you would have turned heel and walked away, which is why I currently think you are particularly bewitching these past few days. It’s as if the fog around you that you used to cloak your most private secrets and puzzling nature has passed but been replaced by a thicker cloud of fog. You’re an enigma. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

In that moment you held your breath and you felt your blood run cold. Automatically your mind drifted to the weight of the sword on your back. It was heavy, heavier than his dagger and more useful at this proximity than his bow. However, pulling out a sword against him was counterproductive when he was a vital part of the catalyst that sparked the sequence of events that would eventually lead to the story’s ending.

Considering your options, allowing the villains to live and perhaps even assisting them in the end would weigh in your favor. Afterall, you had yet to see any prince or princess for Neige, which meant things were already changing whether you liked it or not. Say a good ending was achieved where the pretty protagonist prince lived happily ever after. What would this get for you? It wouldn’t be the happy ending you knew in the fairytale if there was no royal on horseback to save Neige after he bites the poisoned apple. Should you somehow help him achieve a good ending, then what? Would he live with the seven dwarves in a cottage for the rest of his life or marry and inherit a crown? What could he offer you? On the other hand, Vil already had the crown, wealth, and power. These living conditions were quite nice when you didn’t have much to do, and if you ever felt threatened, running away with a bag stuffed with gold from the treasury would be easy.

Perhaps being the beautiful king’s raven wasn’t so bad, all things considered. This was a hell you may be able to adjust to and accept as your punishment.

“I like when people speak frankly, not in riddles.” You respond calmly, despite the racing of your heart. Responding was a risk, but ignoring his words wasn’t any safer. It made sense as to why he was a hunter, because at the moment you were cornered and he hadn’t so much as removed a single arrow from his quiver.

Rook, again, only smiled ominously. It didn’t feel like he had malicious intent, but you still felt like you were in danger, you still felt threatened. He could, metaphorically speaking, pull the trigger at any second and you would be dead. As if he saw through you and knew all your secrets. All he was doing now was baiting you for another word, another sentence, another phrase, any slightest sound or action that was a slip-up leading to more information falling into the palm of his hands. Maybe that’s why he didn’t respond. Either that, or you were thinking way too deeply and the paranoia was starting to consume your mind. You wanted to believe it was the former and you weren’t quite insane yet.

Finally, he chuckled, amused as he crossed his arms over his chest and peered at you with his forest green eyes. You could only imagine how terrifying he was when he was truly in his element, when he shed formalities and used the weapons strapped to him. “Your eyes speak a million words, and your actions paint a most curious story! Tell me, little raven, what words do you have for me?”

Were you seriously participating unwillingly in this dangerous dance with the very man that served Vil? Rook was his huntsman, he was to hide no secrets from His Majesty and carry out his will. And it felt like Rook knew everything he wasn’t supposed to know.

It could have been the adrenaline and fear you felt in this current moment underneath the composed facade that formed the words in your head. Clutching your wrapped hand to your chest, you took a breath. You really were just like a wounded animal he was seconds from ensnaring. Although you wouldn’t hesitate to lash out. Ravens were known for plucking out eyes. The answer came too fast, “You won’t be able to do it. You can’t kill the prince.”

Upon hearing your words, Rook appeared surprised, but it was only momentarily. Only a second or two of shock, before his bewilderment morphed into satisfaction. Like he had just won and caught the quarry. “Ah, how wonderful! So, you have decided to impart your knowledge upon me just as you have to Epel! I feel truly privileged!”

You froze in place. You never once mentioned anything to Rook about what you knew from the story, and you trusted that Epel would keep his mouth shut. So how did he know?

It’s like that piercing gaze of his could see directly into your mind, as if he could hear your very inner thoughts. As you remained stagnant in shock, waiting to see who would be the brave soul to make the first move, he spoke amicably, answering the question you never voiced. “Even the walls have ears. It is my duty to serve His Majesty in any way I can, so of course no whispers or rumors escape me.” Then, his smile turned sad and disappeared, that jovial tone diminished to a quiet whisper, “But, you are correct. I cannot do it.”

You raised an eyebrow at his words, processing his confession. Seeing the huntsman with his head lowered toward you, was exactly like in storybook book pages that depicted a humble huntsman bowing before a princess to beg for forgiveness. It's possible that maybe the huntsman wasn’t evil, afterall, he would be the one to spare the innocent royal. Maybe he had a heart, a good one. But you didn’t.

“Why? You can hunt animals and drag seven innocent people here to involuntarily compete for the crown. And you knew six of those seven were to die, didn’t you?” You crossed your own arms after making sure the black hood was securely over your head.

Catching a glimpse of his somber frown, you knew his answer would remain unchanging. He did not have the guts to go forth and stain his hands red with the blood of an innocent prince. “I… I did not know they would perish. I truly thought they would be set free.”

You sigh, contemplating your next actions. You truly didn’t want to harm Neige either, even if Vil despised him with all his heart, mind, and soul. However, the highest chances of you avoiding a terrible fate and achieving some sort of wonderful life, could only be accomplished if the Evil King received a good ending. That could only happen if the prince was dead, as Vil would only be deemed the fairest one of all once his rivals were vanquished. “Fine then, if you cannot do it, I’ll do it myself.”

Rook, apparently temporarily shocked, was stunned by the resolve in your own words. He searched for any wavering determination before he tried to smile once more. For now he lowered his feathered hat to his chest as he spoke and stretched out an inviting hand, “Let’s not talk such dreary things. Please, there’s a lovely view at the top of the palace where you might perhaps tell me more about this story. I’m awfully curious, and it just might help me finally understand you better.”

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

It became clear after that fateful evening that Rook knew every happening that occurred in the palace and in the nearby town. There was no possible way to keep it secret, so you told him the basics such as that this was a story and he was a character within the tale, but you decided it best to tell him no more than that. It would be optimal to give him no upper hand at all. It was then promised that he wouldn’t share this information, and you made doubly sure to emphasize the fact that you would make certain that he received a bad ending if he were to betray your trust. However, the eccentric huntsman only laughed in amusement at your threat. What a weirdo.

Well, at the very least, Rook was not the only one keeping tabs on happenings within the palace. That was what you had Epel for, he was useful in giving up information when it was needed. Even if he was formerly a peasant boy, he was no idiot. He never gave anything for free, it was a trade of knowledge which you didn’t entirely mind. There were lots of useless story details and scenes you could give up, such as the existence of the dwarves and the cottage in the woods. Besides, at the rate this story was shifting, those characters nor settings would no longer be necessary.

But one day, Epel brought a very interesting account that could potentially change everything.

Within the private training room where the king’s valued heir took fencing lessons, the door was abruptly slammed open, and there stood the said heir looking particularly ruffled. Manners tossed aside by how harshly he opened the door and flung it shut behind him, he ripped his cloak off his shoulders and chucked it aside as if it weren’t a carefully tailored cloth and instead a wash rag. Etiquette forgotten from his countless hours of learning it, he spoke naturally in his odd and difficult to understand dialect. “Vil’s pitchin’ a hissy fit with a tail on it! I was nearabout ready to come back, figured you’re way better than listening to all them uppity folk––”

You stopped, lowering the new lighter and sharper sword you exchanged for the old one you carried on your back. He spoke so quickly and said so many words that went completely over your head, you had to give him a look as you interrupted his talking, “English, Felmier.”

Freezing in his tracks, he groaned and repeated in a clearer, simpler manner, “Vil is mad. There. You happy?”

“Then say so.”

“I did!” He threw his hands up in exasperation. Epel continued, but thankfully not in his natural dialect. Although it was evident that he was still peeved about something. “There was some girl that showed up, a princess or something, and she asked for an audience with Vil! I happened to overhear, everyone was raving thinkin’ that it was just another princess asking for the king’s hand, but when she was talkin’ to Vil, she asked for Neige’s hand!”

The prince. It was the prince, now princess, that was originally supposed to be the one that Prince Neige fell in love with. The arrival of the princess would certainly throw a wrench in the plan. Why had it taken her so long to show up when you had already believed that they would no longer be involved within the tale?

The lavender-haired former farmer boy, paced back and forth in this wide training space. Usually he’d take an interest in the fencing equipment, it was one of the few lessons he actually enjoyed and took part in without so much stubborn complaints or begrudging behavior. But right now, he was far too troubled to even think about fencing. “When Vil summoned Neige to meet the princess, he turned her down! Said somethin’ about having feelings already for someone within the palace. Well, whoever it was, Vil must’ve known, because he nearly went haywire right then and there!” Stopping his steps, he turned to you and went on accusingly, “You know who it is, don’t you? Spit it out!”

“It’s me…” This could not be happening–– You never were supposed to gain the affection of that pure-hearted prince! Now, Vil likely figured out who his step-brother had eyes for, and this would not bide well with his envious nature.

Those big blue eyes of his widened in shock. “What?!”

Neige had to be gone and fast. But how could one make a prince disappear? It wasn’t as if he could be done with and escape the consequences. The royal was beloved by the citizens far too much, should they learn that he was murdered, things would quickly become problematic. There could be no raising a blade against him. Unless… an accident of sorts was staged.

Suddenly, you’re reminded of the image of a delicious red apple, a tool to the original plot that becomes the princess’ demise. Perhaps you didn’t have to stray too far from the plot after all. However, someone would have to take the blame once the deed was done. “Is the princess still here?”

Confused by the inquiry but nodding in response, Epel looked even more baffled than before. “Yeah, but why do you care? What’s she got to do with this? Don’t tell me she’s somebody important.”

If staying with Vil was the quickest and easiest route where a good ending for yourself was more certain, then you’d take it. No princess or prince would get in the way, and you would use Epel to help secure the ending. Even if some persuasion was needed, since you knew he didn’t have much of an appreciation for the current king. Lowering your blade on the table, you left it behind as you approached him, close enough to place your hands on his shoulders and look him in the eye. Close enough so he could hear the whisper that came from your lips, so quiet that not even a mouse in the walls could detect what was said, only he could hear these words. “We are going to assassinate Prince Neige.”

Epel gazed at you with pure disbelief, his eyebrows furrowing and his mouth open a gape in bewilderment. “But that’s Rook’s––”

“Rook can’t be counted on.” You counter. At the moment, you were unsure if Rook could really go through and murder the prince with his own two hands. You’ve trusted him enough with your own secrets, but you certainly didn’t trust him with your fate.

The heir appeared to contemplate it. The atmosphere had turned somber, like he was seriously considering it. Not just anyone could stomach the knowledge, but he appeared to be processing it just fine. That is, until he suggested something that surprised even you. “Why not just, change the target to someone of higher power and just… you know.” He made a swift slicing motion over his neck. You knew exactly what he meant, and who he meant. “That way, we’d both be free.”

“It’s not guaranteed to work. Killing a king would be more difficult than killing a prince that the king wants dead anyways.” You point out that simple fact. There were constantly guards around the king like worker bees following their queen. However, here on palace grounds, most avoided the prince as they knew interacting with him was a quick and easy way to make the king bitter. This made Neige vulnerable.

A frown appeared on his lovely face, etched on like a pout. While his look may be an endearing one, his voice did not say the same. By his tone, he sounded unsure, maybe even a tad bit annoyed as he accused, “You forgot, I don’t give a damn about the crown! If that happened, it would mean that I’ll definitely end up taking Vil’s place one day.”

“I didn’t forget.” You reply instantly, using logic to convince him that this was the best option available. “You forget how vain his majesty is. Vil will never give up the crown willingly. The only time he’ll give it up, is when he’s old and gray and on his deathbed. By then, you’d either be long gone on to freedom, or have figured out some other way to handle the matter in whatever way you want. As for me, I don’t care who’s king, as long as I get to live and be happy.” You could visibly see the gears turning in his head as he heard your words. You add more to pressure him further and make him see reason. “Like it or not, you’re involved. In whatever way this ends, just remember, the citizens of this kingdom will likely not be so kind to you if word ever reached them that you were the chosen heir of the king, a king that abused the precious prince. Even if you didn’t participate directly, the fact still stands that you’re connected to Vil. If Neige receives his happily ever after, everything may end alright, or it may not, but I can’t guarantee your safety in that case. That’s why I suggest getting rid of him now, and placing the blame on someone else.”

“Someone else… They’ll never suspect us. This is insane, I mean, I don’t care for that guy but… me, you, us––” He slapped his hand over his mouth, moving it up towards his hair. The young man looked so stressed that he was about ready to pull out his lavender curls. And yet, there wasn’t really anger. Mild irritation maybe, but not anger, and something else was there. Something foreign to you. “I’d kill for you, you’d kill for me.”

Ah, maybe. Maybe not. It depended on the situation, but he didn’t need to know that. Although it was reassuring to hear that he was most definitely an ally that would help to achieve your goal.

His small hands remained on his scalp, tangled in his hair, gripping his own head as he raved, “Don’t tell me you’ve been learnin’ all that potions stuff from the king! It feels like I’m going crazy, havin’ these unnatural thoughts I never had before–– I’ve been imagining things. I want to get out of this dump, but I imagined runnin’ away with you, showing you my village, introducing you to my ma and everyone else back home! Then forgetting everyone else in this stupid place!”

Those big blue eyes gazed right at you, scanning your face that he’s come to actually grow fond of. Out of everyone in this hell, he actually liked your company, craved it even. There’s no one else here on palace grounds that he would willingly talk to without grumbling about it. Even if it began with the original retainer, his trust grew with you, the imposter.

“It’s all your damn fault…! But I’m not mad, I can’t be, even though I want to spit and punch you for this but at the same time I don’t wanna hurt you. Just, tell me right now, to my face. Tell me it’s stupid and I’m actin’ dumb so I quit it!”

You nod, a bit stunned by the outburst. However, you had other plans in mind. “Keep it up.”

By now maybe it was giving him false hope at an ending he dreamed of, but he was still useful to you. So for now, you ignored his look of shock and pink on his cheeks as you pried his hand off his head and he lowered his other hand to his side.

The plan was simple really, it would be far too easy if you could actually manage to pull it off. “I’m telling you this, because you will have to help me guide the princess in the right direction. Talk to her, steer the conversation to romance. If she’s smart, she’ll ask you for advice assuming you know Neige. Suggest giving a gift. Once everything is over, then we can think about your hometown.”

There was still shock on his face, as if he was still struggling a bit to process everything that was coming out of your mouth. It seemed like it was a lot, as one of his dainty hands held your hand tightly while his other hand gripped part of the cloth of his shirt, his knuckles turning white from the strength behind his grip. “I thought you were kinda cool. Not as annoying as Rook or Vil or anyone else, and I wanted to escape with you…! But this murder plan just makes it seem like you’re exactly like that old raven that you replaced, but for some stupid reason I still can’t not like you.”

“It will technically not be murder. In a way… It’s complicated.”

There were apple trees at the very corner of the royal grounds. A basket of fruit would be a sweet and kind gesture with unsuspecting maliciousness intertwined. All that was needed was to take the apple that would be picked, poison it as the beautiful queen did in the original tale, and place it back in the basket that the princess would offer to the prince. Poisoning it as it was done in the fairytale, wouldn’t truly kill Niege. It would merely place him under a death like sleep, with the chance that he may one day wake up several years in the future long after we are gone. Because really, Neige didn’t truly deserve death. However, even if he was to never wake up, at least he would be in a dream and avoid a brutal end by his jealous step-brother.

“But there’s only one person who can make the poison we need for this to succeed…”

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

The plan had to be enacted before Rook could take Neige to pick flowers. Luckily, or unluckily for you, a request for an audience with the king was not even needed. Before you could even search for him as you were rereading pages of the heavy tome in the undercroft, there was the creaking of the wooden door that signaled someone entering the dungeon beneath the palace.

Hardly anyone else ventured down here, and by the clicking of heels against the stone floors, it became obvious of who it was. Your theories were only confirmed true when you felt a presence behind you, peering over your shoulder as the delightfully familiar voice that filled you with unease greeted kindly, “My dear retainer.”

Instantly you felt your body stiff and rigid, feeling uncertain under his gaze. You were many things, but often fearful wasn’t one of them. This story was just filled with characters that made you tense, the king being the one that troubled you the most. Despite all this, you managed to remain polite, only turning your head to nod at him with respect. “Your Majesty. It’s a surprise to see you down here.”

“I could say the same. Didn’t I specifically instruct you to stay aboveground for the time being?” It sounded like a scolding, but it was nowhere near as harsh as one. In fact, it sounded more like gentle chastising. Not at all like the harsh criticism and stern reprimanding he gave to anyone else. Not another word came about that before his amethyst eyes landed on the pages you were reading. “Poison apple. You weren’t by chance planning to assassinate me with that, were you? That’s not nearly enough poison to eliminate me. Haven’t you heard of mithridatism?”

Mithridatism? Did he practice that? It’s a good thing that you ultimately did not choose the path of killing him, as he likely would have proven much more difficult than any other target. If you had attempted to take his life and it failed, you could only imagine how frightful the king would become in his rage at your betrayal. The mere thought made you shudder.

It wasn’t easy to focus when he was directly behind you, his chest practically against your back as he continued reading over your shoulder. “Not you… I was considering this for the prince. I believe that I’m the only one that can stomach handling this, not the huntsman.”

“Interesting… and why did you choose the poison apple?” To think that the beautiful man that currently had his chin on your shoulder, would probably be an wretched old peddler with wrinkled skin and hair white as snow, if the story had stayed on course. It was plausible that the beautiful queen turning herself ugly just to kill her rival was an analogy of sorts for the hideousness of her personality. And yet, when the king who was based on that very character was in your presence, yes he was vile and cruel but he was rather fair to you. Especially when he expressed a sort of tenderness in his smile and looked down at you through his long lashes.

“It’s a special sort of death.” Upon reading through most of the pages of the thick leather tome, you discovered that a huge majority of the deadly spells had antidotes and ways to be reversed. Many were easy to reverse, some were harder, but the most difficult antidote to receive was for those that ate the poisoned apple. It was no wonder the evil queen originally chose it, as it was only by chance that the prince awoke the princess with true love’s first kiss. “Not easy to find an antidote for.”

“Hm…” His head continued to linger on your shoulder, his lips and part of his nose buried by the cloth on your shoulder as his watchful gaze remained stuck on you through his half-lidded eyes. At such a close proximity with his face literally inches from yours, you didn’t dare turn your head, but in your peripheral vision you could make out the black mascara and smokey light eyeshadow that accentuated his fine features. Even without the use of makeup, he was sure to be stunning. “As expected, you dally away precious time. However, there’s a princess…”

“So I’ve heard.” Your response was careful, as this conversation was quickly approaching dangerous territory. From what was told to you by Epel, after the princess arrived, Vil summoned Neige to speak about it when the young oblivious prince admitted he loved someone within the palace. Vil knew who, you knew. As this conversation progressed, you would have to choose your words carefully. It would be like walking in a minefield.

It started, you realized, as his fond gaze slowly shifted to something a little more cold. While you couldn’t see his mouth due to the position he was in, you guessed he wasn’t smiling lightly in content and intrigue like before. “Then I assume you know of the prince’s… let’s call it, an insignificant crush.”

“Yes…” A crush may not be the term Neige would have preferred. The prince would have likely used flowery language akin to the type seen in romantic novels read in the middle ages. But you weren’t going to fret over the small details. Stoically you replied, “If you desire it done, I can be rid of both the prince and princess. An apple for the prince, and a jail cell for the princess.”

Vil raised a carefully plucked blonde eyebrow, his careful vigilance turning to astonished curiousness as he connected the dots with the clues given by your words. He seemed to understand, and take delight in your response as he nodded against your shoulder. “This is why you’re my favorite.”

Averting your gaze down to the parchment paper in the tome, you placed your palm against the surface and read off ingredients that were needed. None of which you understood. Not that you would even attempt making something so potent. In the middle of your reading, you felt arms snake around your waist, rendering you motionless as if being paralyzed by some other poison he could’ve used.

By your ear you felt his warm breath, and his arms were surprisingly strong as he held you tightly, preventing you from going anywhere. The words he spoke in his feathery voice felt like they tickled the side of your neck and caused a shiver to go down your spine. Was it fear or was it pleasure? “… You could finally use those funeral preparations you made in advance.”

“True… This type of poison could be made with ease by me, it merely requires patience as the brew seeps through the simmering apple. It will take some hours. There are many different poisons, but one of this caliber that requires magic is most lethal. And yet, it looks so delicious. Entrancing and deadly, my favorite combination.” One of his hands roamed up to your neck, his well-manicured nails and soft fingers casually resting on your throat. There was this creeping feeling that he wasn’t talking about the poisoned apple anymore. Externally you remained cool and level-headed, but internally you felt your breath still in that moment as your heart picked up speed. And it was like he saw all these signs on you, reading you like an open book. “The breath will still, the heart will beat rapidly in those final moments…”

You know he didn’t poison you, but it felt as if you were sick with something that was worse than poison. You shifted in place, keeping your breathing even. Never once have you prepared for a situation like this. Removing your hands from the tome, you lowered them over his knuckle, one of his own hands still around your waist like a belt. The intention was to attempt to pry off his hands, at least, that’s what you think you were trying to accomplish, but Vil took it as an invitation to continue.

A hum like a purr came from him as he moved his head closer, so his lips were practically at the exposed flesh of your neck. And yet, he didn’t move. You remained as still as a statue, while he murmured in a quiet and confident tone that slowly morphed into something pleading and desperate. “Nevermore will you, my previous retainer, have to stray from me again. Once he is gone, everything will be made right. There will be none left worthy of your companionship, except for me. I will be your sole companion. So do not leave…”

You felt a tremor throughout your body as he placed a lingering kiss against your neck, his soft lips by your jaw before he pulled away. Not even far enough so you could see his face, he only moved his head away an inch, as if even the thought of being physically apart right now was too much to bear.

His arms around your torso tightened, and your back was pressed flush against his chest. His voice was low and intoxicating, this was dangerous. “For now, you’ll assist me in making the poisoned apple. While we wait a few hours for it to simmer and absorb the toxic qualities in the cauldron, we’ll be spending some… quality time together, my pet.”

✧ ✧ ✧ ✧ ✧

The next morning, you awoke slowly, feeling groggy and tired, until everything came rushing back and you sat upright in alarm. You were in the familiar bedroom that once belonged to the retainer you replaced. However, there was a slight warmth on the other half of the mattress, as if someone had just been laying beside you and left not too long ago.

On the wall as you sat up, you could see your reflection in the mirror, the messy bedhead and tired looking eyes, but also the slightest traces of red lipstick stains on your neck and across parts of your face.

You had zero time to process what had happened before you spotted the shiny red apple on the counter with a small note beside it. The note simply read, For your mission. Wash your face once you wake up.

It took almost no time at all to get dressed and prepared, and wash your face. By now, Epel should already be speaking to the princess, advising her to attempt to appeal to the prince by picking fruit from the garden and gifting it to the royal she loved. Your task now was to simply add the poisoned apple when no one was looking.

As you opened the door, you noticed a shadow and quickly hid the apple in a pocket of your long black cloak, just as familiar blonde locks and forest green eyes came into view. You closed the door behind you, as you were greeted by a welcoming smiling and that accented voice that bid good morning.

“Ah, petit corbeau! What a fine day, isn’t it?” Immediately your gaze went to his expression and his hands, your ears keenly listening to his tone of voice. It didn’t appear as if he were hiding anything. There was no somberness to his voice, no frown on his face, and no red staining his hands. Although, the good killers always washed their hands clean of the evidence.

For now, you don’t bother asking why he was outside of your room. Knowing Rook, he’d probably say some flattering words with an unsettling meaning hidden within his ornate speech. Right now, you would much rather not have to dwell on that for too long when a royal was to die soon. For now, all you do is remind him of your previous words towards him, “You couldn’t do it. So, knowing you somehow overheard what’s to happen today, is this your attempt to stop me?” You were quiet, making sure not to be overheard, only so he could hear your warning and see your cold gaze. “Know that if you try to stop me, that will be a form of treason against His Majesty.”

That smile turned into a more bleak one, as he struggled to keep up the corners of his lips. He knew what was to happen, of course he did. It was as he said, he knew everything that transpired within the palace grounds. “Ah, I would love to see the raven ruffled up.” He joked lightly before adding in a more serious tone, “Ravens are most commonly associated with bringing the unfortunate news of a passing. As much as I dream of seeing you in your element, I just wish it wasn’t… him. I’d much rather it be me than him, even if being the victim was the only way to catch a glimpse into your true nature and to have your attention solely focused on me.”

You leered at him, deciding not to take out your blade. Rook was a weirdo, but he most certainly wasn’t a killer. You couldn’t imagine him outright attacking you, even now as he knew that the beloved prince would die either way. “I’ll cut you down too if you get in my way.”

Unexpectedly, Rook removed his hat and held it to his chest. He gazed at you like how an artist would admire the treasured painting of the beautiful Mona Lisa, as he bowed his head to you, exposing the back of his neck as his blonde hair shifted with his movement. “From you? I would consider it the greatest honor bestowed on me.”

You merely moved around him, your cloak brushing past him. Even after Neige was dead, Rook would be cause for concern. But you would worry about him then, right now you had an apple in your cloak, a princess to frame, and a prince to assassinate.

As it turned out, planting the ripe red apple at the top of the basket was the easiest part. It was simple, when the princess had left the basket of freshly picked fruits unattended. Perhaps the worst part was waiting. Waiting to hear when it would happen, when the prince would take that bite that would seal his fate. Part of you wondered if he might dream of you. Afterall, he seemed to have this idealized version of you in his head. So it was possible, but it’s not like you would ever know.

For now, you appeared as you were told when you were later summoned by the king to the gardens where you emerged after exiting the undercroft on your first day here. Now, you were currently strolling through the private gardens of the palace grounds together, as if you hadn’t both planned murder. Any moment now, you expected a servant to come rushing, the palace would be overrun with commotion once the poisoned apple was consumed. If there were any remnants of the fruit left, you had instructed Epel to dispose of it in the midst of the chaos when no one would notice.

But right now, it was quiet. A peaceful tranquil quiet, where you could look up at the sky and sun and feel its warmth. One where you were free. Even if you could never return home, perhaps living in this world was better. Should you ever need to, you could always escape the beautiful king. But this was a plan you would keep to yourself.

Vil remained beside you, looking as elegant as ever with his robes and crown perched atop his skull. Like a peacock promenading in the yards of a private estate. There was one thing that confused you in this story. As angelic as Neige was, and as rotten as the king’s personality might have been, the mirror must’ve been blind if it insisted that Vil was not the fairest of them all.

The King looked over at you, a pretty smile adorning his face when he saw your eyes on him, just as he liked it. Keeping his hands folded in front of him, the pair stopped beside the well. Since he had dismissed his guards to be alone with you, there was no one else to hear or see what went on between you and him. Those amethyst eyes were no longer so chilling but still more than enough to put you on the edge. “Tell me, my dear, how long were you planning to keep me in the dark?”

You remained still, confused at his words. What was this about? He seemed content, but what did he mean by this? There was a sneaking suspicion and fear in the back of your mind, but you played it cool as you leaned on the well with your arms on the smooth rocky edge. “I’m not sure what you mean, Your Majesty.”

A brief chuckle came from him as he reached over, his thumb rubbing against your cheek and his fingers grazing along your jaw. “You’re amusing.” Abruptly, faster than you can anticipate it, you felt a sharp edge against your throat, not piercing flesh but close enough that you had to tilt your head upwards to avoid being cut. It was a knife.

Your breath hitched. You made no sudden movements, no reaching for your own blade or trying to grab his wrist, because in a single instance he could end you now and that would be the end to your story. Everything you did to get here and set up a decent life, would be utterly useless if you were dead. Taking a deep breath, you purse your lips before holding up your hands to show you had nothing to strike back. “What are you doing, Your Majesty? After everything I did to assist you?”

The knife was small, compact, decorated with small jewels as shiny as it was sharp. It was small enough to easily be hidden in his robes, but honed enough to easily end you here just as the judges intended for you to go out. “You were useful, but… when it’s just me and my retainer, my trusted retainer refers to me as Vil not Your Majesty.”

You felt your blood run cold. He knew, this entire time? From the moment you encountered him, did he realize by your use of formalities, or did he figure it out sometime afterward? You’d been played.

A knowing smile graced his lips once he took in your shock, one of the first clear expressions on your face in so long. Normally you were so composed, it felt like an accomplishment to break that poised demeanor, to see the horror dawn on your face as you were reminded of the judgment that had been cast, of the hell you were in that was veiled by gorgeous folk and the chance at a free life.

Just as you squeezed your eyes shut and winced, anticipating the feeling of the blade running through your throat, there was a shriek. A shrill shriek from a woman, the sound sent a chill running down your spine and raised goosebumps on your skin. You anticipated the red spilling from your own neck, but there wasn’t a drop.

The knife was removed from your skin as Vil hummed, not really paying attention to the distant sound of servants scrambling to check on the source of the sound that must’ve come up from one of the upper floors of the palace. “It appears like it’s finally happened.”

There was no need for further explanation to understand what he meant. The scream must’ve come from the princess who witnessed Prince Neige collapse after taking a bite of the apple. In seconds, guards of the palace will arrive at the crime scene, they’ll see the beloved prince trapped in a sleeping death on the ground and the princess beside him will be the only culprit. It’s done… And yet now, you now had to grapple with Vil knowing you were not who you pretended to be this entire time.

“I didn’t know you were close.” The raven should’ve been apprehensive of the evil queen that tormented them. Were you wrong? Was their shared history different from the tale?

“I lied. Please, I’m no imbecile. I think it’s a bit rude that you never properly introduced yourself, but I forgive you considering the unique circumstances.” Expertly he twirled the dagger between his long fingers, while he didn’t even have to focus on his hand to do so. The entire time he stared at you, a smile on his curved lips. “Did you think me a fool that I could be so easily tricked? I had known them for several years, but I must admit, I like you better.” His left arm was crossed over his torso, propping up the right arm that held the knife and casually pointed it at you. “All they did in recent years was hole themself up in the undercroft, but you, you’re plucky, brave, funny too.”

You felt partially numb. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go–– Everything was going so perfect! Why did he have to know? Was it too late to escape? Could you try and run now that things were turning south, or was it worth staying? Judging by the look in the king’s eyes, staying was likely not the best idea. A caged raven was not a happy one.

“If you’re honest to me, I’m honest to you. I only tricked you, because you foolishly believed yourself to be playing me this entire time, hm? Don’t mistake my intentions though, because I am fond of you. All those sweet words, whispered promises, and love I gave you was all real.” The tip of the dagger was against your chin, and the beautiful blonde king peered down at you through his lashes. Raising the fingers of his freehand, he lightly traced his sharp nails over the side of your face. The next words came in a quiet voice, stern and serious, vaguely threatening but also with the promise of sweetness.

“However, I don’t appreciate the idea of you flying away. Fret not. You’ll be well taken care of, and loved more than any little prince with a crush could love you… You wanted him dead, isn’t that so? Well, we killed him. There is nothing more for you to be afraid of. So now, I want you to tell me about where you come from, why you wanted him dead, and what you wish for. No matter what you desire, I will see to it that you have it so long as you remain by my side permanently. Reintroduce yourself, from the top, my Darling Retainer.”

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darkficlord69 · 1 month

Text

Cregan Stark x Fem!Wife!Reader

Title: Northern Duties

Summary: Set during the harsh winter months in Winterfell, you find yourself caught between your growing affection for Cregan Stark and the responsibilities that bind him to his people. The snow might be cold, but the warmth of your bond with the Warden of the North is undeniable. Yet, even love has its challenges in the unforgiving North.

Warnings: 18+ implied, fluff, angst

Word Count: 3k

***

The winds howled outside Winterfell’s thick stone walls, sending icy drafts through the narrow corridors. You pulled your cloak tighter around yourself as you made your way through the dimly lit hallways, the torchlight casting flickering shadows against the rough-hewn walls. It was always cold in the North, but this winter was different—harsher, more unforgiving.

It was the kind of cold that seeped into your bones and refused to leave, no matter how many layers of furs you piled on. But the cold was the least of your worries. What concerned you more was the way Cregan Stark had been distancing himself, his attention consumed by the growing responsibilities of ruling the North.

You had come to Winterfell months ago, part of an alliance forged between your family and House Stark. The marriage had been arranged, but that didn’t mean it was without affection. Cregan was a man of honour, kind in his own way, and though he was often reserved, you had grown to love him. His quiet strength, his dedication to his people, and the way he would steal glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking—it all endeared him to you. That, along with his muscled form, his big heaving chest and his even larger…forms.

But lately, the distance between you had grown, like an icy ravine that neither of you seemed able to cross.

You found him in the Great Hall, hunched over a table laden with maps and letters. His dark brown hair was tousled, a few stray strands falling into his eyes as he studied the documents before him. The fire crackled in the hearth, but its warmth seemed not to reach him.

“Cregan?” you called softly, stepping into the room.

He looked up, and for a moment, the hardness in his gaze softened. “Y/N,” he acknowledged, though his voice was tired. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

You offered a small smile, crossing the room to stand beside him. “You’ve been here all night.”

“There’s much to do,” he replied, his eyes flicking back to the map of the North spread out before him. “The winter is harsh this year, and there are reports of wildling activity near the Wall. I need to ensure that the North is prepared.”

You nodded, understanding his concerns. “I know the North is your priority, but you can’t neglect yourself in the process. You need rest, Cregan.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I’ll rest when there’s time.”

“There’s never time,” you countered gently. “Not if you don’t make it.”

He finally looked at you, really looked at you, and you saw the exhaustion etched into his features. His grey Stark eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, were dulled by sleepless nights and the weight of his responsibilities.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, reaching out to take your hand. His touch was warm, a stark contrast to the chill in the air. “I’ve been distant.”

You squeezed his hand, the simple gesture conveying all the words you didn’t need to say. “I know you have responsibilities, Cregan. I just… I miss you.”

He pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you in a rare moment of vulnerability. His embrace was firm, reassuring, and you let yourself melt into it, savoring the warmth and the sense of safety it brought.

“I’m here now,” he said quietly, his breath warm against your ear. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

***

The next few days were a blur of preparation and planning. Winterfell was abuzz with activity as Cregan and his bannermen worked tirelessly to ensure the safety of the North. The long nights you had spent alone were now filled with strategy meetings, and the brief moments you did manage to steal with Cregan were often interrupted by matters of state.

It was frustrating, watching the man you loved slip further and further away, consumed by the weight of his duties. You understood that Cregan was doing what he needed to do, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear.

One evening, after yet another day spent in solitude, you decided you couldn’t take it anymore. Wrapping your cloak around you, you ventured out into the courtyard, seeking the comfort of the Godswood. The heart tree stood tall and ancient in the center of the grove, its red leaves stark against the snow-covered ground. You knelt before it, hoping the Old Gods might offer you some clarity.

The wind rustled through the branches, carrying with it the faint sound of footsteps. You turned to see Cregan approaching, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

“I had a feeling I’d find you here,” he said softly, coming to stand beside you.

“This is where I come to think,” you replied, turning your gaze back to the heart tree. “When everything else feels too overwhelming.”

Cregan was silent for a moment, and you could feel the tension radiating off him. “I’ve failed you,” he said finally, his voice heavy with regret.

You looked at him in surprise. “What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been so focused on my duties, on protecting the North, that I’ve neglected you,” he admitted, his eyes fixed on the heart tree. “You deserve better than that.”

You shook your head, reaching out to take his hand. “Cregan, you’ve been doing what you need to do. I understand that. But we’re supposed to be in this together. You don’t have to bear this burden alone.”

He turned to face you, his expression conflicted. “I don’t want to burden you with my worries.”

“I want to share them,” you insisted. “Isn’t that what marriage is supposed to be? A partnership?”

Cregan’s shoulders slumped, and for the first time, you saw just how deeply his responsibilities weighed on him. “I never wanted to drag you into the hardships of the North. I wanted to keep you safe.”

You stepped closer, cupping his cheek in your hand. “I chose to be with you, Cregan. That means accepting everything that comes with it, even the hardships. I want to be by your side, no matter what.”

His eyes softened, and he leaned into your touch, his hand coming up to cover yours. “I don’t deserve you.”

You smiled, brushing a strand of hair from his face. “Then it’s a good thing I get to decide that, isn’t it?”

Cregan let out a soft chuckle, the sound easing some of the tension between you. He pulled you into his arms, holding you close as if you were the only thing anchoring him to the world.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I’ll do better. I promise.”

You rested your head against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “We’ll get through this, Cregan. Together.”

You kissed him then, and all the snow in the North could have melted underneath your blazing passion.

***

Winter continued its relentless grip on the North, but things between you and Cregan began to change. He made more of an effort to spend time with you, to include you in his plans and decisions. It wasn’t always easy, and there were still moments when the weight of his responsibilities threatened to pull him away, but you faced those challenges together.

The nights were the hardest. When the cold seemed to seep into every corner of Winterfell, it was easy to feel isolated and alone. But Cregan was always there, his presence a steady reassurance in the darkness.

One particularly cold night, you found yourselves curled up together in front of the fire in your chambers. The flames crackled and popped, casting a warm glow over the room as you nestled against Cregan’s side. He had his big arm around you, holding you close as you shared the warmth of the fire.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” you asked, your voice soft in the quiet of the room.

Cregan smiled, a rare, genuine smile that lit up his usually serious features. “Of course I do. You were so nervous, you could barely look me in the eye.”

You laughed, the memory bringing a warmth to your heart that the fire couldn’t match. “I was terrified. You were so… intimidating.”

“And now?” he asked, his tone teasing.

“Now you’re just my big cuddly bear,” you teased back, earning a mock-scowl from him.

“I am not!” he protested, but there was no real heat in his words.

You smiled, leaning up to press a kiss to his jaw. “Perhaps…”

Cregan’s expression softened, and he leaned down to capture your lips in a gentle kiss. It was slow, tender, and full of the love that had grown between you over the months. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the space between you.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispered, the words like a warm breath against your cold heart.

“I love you too, Cregan,” you whispered back, your voice full of the emotion you felt.

For a moment, there was nothing but the two of you, wrapped up in each other and the warmth of the fire. It was in these moments that you felt most connected, when the world outside seemed to fall away, leaving just the two of you and the love that had blossomed despite the hardships you faced.

But like all fleeting moments of peace, this one was interrupted by the harsh realities of your lives.

A sharp knock echoed through the chamber door, and before you could respond, the door creaked open. One of Cregan's most trusted bannermen, Lord Karl Umber, stepped inside, his face drawn with concern.

"My lord," he began, his eyes flickering briefly to you before returning to Cregan, "There are urgent reports from the Wall. A large band of wildlings have been sighted moving south. The Night's Watch fears they might be preparing for an attack."

Cregan stiffened beside you, the tension returning to his body in an instant. The warmth between you evaporated, replaced by the cold reality of his duties.

"I'll be there shortly," Cregan said, his voice hardening with resolve.

Karl nodded, sparing you another brief glance before retreating from the room. The door shut behind him with a heavy thud, leaving you and Cregan in silence once more.

He didn’t move immediately, his arm still draped around your shoulders, but you could sense the turmoil inside him, the pull of duty warring with the desire to stay by your side.

"You have to go," you said quietly, breaking the silence. It wasn't a question, just a simple statement of fact.

Cregan exhaled slowly, his breath warm against your hair. "I don't want to leave you."

You smiled sadly, your hand coming up to rest on his chest. "I know. But you have to."

His jaw clenched, and he pulled you tighter against him as if he could somehow keep you safe by sheer force of will. But you both knew the truth. The North needed him. The Wall needed him. His people needed him.

And as much as it hurt, you understood that.

"I'll come back to you," he promised, his voice low and fierce. "I swear it."

You nodded, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill over. "I know you will. Just… be careful."

He leaned down to kiss you again, this time with more urgency, more desperation. It was a kiss that spoke of all the things he couldn’t say, all the fears and hopes and unspoken promises that lingered between you.

When he finally pulled away, you saw the determination in his eyes, the strength that had first drawn you to him. This was the man you loved, the man you had chosen to stand beside, no matter how difficult the road ahead might be.

"I'll be waiting," you whispered as he stood, already feeling the cold settle in as he moved away.

Cregan paused at the door, his hand resting on the frame as he looked back at you. There was a weight in his gaze, a depth of emotion that he rarely let show.

Then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a finality that echoed through the room.

You sat there for a long time, staring at the door, the warmth of the fire slowly fading as the reality of his departure settled in. The silence was deafening, the emptiness of the room a stark contrast to the moments of warmth you had just shared.

It was always like this, the fleeting moments of happiness overshadowed by the looming specter of duty. But that was the life you had chosen when you married Cregan Stark, Warden of the North. You knew the challenges that came with it, the sacrifices that had to be made.

And you would face them, because you loved him. Even if it meant spending more nights alone, waiting for him to return to you.

***

Days turned into weeks, and still, there was no word from Cregan. The cold seemed to grow harsher with each passing day, the snow piling up against the walls of Winterfell as the winter deepened.

You threw yourself into the tasks that needed to be done, helping where you could, overseeing the stores of food and supplies, and ensuring that the people of Winterfell were cared for. It was the only way to keep the worry at bay, to keep yourself from imagining the worst.

But at night, when the castle was quiet and the cold crept in through the cracks in the stone, you couldn’t help but think of him. You wondered where he was, if he was safe, if he was thinking of you. The loneliness gnawed at you, a constant ache that refused to fade.

One particularly brutal night, when the wind howled like a wounded animal and the snow fell in thick, suffocating waves, you found yourself in the Godswood once more. The heart tree stood silent and ancient before you, its red leaves stark against the white of the snow. You knelt before it, your breath visible in the frigid air as you silently prayed for Cregan’s safe return.

The Old Gods didn’t answer, but the peace of the Godswood offered some small comfort. You stayed there for a long time, until the cold seeped into your bones and forced you back inside.

When you finally returned to your chambers, you found that sleep wouldn’t come. The bed was too empty, too cold without Cregan beside you. So, you sat by the fire, staring into the flames as they danced and flickered, your mind drifting to memories of him.

It was in the early hours of the morning, when the fire had burned down to embers, that you heard the sound of footsteps in the corridor. At first, you thought it was just another servant, but there was something about the tread that caught your attention. Something familiar.

Your heart leapt in your chest as you hurried to the door, flinging it open just in time to see Cregan striding toward you, snow clinging to his cloak and boots. He looked exhausted, his face gaunt from the cold and the weight of his responsibilities, but he was alive.

"Cregan," you breathed, relief washing over you in a wave so powerful it nearly brought you to your knees.

He didn't say a word as he reached you, his arms wrapping around you and pulling you close. You buried your face in his chest, breathing in the scent of him, of leather and smoke and the biting cold of the North.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. There was nothing to say that could truly capture the depth of your relief, the joy and fear and love that warred within you.

Finally, Cregan pulled back just enough to look down at you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. "I'm home," he said simply, his voice rough with emotion.

Tears welled up in your eyes, and you nodded, unable to find the words. You leaned into his touch, your heart swelling with the sheer joy of having him back, of knowing that he was safe.

Without another word, he kissed you, a fierce, possessive kiss that spoke of all the things he couldn’t say. It was a kiss that promised he would never leave you again, even if you both knew that wasn’t a promise he could truly keep.

When you finally broke apart, you rested your forehead against his, your breaths mingling in the cold air between you.

"I was so worried," you whispered, your voice trembling.

"I know," he murmured, his thumb brushing away a tear that had escaped down your cheek. "I'm sorry. I never meant to make you worry."

"You can’t help that," you replied, your hand resting on his chest where you could feel the steady beat of his heart. "Just… don’t leave me for so long again."

"I won’t," he vowed, his voice full of the promise he couldn’t make. But you believed him, because you had to. Because that was the only way to keep going.

You spent the rest of the night curled up together in front of the fire, talking quietly as the flames warmed the room. Cregan told you of the battles he had fought, the wildlings they had faced, and the toll it had taken on him. And you listened, offering what comfort you could, even as your heart ached for the burdens he had to bear.

But he was home now, and that was all that mattered.

As the first light of dawn crept through the window, you finally allowed yourself to drift off to sleep, safe in the knowledge that Cregan was there beside you. The North was harsh, and the winter was long, but with Cregan by your side, you knew you could face whatever came your way.

Together.

---

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misswynters · 2 months

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Winter’s Embrace — Chapter Two

Cregan Stark x targaryen!fem!reader

[warning: suggestive, cregan pinning the reader to the bed

[synopsis: You spend time with your husband, cregan. There’s a big snow storm happening outside, and you get caught in the middle.

[word count: 3.0k

[note | pls don’t just like, reblog & give me feedback. i don’t want to get shadowbanned

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Winterfell had never seemed so bleak. The walls, which were normally a sanctuary, felt like a prison with the storm raging outside. Snow fell like thick sheets, obscuring everything beyond the castle's stone walls. The wind howled like a wild beast, its icy breath seeping through every crack and crevice, chilling you to the bone.

Cregan Stark, the Warden of the North, stood by a window, his silhouette stark against the swirling snow outside. His presence was as commanding as ever, even with the tempest raging behind him. His grey eyes, the color of storm clouds, were fixed on the blizzard, a deep frown etched into his features.

"It's worse than I expected," he said, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to resonate through the very walls of Winterfell. "We might be stuck here for days."

You pulled your cloak tighter around yourself, feeling the cold despite the fire. "At least we're safe inside," you replied, stepping closer to the hearth. The warmth was a welcome reprieve from the chill that seemed to permeate everything.

Cregan turned to face you, his gaze softening as it settled on your form. "Are you alright? You seem... uneasy."

You met his eyes, feeling a jolt of something you couldn't quite name. There was a strength in his gaze, a reassurance that made you feel safer despite the storm. "I'm just not used to storms like this," you admitted. "It's... overwhelming."

He moved closer, his hand reaching out to gently touch your arm. The contact was electric, sending warmth coursing through you. "Winterfell can be a harsh place," he said softly. "But you're not alone."

The intimacy of the moment caught you off guard. You had always admired Cregan from afar, his strength and stoic nature a constant presence in the Stark household. But now, with the storm raging outside and the world reduced to the confines of Winterfell, you found yourself drawn to him in a way you hadn't anticipated.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice barely audible over the crackling fire.

Cregan's hand lingered on your arm for a moment longer before he stepped back, a hesitant smile playing on his lips. "Come, let's check on the supplies. We need to make sure everyone is taken care of."

You followed him through the dimly lit halls of Winterfell, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows on the stone walls. The storm outside seemed distant now, the only sounds the echo of your footsteps and the occasional gust of wind rattling the windows.

As you worked together, checking the stores of food and ensuring the fires in the various hearths were well-fed, you found yourself stealing glances at Cregan. There was a gentleness to him you hadn't seen before, a side that he rarely showed to others. And in those moments, you felt a connection growing, a bond forged in the midst of the storm.

By the time you returned to the Great Hall, the storm had intensified, the wind howling like a wild beast. Cregan stoked the fire, adding another log to the flames, and you both settled down in front of the hearth, the warmth a welcome contrast to the cold outside.

"It's almost beautiful, in a way," you mused, staring into the dancing flames.

Cregan nodded, his gaze fixed on the fire. "Aye, there's a certain beauty to it. But it's also dangerous. We have to respect its power."

You turned to him, finding his eyes already on you. The intensity of his gaze made your breath catch in your throat. "Cregan, I..."

He leaned closer, his hand reaching up to gently cup your cheek. "Shh," he murmured. "No need for words."

The kiss that followed was like nothing you had ever experienced. It was tender and passionate, a release of all the emotions that had been building between you. The storm outside raged on, but in that moment, all you could feel was the warmth of his embrace, the taste of his lips, and the beating of his heart against yours. The fire crackled and popped, casting a warm, golden glow that danced across the stone walls. You and Cregan remained by the hearth, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth and intimacy.

Cregan's hand traced a path down your arm, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. "I've wanted to do that for a long time," he admitted, his voice a low murmur that sent shivers down your spine.

You looked up at him, your breath hitching at the intensity of his gaze. "So have I," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper. "But I didn't think you felt the same."

His lips curved into a small, almost shy smile. "I've always felt it. I just... thought you didn’t like being betrothed to me."

You reached up, your fingers lightly brushing his cheek. "No…i was just scared. Everything here is new to me."

He leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly as if savoring the moment. When he opened them again, there was a fire in his gaze that matched the one burning in the hearth. "Come with me," he said, his voice husky with emotion.

You nodded, allowing him to take your hand and lead you through the dimly lit halls of Winterfell. The storm outside was a constant reminder of the world beyond, but here, within these ancient walls, you felt safe and cherished.

Cregan led you to his chambers, a place you had only ever seen in passing. The room was warm, the fire in the hearth casting flickering shadows on the walls. It was a reflection of its owner—strong, steadfast, and filled with a quiet intensity.

He closed the door behind you, the sound echoing in the quiet room. For a moment, you both stood there, the silence filled with unspoken words and a palpable tension. Then, Cregan stepped forward, his hands gently cradling your face as he kissed you again, this time with a hunger that took your breath away.

You melted into his embrace, your hands finding their way to his chest, feeling the strong, steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. The kiss deepened, a fire igniting between you that rivaled the one in the hearth.

The dim light of the hearth cast a warm, flickering glow across the stone walls of Cregan Stark's chambers. The winter chill was kept at bay by the roaring fire, but inside, a different kind of heat was building. Cregan's piercing eyes locked onto yours, and without a word, he closed the distance between you, his lips capturing yours in a searing kiss.

His hands found your waist, strong and sure, pulling you closer as he deepened the kiss. You melted into him, your fingers threading through his dark hair, tugging slightly as you tried to bring him even closer. His breath was hot against your lips, mingling with yours in a shared rhythm of desire and need.

Cregan's hands began to roam, exploring the curve of your waist and the small of your back. He lifted you effortlessly, guiding you towards the bed, never breaking the kiss. You could feel the strength in his arms, the controlled power that always made you feel safe and desired.

As your back met the soft mattress, Cregan's body pressed against yours, his weight a comforting presence. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him down with you, desperate to keep him close. His lips left yours, trailing a line of fire down your jaw to the sensitive skin of your neck.

You arched beneath him, a soft gasp escaping your lips as his teeth grazed your skin, followed by the soothing touch of his tongue. He was relentless, each kiss, each touch, sending waves of pleasure through your body. You clung to him, your fingers digging into his shoulders, urging him on.

Cregan's kisses grew more fervent, his mouth exploring the hollow of your throat, the curve of your collarbone. His hands moved with purpose, one sliding up to cup your face while the other held your hip, anchoring you to the bed. His body pressed you further into the mattress, and you welcomed the weight, the feeling of being completely enveloped by him.

He paused for a moment, lifting his head to look at you. His eyes were dark with desire, a smoldering intensity that made your heart race. "You are mine," he murmured, his voice husky and low. The possessiveness in his tone sent a thrill through you, and you nodded, your breath coming in shallow pants.

"Hmm…I am yours" you whispered, your voice barely audible over the crackling fire. The words seemed to ignite something in him, and he captured your lips once more in a kiss that was both fierce and tender.

His hands began to roam again, tracing the contours of your body, memorizing every curve and dip. He kissed his way down your neck, his lips and tongue working in tandem to drive you wild.

Each touch was electrifying, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. Your hands found their way under his tunic, exploring the hard planes of his back, feeling the muscles bunch and flex under your touch. He groaned into your neck, the sound vibrating through you, adding to the heady mix of sensations.

Cregan's kisses grew more insistent, his teeth scraping lightly against your skin, followed by the soothing caress of his tongue. He knew exactly how to drive you to the edge, and he was relentless in his pursuit. You were lost in him, in the feel of his lips, his hands, his body. With a growl of need, he claimed your mouth once more, his kiss demanding and consuming. You gave yourself over to him completely, reveling in the intensity of his passion, the depth of his desire. As he pressed you further into the mattress, you could feel him getting hard. You knew that this night would be one you would never forget, a night where he showed you just how much he loved you.

⠀⊹ ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ

The next morning, the storm still showed no signs of abating. Snow piled high against the windows, and the wind continued to howl like a restless spirit. But the fire in Cregan's chambers kept the cold at bay, and the warmth of his embrace made you feel invincible.

You woke to find Cregan watching you, his grey eyes soft and filled with something you couldn't quite name. "Good morning," he said, his voice a low rumble that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine.

"Good morning," you replied, smiling up at him. "Did you sleep well?"

He nodded, his hand gently brushing a strand of hair from your face. "Better than I have in a long time," he admitted. "With you here... it feels right."

Your heart swelled at his words, and you reached up to cup his cheek. "It does," you agreed, your thumb tracing the line of his jaw. "I feel the same way."

He leaned into your touch, his eyes closing briefly as if savoring the moment. "I'm glad," he murmured. "Because I don't want this to be a one-time thing. I want... more."

You could hear the vulnerability in his voice, and it made you love him all the more. "So do I," you said softly. "I want to be with you, Cregan. Not just for now, but for always."

His eyes opened, a spark of hope and determination in their depths. "Then that's what we'll do," he said firmly. "We'll make this work. No matter what."

Hours passed by and what followed were a blur of snow and cold, but the warmth between you and Cregan never wavered.

Later that evening, as you sat together by the fire, Cregan took your hand in his, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "I want to show you something," he said, his voice filled with a quiet intensity.

You looked at him curiously. "What is it?"

He stood, pulling you to your feet and leading you through the halls of Winterfell. The castle was quiet, the only sound the soft crunch of your footsteps on the stone floor.

He led you to a secluded part of the castle, a place you had never been before. It was a small garden, sheltered from the worst of the storm by high walls and ancient trees. The snow lay thick on the ground, sparkling in the moonlight.

Cregan turned to you, his eyes reflecting the light of the moon and stars. "This place... it's special to me," he said softly. "It's where I come to think, to find peace."

You looked around, taking in the serene beauty of the garden. "It's beautiful," you said, your breath misting in the cold air. "Thank you for showing me."

He smiled, his hand tightening around yours. "I wanted you to see it," he said. "Because you're special to me too. More than anyone or anything."

Your heart swelled at his words, and you stepped closer, your free hand resting on his chest. "And you mean everything to me, Cregan," you said, your voice filled with emotion. "I love you."

His eyes softened, and he leaned down to kiss you, a slow, tender kiss that spoke of all the love and devotion he felt for you. "I love you too," he murmured against your lips. "More than I can ever say."

You stayed in the garden for a while, wrapped in each other's arms, the world outside forgotten. The storm had brought you together, and now, as the snow gently fell around you, you knew that nothing could ever tear you apart.

⠀⊹ ˑ ִ ֗ ִ ۫ ˑ

That night, as the snowstorm outside intensified, you found yourself alone in the library, seeking solace among the ancient tomes. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls. You had just settled into a chair with a book when the door creaked open.

Cregan Stark stepped inside, his presence filling the room. He looked surprised to see you there but quickly masked it with his usual stoicism.

“My dear,” he greeted, his voice softer than usual. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”

You offered a small smile, trying to hide your nerves. “I find comfort in books, my lord. They offer an escape from reality when the weather gets horrible.”

He nodded, his eyes studying you intently. “Winterfell can be overwhelming, especially in the winter months. If you ever need anything to keep you warm, do not hesitate to ask.” He winked at you with a small smile.

Before you could respond, a sudden gust of wind howled through the hallways, rattling the windows and extinguishing the fire. The room plunged into darkness, save for the faint glow of the embers.

Cregan moved closer, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. “Stay close. The storm is worse than I thought. We need to find shelter.”

As you followed him through the dimly lit corridors, the howling wind seemed to grow louder, echoing through the stone walls. The castle felt like a labyrinth, and you struggled to keep up with Cregan’s long strides.

Just as you reached a narrow stairway, a deafening crash resonated from above. The ceiling groaned under the weight of the snow, and you felt a sense of impending danger.

Cregan turned to you, his expression grim. “We need to hurry. Follow me.”

But before you could take another step, the ground beneath you shook, and a section of the ceiling began to collapse. The last thing you saw was Cregan’s outstretched hand, reaching for you as the darkness consumed everything.

tag list: @beebeechaos @benjicotblckwood

#house of the dragon #cregan x reader #cregan fanfiction #hotd cregan #cregan stark #cregan x you #hotd fanfic #hotd season 2 #hotd imagine #hotd x reader #cregan x y/n #cregan smut #house stark #house targaryen #winters embrace – mini series

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novaursa · 12 days

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The Cold Embrace (2/2)

Requests are closed!

- Summary: As time passes, snow begins to melt.

- Paring: velayrion!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: @missisjoker So, here is the second and last part straight from the oven that was being baked all night. I had a lot of fun writing it. I hope you guys like this conclusion of this two part story.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 8 000+

- Previous part: 1/2

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @alyssa-dayne @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess @jellybeanstacey0519 @strengthandstay @anne-mary-1d @lovelyteenagebeard

The crisp chill of autumn clung to the air, painting the landscape of Winterfell in muted shades of orange and gold. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, and the days had grown shorter, yet despite the changing season, little had thawed between you and Cregan Stark. The cold inside the walls of Winterfell seemed to mirror the tension that still lingered between the two of you, each day marked by stilted conversations and, more often than not, sharp exchanges.

Today was no different.

"You speak of duty as if it’s something noble," you spat, your voice tight as you stood across from Cregan in the courtyard, your cloak billowing in the wind. "But this—this life you’ve trapped me in—it’s a cage. You call it honor, but what is honorable about ripping me away from my family?"

Cregan, his expression as hard as the stone walls surrounding you, stood tall, arms crossed over his chest. The northern winds blew through the yard, stirring his dark hair as he met your gaze with his own unflinching one. "A cage? Is that what you see this as? I have given you more freedom than many would expect from a lord. You come and go as you please, and I have not demanded anything of you that you have not been ready to give."

"You think freedom means letting me roam these cold, barren lands?" you shot back, your voice rising. "I am a dragon, Cregan, not some northern wolf content with howling at the moon. I am bound to the skies, to fire and wind, and every moment I am here, I wither. You cannot understand that."

His jaw clenched, his eyes darkening with frustration. "I have done everything to make this a home for you," he said, his tone dangerously low. "But it’s clear that nothing will ever satisfy you. You’re too busy yearning for something you’ve lost to see what is right in front of you."

You scoffed, turning away from him, your steps hurried as you walked toward the godswood, needing space, needing air. "There is nothing here for me but snow and silence," you muttered, though you knew he heard you.

Cregan watched you go, his heart heavy as the weight of your words settled in. He stood there for a long moment, the wind tugging at his cloak, his expression unreadable. Inside, however, there was a storm brewing—a storm of disappointment, frustration, and something else, something deeper that he had been trying to deny for months.

Finally, with a heavy sigh, he turned and made his way back into the keep, his mind racing with thoughts he could no longer ignore.

In the warmth of the solar, the fire crackled in the hearth, its light casting flickering shadows across the room. Grand Maester Kennet sat across from Cregan, his wise old eyes studying the lord with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

"You’ve been quieter than usual, my lord," Kennet said, folding his hands in his lap. "Something weighs heavily on you."

Cregan leaned back in his chair, staring into the flames. He had kept his feelings bottled up for so long, unwilling to admit to anyone, let alone himself, how much this situation had affected him. But now, with the distance between him and you growing each day, the burden felt too great to carry alone.

"She doesn’t want to be here," Cregan said quietly, his voice rough with an emotion he rarely let show. "No matter what I do, no matter how much I try to make this place a home for her, she only sees Winterfell as a prison. She longs for Dragonstone. For her family."

Kennet nodded thoughtfully, his expression sympathetic. "It is not uncommon for one to yearn for the place of their birth, especially when it’s been taken from them. The Princess... she is like her mother, strong-willed and fierce. The North is a different world for someone raised among dragons and fire."

Cregan exhaled slowly, leaning forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees as he rubbed a hand over his face. "I know that. I’ve known it since the day she arrived. But... there’s more. It’s not just that she can’t find a place here." He paused, his voice dropping, as if the words themselves were difficult to admit. "I care for her, Kennet. More than I thought I ever would. When Jacaerys first came to me, he spoke of her with such passion and admiration. He told me stories of her strength, her spirit, how she was a woman who could stand beside any man, even one like me. And I believed him. I admired her before I even met her."

The Maester listened in silence, his brow furrowed in thought as Cregan continued.

"And when she arrived," Cregan went on, his gaze distant, "I saw it. Everything Jacaerys said was true. She’s fierce, and proud, and... gods, she’s beautiful in her own way. But she looks at me like I’m the reason for all her misery, like I’ve taken something from her that she can never get back. She’ll never see me as anything but the man who keeps her from the life she wants."

Kennet sighed softly, shaking his head. "Love is a complicated thing, my lord. You cannot force it, nor can you expect it to bloom in a place of resentment. The Princess... she is grieving the life she left behind. She may yet come to see what you offer, but it will take time."

Cregan’s eyes flickered with doubt as he looked at the older man. "Time may be something we don’t have. The war brews in the South, and her family is at the heart of it. She feels trapped here while her brothers and mother fight for the throne. I’ve heard her speak of it—how the North is no place for dragons, how she feels as though she’s losing herself in the cold."

The Maester tilted his head, considering Cregan’s words carefully. "It is true that the North is no easy place for a soul like hers. But perhaps... perhaps if you can show her that she can still be who she is, even here, she might come to find her place."

Cregan stood from his seat, pacing the room, the weight of his frustration palpable. "How can I show her that when she refuses to let me in? Every time we speak, it turns into an argument. She doesn’t trust me. She doesn’t want to be here, and she certainly doesn’t want to be with me."

Kennet rose slowly, his hands resting on the table as he regarded Cregan with a calm, steady gaze. "Then you must be patient, my lord. If you truly care for the Princess, you will have to endure her fire, much like one endures the harshest winters. But winters pass, and even in the North, the snow melts. Perhaps in time, her heart will soften."

Cregan sighed deeply, staring into the fire once more. He wished it were as simple as waiting for the snow to melt, but as the days passed, he feared the rift between him and you was growing too wide to ever close.

He wanted you to see him, truly see him, not as the man who kept you here but as someone who could stand beside you, strong enough to weather the storm of your spirit. But until then, all he could do was wait.

And hope.

The halls of Winterfell buzzed with an unusual energy, a hive of activity that Cregan hadn’t expected so soon after the summer's end. The brisk wind of autumn howled through the open courtyards, and yet the chill in the air was not the only sign that winter was approaching. Men and women rushed through the keep, arms filled with supplies, voices rising in quick, urgent conversation.

Cregan furrowed his brow as he observed the flurry of work. His bannermen and servants seemed to be following orders, yet none had come directly from him. His curiosity piqued, he caught sight of one of his men, Ser Roland, directing a group of stable hands with a sense of urgency. Cregan made his way over, his long strides carrying him across the courtyard.

"Ser Roland," he called out, his deep voice cutting through the noise. "What’s all this about? I don’t recall ordering preparations for winter just yet."

Ser Roland turned quickly, bowing his head in respect before answering. "Lord Stark, it’s not your orders we’re following. The Princess has taken it upon herself to make sure Winterfell is ready for the long winter ahead. She’s been directing the stores, making changes to the rations, and ensuring that all livestock are accounted for."

Cregan’s brow lifted in surprise. "The Princess? I wasn’t aware she had taken an interest in such matters."

Ser Roland nodded, his expression a mixture of admiration and confusion. "Aye, my lord. She’s had us reorganize the grain stores and instructed that additional salt be used to preserve meats in case the winter lasts longer than expected. She also had some of the women gather herbs and berries for medicinal stocks—said it’s something her mother did on Dragonstone. Even ordered new tunnels to be dug beneath the walls, should the snow block access to certain parts of the keep. It’s... impressive."

Cregan was silent for a moment, taken aback by the level of thought and strategy that had gone into the preparations. The Princess, who had made it clear she despised this place, was ensuring it would withstand winter’s cruelty. And yet, she hadn’t spoken a word of it to him. His initial surprise gave way to a grudging respect.

"And where is she now?" Cregan asked, his tone more curious than demanding.

Roland hesitated before answering. "The Princess took to the skies a short while ago, my lord. She went flying on Silverwing."

"Flying," Cregan repeated, his brow furrowing. It wasn’t unusual for you to seek solace in the skies, but the flicker of worry began to creep in. "And who accompanied her?"

Roland shifted, his expression turning sheepish. "Your son, my lord. Young Rickon went with her."

Cregan stiffened, his heart quickening at the thought of Rickon riding atop Silverwing. His instinct was to feel alarmed—to think of all the things that could go wrong with a boy so young riding a dragon, even one as gentle as Silverwing. For a moment, the image of his son, small and fragile, atop such a powerful beast made him want to storm out and demand answers.

But then he stopped himself. Rickon was not some fragile boy. He was his son, a Stark, raised to face the wild north and the dangers that came with it. And more than that, Silverwing was under your command, a dragon bound to your will. His mind raced with the desire to scold you for being reckless, but something held him back. Rickon had begged for a chance to fly, ever since he had seen the dragons for the first time.

"Thank you, Roland," Cregan said curtly, turning away from the bustling activity of the courtyard and heading toward the godswood where he knew you often landed with Silverwing.

The cold air bit at Cregan's face as he walked through the open fields behind Winterfell. The godswood stood tall and silent in the distance, but it was the open expanse of land beyond it that caught his attention. There, just returning from the skies, was Silverwing. Her massive form settled gracefully on the ground, her wings folding in with practiced ease as you and Rickon dismounted.

He could see Rickon from afar, his small figure bounding toward the keep, his face lit up with sheer joy. As Cregan approached, he heard his son before he saw him up close.

"Father!" Rickon shouted, running full speed toward Cregan, his excitement bubbling over. "I flew, Father! I flew on Silverwing! She let me ride with her, and we soared above the trees! You should’ve seen it!"

The boy’s face was flushed with exhilaration, his cheeks red from the cold wind, and his eyes sparkled with uncontainable glee. He practically bounced in front of Cregan, his enthusiasm infectious.

Cregan knelt down, placing a hand on Rickon’s shoulder. "Did you now?" he asked, a small smile tugging at his lips despite himself. "And you weren’t afraid?"

Rickon shook his head vigorously. "No! The Princess told me not to worry. She said Silverwing wouldn’t let anything happen to me." His voice dropped to a near-whisper, eyes wide with awe. "And she didn’t. I felt like I was part of the sky. Can I go again, Father? Please?"

Cregan looked down at his son, his heart swelling with pride at the boy’s bravery. The initial urge to reprimand you, to accuse you of putting his son at risk, faded as he saw the pure joy on Rickon’s face. How could he take that away from him?

He stood up, his eyes drifting toward you. You were brushing snow from your cloak, your gaze turned elsewhere, as if trying to pretend you hadn’t noticed him approaching. But you had noticed. You always did.

For a moment, Cregan was silent, the tension between the two of you palpable. He could have said something. Could have warned you against taking such risks with his son. But instead, he let out a quiet sigh, looking back down at Rickon.

"You can go again," he said softly, ruffling the boy’s hair. "But only when the Princess says it's safe."

Rickon beamed and immediately ran off toward the keep, his excitement carrying him as fast as his legs could take him. Cregan watched him go, then turned his gaze back to you. You still hadn’t spoken, but your eyes met his, guarded as always.

"I should scold you," he said, his tone measured. "You had no right to take Rickon flying without asking me first."

You straightened, your chin lifting slightly. "He wanted to go. And Silverwing wouldn’t have harmed him."

Cregan nodded, but his expression remained serious. "I know. But he’s still my son. And as much as he may adore dragons, I need to know he’s safe."

The tension hung between you for a moment longer, but Cregan couldn’t help the way his heart softened slightly. Despite everything—despite the constant bickering, the distance between you—he could see that while you might not want this marriage, you cared for Rickon. The way you had taken him flying, giving him the one thing that had brought him so much joy, didn’t go unnoticed.

"Perhaps," Cregan added quietly, his tone softer now, "you don’t want me. But you will be a good mother to Rickon. I can see that."

For a moment, you didn’t respond, your expression unreadable. Then you gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "I’ll keep him safe," you said, your voice barely above a whisper.

Cregan watched you for a long moment before turning and heading back toward Winterfell. The coldness between you two remained, but now there was a small crack in the icy wall that had stood between you since the moment you arrived.

The cold air was sharper here, beyond the walls of Winterfell, biting deep into Cregan’s skin as he led his men through the thick snow-covered wilderness. The northern winds howled, carrying with them the scent of pine and frost, mingled with something far more sinister—the smell of smoke from a Wildling camp. They had been tracking the Wildlings for days now, ever since word came that a raiding party had crossed the Wall, attacking isolated settlements and stealing what little food and supplies they could find before winter’s full grip took hold.

Cregan’s blood thrummed with the familiar tension that came before battle. His breath formed clouds in the cold air, his grip firm on the hilt of his sword as he and his men closed in. They could see the crude campfires in the distance, flickering like beacons in the darkening forest.

"Stay low," Cregan whispered to his men, his voice barely audible above the wind. The Stark bannermen, seasoned and loyal, followed his command without hesitation. They fanned out in a loose line, their cloaks blending into the snowy landscape.

The Wildlings had set up in a small clearing, their crude weapons and fur-lined tents marking them as a desperate group. There were perhaps a dozen of them—armed with spears, axes, and the occasional rusty sword—but they were not to be underestimated. Wildlings were fierce, survivalists hardened by the lands beyond the Wall. This fight would be bloody.

Cregan motioned to his men, and in unison, they surged forward, the snow muffling their approach until they were nearly upon the camp.

The first clash came fast and violent.

Cregan’s sword met the steel of a Wildling’s axe, the sharp clang of metal ringing out into the frigid night. The raiders shouted in surprise, their camp erupting into chaos as the Stark men descended upon them. The Wildlings fought back viciously, their crude weapons swinging wildly, aiming for any vulnerable flesh they could find.

Cregan swung his blade with precision, cleaving through a Wildling’s chest, blood spraying across the snow like ink on parchment. He turned just in time to parry another blow, gritting his teeth as the impact jarred his arm. Around him, the sounds of battle raged—shouts, screams, the wet thud of bodies falling into the snow.

But then, something sharp and hot bit into his side.

Cregan gasped, stumbling back as a Wildling spear pierced his flesh just below his ribs. The pain was immediate and blinding, spreading like fire through his body. His grip faltered on his sword for a moment, but he didn’t let go. With a roar, he swung his blade in a brutal arc, slicing through the man who had struck him. The Wildling crumpled to the ground, but Cregan was already weakening, his vision blurring at the edges.

The fight continued around him, his men cutting down the remaining Wildlings, but every movement Cregan made sent waves of pain crashing through him. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay upright, even as the blood began to seep through his furs, staining the snow beneath his feet a dark crimson.

At last, the battle was over. The Wildlings lay dead, their bodies scattered across the snow like broken dolls. Cregan’s men stood victorious, though bruised and bloodied themselves.

One of his men, Ser Vayon, rushed over to him, his face pale with worry as he saw the blood. "My lord! You’re wounded."

Cregan waved him off, trying to mask the severity of his injury. "I’ll live," he growled, though his voice was weaker than he intended. "But I can’t make it back as fast as the rest of you. Take the others and ride ahead. Get help."

Ser Vayon hesitated, his eyes darting between Cregan and the rest of the men. "We can carry you—"

"No," Cregan interrupted, his tone firm despite the pain. "I’ll slow you down. If you ride ahead, you’ll reach Winterfell faster. I’ll follow behind." His vision blurred for a moment, and he had to steady himself against a nearby tree. "Go. That’s an order."

Reluctantly, Ser Vayon nodded, glancing back at the other men. "As you command, my lord."

With that, they mounted their horses, casting one last worried glance at him before spurring their mounts and riding off through the snow. Cregan watched them go, the sound of hooves fading into the distance, leaving him alone in the quiet, snow-covered forest.

He took a few shaky steps, but each movement sent a fresh wave of agony through his body. His hand clutched his side where the blood still flowed, staining the white snow beneath his boots. The world around him tilted, and he fell to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He tried to rise, but his strength was failing, his body too weak to carry him any further.

Just as his vision began to swim, he heard a sound—a distant, high-pitched screech that cut through the silence like a knife.

Cregan blinked, his vision blurring as something massive appeared in the sky above him. He squinted through the haze of pain, trying to focus, and then he saw it—Silverwing, her silver-scaled body descending from the clouds like a gleaming specter. The dragon landed with a soft thud, her wings folding as she approached him, her eyes gleaming in the dim light.

Cregan cursed under his breath, trying to wave her off with a weak motion of his hand. "Go on, beast," he muttered, his voice slurred with exhaustion. "I’m not your rider."

But Silverwing ignored him, her massive head lowering as she nudged him gently with her nose. The touch was surprisingly gentle for such a fearsome creature, as if the dragon knew he was on the brink of collapse. She nudged him again, more insistently this time, her warm breath washing over him as if urging him to stand.

Cregan tried to push her away, but his strength was gone. "Damn dragon," he rasped, his body trembling from blood loss. "Leave me."

Silverwing let out a low rumble, her large eyes narrowing as if in disapproval. She nudged him one last time, and when he still didn’t move, she took matters into her own talons. With surprising care, Silverwing wrapped her claws around his body, lifting him effortlessly from the snow.

Cregan groaned, the world spinning around him as Silverwing took flight, the sensation of being carried through the sky both terrifying and surreal. His body was limp in her talons, the wind whipping through his hair as they soared above the treetops, Winterfell a distant shadow on the horizon.

His eyelids grew heavy, the pain in his side fading as numbness took over. The world below him grew smaller, the sky a dark blur above.

As Silverwing’s wings beat rhythmically, the wind howling in his ears, Cregan's consciousness began to slip away, the edges of his vision turning black.

The last thing he saw before the darkness claimed him was Winterfell’s walls in the distance, growing closer with every beat of Silverwing’s wings. Then, nothing.

Cregan Stark knew no more.

The courtyard of Winterfell was a storm of chaos as you pushed through the throngs of servants and guards, your heart racing, breath short. The cold northern wind stung your face, but you barely felt it. All you could focus on was the sight ahead—Silverwing, her massive silver form crouched low on the snow, her head lowered protectively over a motionless figure sprawled at her feet. You shoved past a startled servant, your voice rising above the din of panic.

"Move aside!" you barked, pushing through the crowd until you finally reached the clearing where Cregan lay, blood staining the snow beneath him, his face pale and ashen.

Silverwing rumbled softly as you approached, her enormous eyes watching you, but she made no move to stop you. Her wings shifted, creating a barrier between the man she had carried home and the gathering onlookers.

Your heart leapt into your throat. The sight of Cregan—your husband, though it had never felt real until this moment—bleeding and unconscious before his own keep sent a surge of fear through you that you hadn’t expected.

"Where is Rickon?" you demanded, whirling around to one of the women standing near the edge of the scene. Rickon’s nanny stepped forward, worry etched on her face.

"He was playing with the other children when we heard the commotion," she said nervously, glancing toward Silverwing. "Should I—?"

"Find him," you interrupted quickly, your voice firmer than it had been in weeks. "Keep him away from here. I don’t want him seeing his father like this."

The woman nodded, clearly relieved to have something to do, and hurried off into the crowd. You turned back toward Cregan just as Maester Kennet knelt beside him, his hands moving with the steady calm of a man who had seen too many battle injuries in his lifetime. His fingers probed at the wound beneath Cregan’s furs, his face grim.

"Will he live?" you asked, unable to keep the edge of desperation from creeping into your voice.

Kennet didn’t look up, his attention still fixed on the blood-soaked gash. "The wound is deep, but he’s strong. If we can stop the bleeding and keep the fever from setting in, he has a chance. But we need to get him inside—now."

Already, several of Cregan’s men were lifting him carefully onto a makeshift stretcher, their faces pale with worry. You followed as they carried him toward the castle, your feet moving without thought. The icy wind cut through your cloak, but you ignored it. The only thing you could focus on was the sight of Cregan’s lifeless form being carried through the halls of Winterfell, his breathing shallow and labored.

As they reached his chambers, the men gently placed him on the large bed, stepping back to allow Maester Kennet to work. You hovered just beyond the bedside, your hands clenched into tight fists at your sides, helplessness gnawing at you. Despite everything—despite the constant arguments, the coldness between you—you couldn’t bear the thought of losing him like this. The stark realization struck you hard, knocking the wind from your lungs.

You didn’t want him to die.

For what felt like hours, Kennet worked over Cregan’s body, stitching the wound with deft hands and applying herbs to stave off infection. You stood nearby, your eyes never leaving Cregan’s pale face. He was so still, too still. The sight of him like this made the cold inside Winterfell seem even more unbearable.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Kennet finished his work. The room was filled with the scent of medicinal salves and the sharp tang of blood. The old Maester wiped his hands on a cloth and turned to you, exhaustion etched in every line of his face.

"I’ve done all I can for now," he said quietly. "He will need time to heal, but whether he wakes or not depends on his own strength."

You nodded mutely, your throat tight with unspoken fear. "Thank you, Maester," you managed to whisper. Kennet gave a small nod, then gathered his supplies and left the room, leaving you alone with Cregan.

For a long time, you stood there, staring at the man who had become your husband, the man you had fought with, resented, and yet now feared to lose. His breathing was shallow, but steady, the rise and fall of his chest a small reassurance in the overwhelming uncertainty that hung over the room.

Without thinking, you moved closer to the bed, sinking into the chair beside him. Your hand reached out almost instinctively, and before you could stop yourself, your fingers closed around his. His hand was rough and calloused, larger than yours, but in this moment, it felt fragile.

"You stubborn, foolish man," you whispered, your voice breaking as you held onto him. "You always have to be the hero, don’t you?"

Tears stung your eyes, but you blinked them away, unwilling to give in to the fear gnawing at your insides. Instead, you lowered your head, closing your eyes as you prayed softly in Valyrian, the words flowing from your lips in a desperate plea to the gods of your ancestors.

"Grant him strength," you whispered, tightening your grip on his hand. "Give him the will to fight, to wake up."

The room was silent save for the crackle of the fire in the hearth, the warmth of the flames doing little to thaw the cold dread that had settled in your chest. You stayed by his bedside, refusing to leave, your heart pounding with every passing second.

Despite everything, you weren’t ready to let him go. Not yet.

And so, you stayed, waiting, praying, and hoping that Cregan Stark—your husband—would find his way back to you.

Cregan awoke slowly, his mind swimming through the thick fog of pain and disorientation. The world around him was hazy, the room spinning as he tried to make sense of where he was. His body felt heavy, weighed down by a deep, aching fatigue that seemed to seep into his very bones. He blinked, his vision clearing little by little, and as the soft flicker of firelight came into focus, he realized he was back in his chambers, the familiar scent of burning wood and herbs filling the air.

It was then that he noticed her.

You sat beside his bed, your arms crossed, your expression a mixture of concern and irritation. The furrow in your brow deepened as you noticed him stirring, your lips pressed into a thin line that barely masked the relief you must have felt. Despite the heaviness in his limbs and the sharp pain that shot through his side with every breath, Cregan couldn’t help but find it almost... amusing. There you were, the Dragon Princess, always so fierce and untamable, looking as though you were about to scold him, even now.

"You're awake," you said sharply, though there was a tremor of emotion beneath your voice that gave you away.

Cregan tried to sit up, wincing as the pain lanced through his side, but before he could make much progress, you were leaning forward, pushing him back down with a firm hand on his chest.

"Don’t even think about it," you warned, your tone brooking no argument. "Maester Kennet said you shouldn’t move. Not unless you want to tear your stitches and end up back in this bed for even longer."

He lay back with a grunt, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth despite the discomfort. "Well, I wouldn’t want to upset the Maester," he muttered, his voice gravelly from disuse.

You gave him a look that would have wilted lesser men. "You almost died out there, Cregan."

The smirk faded from his face as he looked at you more closely. There was something in your eyes—something raw and unguarded. The irritation, the frustration—it was all there, but beneath it, there was a depth of feeling that surprised him. You were angry, yes, but not just at him. You were angry because you had been scared. Scared of losing him.

The realization hit him like a punch to the chest, and for the first time in years, he felt something stir inside him. It was warmth, not from the fire in the hearth, but from the way you were looking at him—fierce and tender all at once. It had been a long time since anyone had cared for him in that way, and now, seeing it in you—the woman who had resisted him, who had fought him every step of the way—brought a strange sense of peace to his heart.

"You care," he said softly, more to himself than to you.

You scoffed, crossing your arms tighter as you sat back in the chair. "Of course I care. You’re my husband, for better or worse." Your tone was sharp, but the emotion in your eyes betrayed you.

Cregan couldn’t help but chuckle, even though it sent a sharp pain through his side. "I didn’t think you’d admit that so easily."

You glared at him, though the fire in your eyes wasn’t the same angry blaze he was used to. It was different now—softer, though no less fierce. "Don’t flatter yourself," you shot back. "I’m only here because Rickon can’t see you like this. He’d worry too much."

Cregan’s lips twitched into a faint smile. "So, you’re saying you’re here for Rickon, not for me?"

You opened your mouth to retort, but then you stopped, your eyes flicking away for a brief moment before returning to his. "I’m here for both of you," you admitted quietly, your voice losing some of its edge. "You were reckless, Cregan. Going after those Wildlings in your condition was foolish. What were you thinking?"

He sighed, his hand moving slightly to rest against his bandaged side. "I was thinking I needed to protect the North. To protect my people."

"At the cost of your life?" you shot back, incredulous. "Your people need you alive, not bleeding out in the snow."

There was a pause, and then Cregan gave a small nod, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that surprised you. "You’re right," he said, his voice low and steady. "I was reckless. But it’s what I’ve always done. I’ve always put others first. The North, Winterfell, my family... I didn’t think anyone would care if something happened to me."

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with the weight of unspoken things. You stared at him for a long moment, your expression softening, and for the first time, Cregan saw something shift in you. The walls you had built between you—the ice that had kept you at a distance—continues to crack, again a little more than before.

"I would care," you said quietly, your voice barely above a whisper. "I may not have wanted this marriage, but I don’t want you dead."

The warmth in his chest grew, spreading through him like a fire kindling to life after a long, cold winter. He had known you were strong, had admired your spirit from the moment Jacaerys spoke of you. But now, seeing you like this—caring, vulnerable in your own way—it was more than he could have ever expected.

"I never thought you’d stay by my side like this," he said, his voice soft, his dark eyes searching your face. "But you did."

You looked away for a moment, your fingers tightening in your lap. "I stayed because I couldn’t leave you like that. No one deserves to be alone when they’re hurt, not even you."

He chuckled softly, wincing at the pain it caused. "You have a strange way of showing concern, Princess."

Your lips curved into the faintest of smiles, though it was laced with exasperation. "You’re insufferable, you know that?"

"I’ve been told," he muttered, still smiling despite himself.

The tension between you seemed to ease then, the space between you no longer as cold and vast as it once had been. Cregan felt it—the change, subtle but undeniable. And though he knew things wouldn’t be easy, though you would likely bicker again and clash as fiercely as you had before, there was something different now.

For the first time in a long while, Cregan Stark felt something stir inside him—a warmth, a sense of hope. He didn’t know what the future would bring, but for now, he was content with the knowledge that you were here, by his side, and that perhaps, just perhaps, you cared for him more than either of you had realized.

And that was enough.

The godswood was bathed in the soft light of the late afternoon sun, the ancient red leaves of the weirwood tree rustling in the cool breeze. Cregan walked beside you, his stride steady now, fully recovered from his near-fatal wounds. It had been months since that day when Silverwing had saved him from death's grip, and in that time, the distance between you and Cregan had shifted. You still bickered, your sharp words clashing like swords, but there was something different now. Beneath the teasing, the arguments, there was a warmth that neither of you could deny.

"I still think you're insufferably stubborn," you muttered, your arms crossed as you walked along the path beside him. "Charging into battle like a fool—next time, I won’t be sitting by your bedside."

Cregan chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that made your irritation flare even hotter. "Ah, but you did sit by my bedside," he said, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. "And I seem to recall you staying there for quite some time. Worrying about me, even."

You shot him a sharp glare, though it lacked the real venom it once held. "You should be thanking the gods you survived, not teasing me for caring whether you lived or died."

"I do thank the gods," he replied, his voice quieter now, more serious. "But I also thank you. You stayed with me, Y/N. I haven’t forgotten that."

The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard, and for a moment, you felt the familiar defenses you had built around yourself begin to crumble. You glanced away, your gaze falling on the gnarled roots of the weirwood tree, trying to ignore the way his words made your heart flutter.

"You’re still a fool," you mumbled, though the edge had left your voice.

Cregan stopped walking, and you felt him gently take your hand, pulling you to a halt. You turned to face him, and in the quiet of the godswood, with only the wind rustling through the leaves, you found yourself caught in his gaze—those deep, grey eyes filled with something you hadn’t allowed yourself to see before. There was no frustration, no anger—only warmth, only want.

"And you’re still the most stubborn woman I’ve ever met," he said softly, stepping closer. His hand reached up to brush a strand of hair from your face, the touch so gentle it sent a shiver down your spine despite the cold air. "But I wouldn’t want you any other way."

You opened your mouth to retort, to say something biting, but the words never came. Instead, you found yourself closing the distance between you, your breath catching as his hand cupped the side of your face. His thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, and the last remnants of the ice between you began to melt.

Before you could think, before you could stop yourself, your lips met his.

The kiss was soft at first, tentative, as though both of you were testing the waters. But the moment your mouths touched, the fire that had been simmering beneath your bickering flared to life. His hand moved to your waist, pulling you closer, and your arms wrapped around his neck, deepening the kiss.

Neither of you spoke; there were no more words left to be said. The cold air around you seemed to disappear, muted by the heat that surged between you. His lips were warm and insistent, his body pressed against yours with a need you hadn’t known you could feel.

Without breaking the kiss, Cregan’s hands moved to the ties of your cloak, loosening them with deft fingers. You tugged at his own furs, pushing them from his shoulders, and soon the cold was biting at your exposed skin, but you didn’t care. And neither did he. The warmth of your body, of your fire, was all that mattered to him now.

Your cloak fell to the ground, forgotten among the roots of the weirwood, and Cregan’s hands were on you, pulling at the fastenings of your gown. You gasped as the cold air hit your bare skin, but his hands were there to chase it away, his touch rough and gentle all at once. You tugged at his tunic, eager to feel his skin beneath your hands, and when he pulled it over his head, you marveled at the strength of him, the way his muscles rippled beneath the scars and callouses of a warrior.

Before long, the two of you were bare to the elements, the cold air forgotten as he lowered you gently to the ground. The soft moss beneath you was cool, but the fire in your veins made it bearable. Cregan’s body hovered over yours, his eyes searching your face for any sign of hesitation.

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice husky with desire, but still full of the respect that had always been there beneath your bickering. "I won’t force this, Y/N."

You stared up at him, your heart racing, and for the first time, you felt no resistance. No walls, no barriers. You nodded, your voice barely a whisper. "I’m sure."

With that, he kissed you again, slow and deep, as his body pressed gently against yours. His hands were everywhere—on your waist, your hips, trailing down your thighs, sending sparks of heat through your entire being. When he finally entered you, it was with a slow, deliberate tenderness, his eyes never leaving yours.

The brief flash of pain as he broke your maidenhead made you wince, but he was there, soothing it with soft kisses, his hand tangled in your hair. And then, as the discomfort began to fade, the pleasure took its place, warm and insistent.

You moved against him, your body finding a rhythm as you urged him on with the softest of moans, your hands gripping his shoulders, your legs wrapping around him. His breath came in ragged gasps, his control slipping as he gave in to the fire between you, the primal, unspoken connection that had been building for months.

The cold wind whispered through the trees, but it could not reach you. The warmth of your bodies, entwined beneath the ancient weirwood, was enough to drive it away. Cregan’s movements grew more intense, his lips never straying far from yours, his hands gripping you as though he feared you might vanish.

Your moans mixed with his groans, the air between you thick with the sounds of your love-making, the passion that had been hidden behind walls of ice and words for so long. Every touch, every thrust, brought you closer to a place neither of you had been before, and when the moment came—when your bodies finally reached the peak—you clung to him, your breath ragged, your body trembling with the force of it.

He followed you over the edge moments later, his own release marked by a soft growl that sent shivers down your spine. For a moment, the world seemed to still, the wind quieting, the godswood holding its breath as the two of you lay entwined, the warmth of his body pressed against yours.

Cregan didn’t move, didn’t pull away. Instead, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours as he whispered your name. You closed your eyes, letting the weight of the moment settle over you, your heart still racing from the intensity of it all.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt truly warm.

The day was crisp and clear, the sky a bright blue canvas that stretched out endlessly above Winterfell. Silverwing, her silver scales shimmering in the afternoon sun, stood in the godswood, shifting her weight restlessly, her wings fluttering with barely-contained excitement. You stood beside her, hands on your hips, grinning as you watched Cregan approach, his expression a mix of wariness and resignation.

"You look like you're marching to your execution," you teased, unable to hide the amusement in your voice. Silverwing gave a low, eager rumble, her eyes fixed on Cregan as though she sensed his hesitation and found it endlessly amusing.

Cregan, on the other hand, didn’t seem to share Silverwing’s enthusiasm—or yours, for that matter. He slowed his approach, eyes narrowing at the massive dragon before him. "I thought I was done with near-death experiences for a while," he muttered, giving you a sideways glance. "But here I am, about to climb on the back of something that could roast me alive."

You chuckled, stepping closer to him and placing a hand on his chest. "Oh, don’t be such a Stark about it. Silverwing wouldn’t dream of harming you—not as long as I’m here." You flashed him a grin, though you could tell from the way his jaw tightened that he wasn’t quite convinced.

"I suppose that’s supposed to reassure me?" he asked, glancing up at Silverwing’s massive head as she tilted it curiously toward him.

"Well, it should," you said, rolling your eyes playfully. "Besides, she likes you. Remember how she likes to nudge you? If a dragon doesn’t like you, trust me, you’ll know."

Cregan swallowed hard, his eyes flicking back to Silverwing’s gleaming teeth. "Comforting."

You laughed, grabbing his hand and tugging him closer to Silverwing, whose tail flicked impatiently behind her. "Come on, brave Lord of Winterfell. It’s not every day you get to ride a dragon. You might even enjoy it."

"I highly doubt that," Cregan grumbled, though he allowed you to lead him closer.

When you reached Silverwing’s side, you placed a hand on her flank, feeling the familiar warmth of her scales beneath your palm. The dragon lowered herself slightly, making it easier for you to mount. You turned to Cregan, your smile widening at the sight of him standing there, arms crossed, clearly trying to mask his discomfort.

"Up you go," you said brightly, giving him a playful shove toward Silverwing’s side. "Ladies first."

He shot you a look that could have frozen the Wall, but with a resigned sigh, he began to clamber up the dragon’s side, his movements careful and deliberate. You followed him, slipping easily into the saddle behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist to keep both of you secure.

"You’re going to want to hold on tight," you whispered into his ear, your voice laced with mischief. "Silverwing can be...enthusiastic."

"Great," Cregan muttered, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the saddle. "Just what I needed to hear."

Silverwing, sensing the shift in your posture, gave an eager roar, her wings unfurling in preparation for takeoff. The wind stirred around you, and you felt Cregan tense beneath your arms, his muscles coiled with nervous energy.

"Here we go!" you called out, laughing as Silverwing leaped into the sky with a powerful beat of her wings.

The ground fell away beneath you in an instant, the cold wind rushing past as Silverwing soared higher and higher. Cregan let out a startled curse, gripping the saddle with both hands as if his life depended on it, while you laughed, the exhilaration of flight filling you with a wild sense of freedom.

"Relax, Cregan!" you shouted over the wind, leaning into him. "You’re not going to fall!"

"I’d rather not test that theory!" he shot back, his voice strained as Silverwing dipped suddenly, her wings cutting through the air with effortless grace.

You couldn’t help but laugh again, leaning your chin on his shoulder as the dragon steadied herself, gliding smoothly over the landscape. "See? It’s not so bad, is it?"

Cregan didn’t respond immediately, though you could feel the tension in his body slowly start to ease as the flight became less of a frantic rush and more of a smooth ride. The wind was cold but invigorating, and beneath you, Silverwing hummed contentedly, clearly enjoying the chance to stretch her wings with both of you on her back.

"Alright," Cregan finally admitted, his voice quieter now, though still laced with reluctance. "Maybe it’s not as terrifying as I thought."

You grinned, tightening your arms around him as you pressed a kiss to his cheek. "See? I told you. You’re a natural dragonrider."

"Let’s not go that far," he muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched upward in a smile.

For a while, you soared together in silence, the vast expanse of the North stretching out beneath you—white fields, dark forests, and the distant peaks of mountains all bathed in the pale winter light. Cregan relaxed more with each passing moment, his breath steadying, though he still gripped the saddle firmly. You could feel his heart pounding beneath your touch, but it wasn’t the frantic rhythm of fear anymore. It was something else—something closer to excitement.

After a while, you guided Silverwing back toward Winterfell, and as the dragon swooped low over the godswood once more, you couldn’t help but tease him again. "I think you might have even enjoyed that a little."

Cregan shook his head, though there was a faint laugh in his voice. "Enjoyed? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Princess. I’m still deciding if I’ll ever do this again."

You smirked as Silverwing touched down with a graceful thud, her wings folding as she lowered herself to the ground. You dismounted easily, then turned to help Cregan down, though he shot you a look as if to say he didn’t need the help.

"I’ll give you credit for bravery," you said, watching as he finally stood on solid ground again. "You didn’t scream once."

"That’s because I was too busy clinging for dear life," Cregan muttered, though his lips quirked in a smile. "But I’m alive, aren’t I? That’s something."

You laughed, stepping closer and placing a hand on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. "You did well. Maybe you’re more suited for the sky than you thought."

He looked down at you, his expression softening as he rested his hand over yours. "Maybe. But for now, I think I’ll leave the flying to you."

You grinned, leaning up to kiss him softly. "Suit yourself. But you’re always welcome to join me."

Cregan chuckled, pulling you closer. "We’ll see about that. But if Silverwing’s happy, I suppose I’ll consider it."

Silverwing let out a soft, approving rumble behind you, and you couldn’t help but smile. "I think she likes having you around."

"Gods help me," Cregan muttered, though there was warmth in his eyes that told you he didn’t really mind.

And as the two of you stood there, with Silverwing watching over you, the cold air seemed to fade away, replaced by the warmth of your shared laughter and the fire you had ignited between you.

#house of the dragon #hotd x reader #hotd #hotd x y/n #hotd x you #cregan x you #cregan x y/n #cregan stark x reader #cregan x reader #cregan stark #hotd cregan #cregan x

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theostrophywife · 8 months

Text

snow on the beach.

pairing: theodore nott x reader.

request: can you write some cuddles with theo? maybe he’s comforting reader, or maybe reader is comforting him, but this boy need some love pretty please.

song inspiration: snow on the beach by taylor swift.

author's note: as soon as i saw the gif by the lovely @dramaticals, i knew that i had to write a piece with it as the cover. get in, babes. we're simping for theodore nott.

The snow fell softly over Hogwarts, covering the castle with ice and frost. From the beach, Theo watched as the flurries glittered against stone and spire and frowned as the cold seeped into his bones. Underneath him, the Black Lake was frozen solid yet crystal clear. It might’ve been unwise to venture out so far from the shore, but Theo welcomed the clarity of the cold.

The cigarette cradled between his slender fingers provided some much needed warmth, the nicotine filling his lungs and dulling his senses as he released a cloud of smoke into the air. Spread-eagled on the ice, Theo sprawled out like a snow angel, blinking away the snowflakes as it gathered on his lashes.

Beyond the treeline, Theo glimpsed his friends chasing each other on their brooms. A loud cackle echoed from the Forbidden Forest as Mattheo hurled a snowball at Draco. Enzo and Regulus cursed as they narrowly dodged the attack, racing away from Mattheo as he laughed maniacally, clearly relishing his reign of terror. On any other day, he would’ve been flying right along his mates, but today was different.

The boys could sense it as well. All morning, Theo had been distant and distracted. He barely participated in the conversations happening around him during lunch. When he turned down Mattheo’s invitation to play quidditch in the snow, his mates took the hint that Theo really just wanted to be alone.

So here he was, smoking in the freezing cold and hoping that the frigid air would provide a moment of reprieve from the complicated thoughts and emotions swirling within him. For his efforts, Theo was rewarded with a sore arse and a growing migraine pulsing behind his eyes. In other words, he was truly shit out of luck.

There was no escaping today.

A soft shuffling beckoned his attention, but it wasn’t necessary for Theo to turn around to know who the steps belonged to. He could identify his best friend by sound alone. You always walked with purpose. Judging by the decisive click of your boots against the ice, Theo could tell that you were on a mission. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips as you came into view, your cheeks and nose flushed from the cold.

With a hand on your hip, you cocked your head at Theo and posed a question in your usual no-nonsense tone. “Would you like some company or would you prefer to brood alone?”

Theo looked up from his cigarette, biting back a smile. You were always straight to the point. Never one to mince words. Theo liked that about you.

“I don’t mind the company if it’s you, principessa.”

A soft smile graced his face as you transformed your robe into a blanket, laying it on the ice and beckoning him to move. Theo happily obliged and attempted not to chuckle as you fussed over him, clearly biting back on lecturing him on the dangers of catching hypothermia in this weather. You placed your bag underneath his head before laying beside him in the cocoon of fabric.

Without a word, you tapped your shoulder. His heart warmed at the familiar gesture as he leaned against you. A sigh of satisfaction slipped past his lips as you ran your fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp and easing all the tension from his body.

“What are you doing out here?” Theo asked as you toyed with the curls at the nape of his neck. “You hate the cold.”

“I do, but I don’t hate you.”

Theo nuzzled against your neck, humming softly as the warmth of your skin soothed his senses. “I missed you at breakfast. Thought you were sleeping in, so I didn’t bother to wake you up.” His mouth quirked in amusement. “We both know what happens when your sleep is interrupted.”

“I’m not that bad,” you said sheepishly.

“The last time I tried to wake you up before noon on a weekend, you threw a slipper at my head.”

“I thought you were an intruder.”

“Mhm,” Theo murmured against your shoulder. “That explains why you yelled, ‘Leave me alone, Theodore!’ after physically assaulting me.”

By the way you shifted beside him, Theo knew you were rolling your eyes fondly. “For your information, I woke up bright and early this morning to head to Hogsmeade.”

“Has hell frozen over?” Theo asked dramatically, furrowing his brows as he looked up at you. “The Y/N I know wouldn’t be caught dead in all this snow. Especially not without stealing at least three of my hoodies before stepping foot out of the castle.”

You chuckled, brushing a strand of wavy hair away from his eyes. “Contrary to what you may believe, I’m not completely helpless without you. I bundled up and braved the snow to pick up a package from the post.”

“I wish you would’ve told me, dolcezza. I would’ve gone to the village with you.”

“That’s sweet of you, Teddy. But it was a quick trip and I managed fine on my own.”

Theo grumbled with displeasure, but rested his head on your shoulder once more. The two of you sat in comfortable silence, just soaking up each other’s company. You were clearly aware that something was on his mind, but you didn’t push. You knew that Theo would talk if and when he was ready. It was one of the many things he appreciated about you. Whenever you were together, there was never any need to fill the silence. Even without words, you could read him like a book.

After a while, Theo put out his cigarette and turned over to face you. You smiled as he scooted closer and breathed in your strawberry shampoo. He brushed the snowflakes off of your cheek, but more fell to take their place.

“How did you know I’d be out here?”

“For reasons I will never understand, you love the cold. You said it helps you think clearly,” you replied, tracing the moles and freckles that littered his skin like constellations. “I figured you had a lot on your mind. I imagine the anniversary is a rough day for you.”

Theo blinked in surprise. Though you told each other nearly everything, Theo had never disclosed the anniversary of his mother’s death. He rarely spoke about her to anyone. Even after ten years, the loss still made his heart feel hollow.

“You know what today is?” He asked in a small, quiet voice.

You nodded in confirmation. “Your nonna mentioned it in her last letter. I know you usually like to be alone to remember her, but I wanted to at least check up on you.”

There was an ache in his chest as he met your concerned gaze. You placed your hand above his heart and rubbed over the spot like you knew how heavy of a load it was to carry. Theo’s fingers gently closed around yours.

“I’m glad you did.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You asked softly. “All these years? I would’ve liked to be there for you.”

There was a hint of pain in the edges of your voice as though robbing you of the ability to comfort him physically hurt. Knowing you, it probably did. You cared so deeply and loved so fully. It was just the type of person that you were. It was what drew him to you in the first place.

“I didn’t think I could,” he admitted truthfully. “After my mum died, my father never spoke about her again. He just acted like the day of her death never happened. For him, it was just another normal day and not the day that I lost half of myself. My father said it was weak to show emotion, so I never did. I had no choice but to be strong, so I am.”

Theo closed his eyes and attempted to tamper down his emotions. When he opened them again, he was met with your heartbroken expression. A pang of guilt struck his heart like an arrow. The last thing he wanted to do was upset you. Seeing you in pain was worse than enduring the Cruciatus curse and Merlin knew he had plenty of experience in that regard. Thanks to his cruel, ruthless father. Theo started to apologize, but startled when you cradled his face in your hands, your gaze full of bravery and determination.

“Emotions don’t make you weak, Teddy. You’re allowed to feel. You’re allowed to grieve and rage and cry. You don’t have to be so strong all the time.”

The words struck him to his very core. It had never occurred to him to let his armor fall. He wasn't aware that was even an option. All his life, Theo thought that repressing every ounce of emotion was the only way to cope with his mother’s death. He wasn’t granted permission to speak of her, much less grieve over her. Self-preservation had been drilled into him even before he was sorted into Slytherin. It was how he survived.

“I don’t?” He asked in a broken whisper.

“No, you don’t.” You replied, pressing your forehead against his. “I’m here for you and I won’t judge you for being vulnerable.”

Theo swallowed past the lump in his throat. “I don’t want to weigh you down with my burdens.”

“You won’t,” you promised. “Whatever heaviness you’re carrying, I’ll carry it with you. You never have to do anything alone, Teddy.”

The ice in his chest cracked and the armor he so carefully crafted around his heart splintered off into a million tiny pieces. It should’ve terrified him, but instead, all Theo felt was relief. You were giving him a safe space to feel. A luxury that had been ripped away from him the day his mother died.

“I miss her so much.”

With those five words, Theo felt the dam break. Years and years of sadness and anger and grief washed over him like a tidal wave, flooding his heart with the intensity of it all. The rush of the current would have wiped him out entirely if it hadn’t been for your arms wrapping around him, holding him to the present like an anchor. Theo clung onto you for dear life and sobbed.

He sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. He cried until the front of your sweater was soaked with his tears. He cried until his throat was raw from screaming. He cried until his eyes were bloodshot and red and as heavy as lead. Through it all, you hugged him tightly, holding him against you firmly as you rubbed his back and whispered soothing words in his ear.

“It’s okay, Teddy. Let it out. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Theo gripped the back of your sweater, bunching up the fabric between his fingers as he unleashed ten years worth of grief out into the open. You didn’t balk at any of it. The two of you had weathered the good, the bad, and the ugly together and none of it had scared you off. Theo believed you when you said that you weren’t going anywhere. To you, it was a sacred promise. One that you had kept faithfully since the day you met him.

“I’m here for you,” you declared in reassurance, rocking him back and forth. “I always will be.”

He didn’t know what he did to deserve someone like you. During times like these, Theo was convinced that you were his guardian angel. A gift from above to offset all the shit and misery that life brought. It was cathartic to cry in the arms of the girl he loved because he knew that you would hold him as he fell apart and put him back together in a way that only you could.

After what seemed like ages, Theo finally looked up. With a sniffle, he watched with an awestruck expression as you wiped the tears from his cheeks and kissed his forehead.

“I got something for you,” you whispered softly. “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, but I think it might help. It’s a way to commemorate the loss of your mother, but to also honor the happy memories that live on in your heart.”

You fished around in your bag and pulled out a small paper lantern. As you held it in your hands, it glowed as though enchanted.

“Back home, we light these lanterns and release them to honor the loved ones we’ve lost. I asked my mum to mail me one and it just arrived in the post this morning. Special delivery.”

Just when Theo thought he was all out of tears, a fresh wave crashed over him. He was the reason why you’d trudged out in the snow and frost so early in the morning. To pick up the most thoughtful gift that anyone has ever given him. Theo couldn’t help but bawl.

Your eyes widened. “Oh no. I didn’t mean to upset you. We don’t have to do it if you want to. I can send it back—“

Theo shook his head. “No, no, no. It’s perfect. It’s the most thoughtful thing anyone’s ever done for me. Thank you. For writing to my crazy old nonna and letting me get snot all over your favorite sweater and turning a shit day less shitty. Thank you so much, Y/N.”

You smiled, brushing his waves back. “You don’t have to thank me, Theo. I’d do anything for you. That’s what you do for the people you love.”

His breath caught in his throat. Theo looked up at you with hopeful eyes. “You love me?”

“With every fiber of my being.”

Before he knew it, Theo was crying again, but this time it was happy tears. He leaned in, cradling your face in his hands just like you always did to him, and pressed his lips against yours. The kiss was so soft and so gentle, like he was afraid that you might disappear.

“I love you, Y/N,” he declared with certainty. Theo loved you like the moon loved the sun. He loved you like the shadows loved the stars. You were the light that he’s been waiting for in the darkness. “I think my mum would’ve loved you too.”

You smiled, intertwining your fingers together and kissing his knuckles. “I wish I had the chance to meet her.”

“You still can,” Theo said with a smile. “Will you show me how to light the lantern, cara mia?”

After you showed him how to enchant the lantern, Theo was able to light it by himself. The lantern glowed in his hands as he looked over at you. “What’s next?”

“Usually, we say a few words to honor the dead. It can be as short or as long as you’d like.” Theo swallowed thickly. He seemed to be grappling with his thoughts, searching for the right words. You grabbed hold of his hand and squeezed. “There’s no right or wrong way to do it. As long as it comes from the heart. Don’t be scared, Teddy. I’m right here.”

Theo nodded, smiling softly as he squeezed back. He composed himself for a moment and stared at the lantern.

“Ciao, mamma. It’s Teddy. Today was really hard. It’s been ten years since I lost you, but I still feel you everywhere. I miss you a lot. I’m sorry that I never talk about you. Even now, it still hurts. But I’m learning that sometimes you just have to let yourself feel the pain. That it’s okay to let other people in and let them carry the burden with you. I’m lucky, mamma. I have nonna and my cousins and my mates. I have Y/N. She takes care of me. She always asks me about my day. She remembers every little thing I tell her, like the fact that I hate crusts on my sandwiches and pineapple on pizza.”

You chuckled as his nose scrunched up in disgust. The sincerity of it all made your heart feel like it was overflowing with love for this beautiful boy. “She’s always bossing me around and fussing over me, but I secretly love that she cares so much. She’s got such a big heart, mamma. I’m lucky to even occupy a small portion of it. I guess what I’m trying to say is, you don’t have to worry about me. I’ve got Y/N to watch over me. I love you and I miss you. I promise I’ll talk about you more. Ci vediamo, mamma.”

Your eyes welled with tears as Theo released the lantern. He turned to you, wiping a tear away. “Hey, none of that,” he teased. “I’ve cried enough for the both of us tonight, love.”

“I’m sorry. That was just so beautiful. I’m so proud of you, Teddy. I know it wasn’t easy, but you were so brave.”

He leaned down to kiss your temple. “Couldn’t have done it without you, cara mia.”

Theo laced his fingers through yours and tugged lightly. “Now come on, dolcezza. Let’s get inside where it’s warm. I know you’re dying to lecture me about being out in the cold for this long.”

You chuckled, not even the least bit surprised at how well Theo knew you.

Later that night, after the two of you dried off, changed into pajamas, and snuggled underneath your warm blankets, you listened as Theo told stories of his mum. You laughed when he recounted the time his mum hexed Lucius for stealing her shampoo in third year. You cried when he recalled the way she’d always let him curl up in her bed after a nightmare, singing him to sleep and soothing her Teddy.

In one night, the memories that he kept locked away in his heart for ten years came spilling out of Theo. You soaked up every detail like a sponge, hanging onto his every word. The sun was rising by the time he exhausted himself, but he felt so much lighter than he ever had. With your arms wrapped tightly around him, Theo knew that he was loved beyond measure. He could feel the affection and devotion radiating between you, like an invisible string that tied the two of you together.

As you spooned him, Theo grinned and kissed your fingertips. “Thank you for letting me talk about my mum. I’ve never told anyone any of that before.”

“What makes me so special?”

Theo turned over and smiled. “You make me feel safe,” he whispered in the darkness. You teared up at his words, knowing how hard it was for Theo to let his guard down. The fact that he allowed himself to be vulnerable around you was a privilege that you’d never take for granted. “You take all my fucked up, broken pieces and put me back together again. With you, I feel whole.”

“It doesn’t matter how many times you fall apart, Teddy. I will always be here to pick up the pieces.”

“Me too,” Theo murmured sleepily. He leaned over and kissed you, soft and sweet and pure. Your heart ached for him. You were convinced that your soul would’ve searched through infinity and back just to find him. “That’s what you do for the people you love.”

TAGLIST

@annaisabookworm @marina468 @yaraasthings @the0doreslover @bubybubsters @moony-artemis @natasha887 @lucyysthings @criesinlies @bunnymallowo @niktwazny303 @letmedownslows @siriuslyalovergirl @wordsarelife @clairesjointshurt @daydreamingabthar@moonflowersandsparkles @fudge13

#i am so sorry for doing this to all of you but if i had to cry about him then you do too #theo nott #theodore nott #theo nott x you #theo nott x reader #theo nott x y/n #theo nott imagine #theo nott smut #theodore nott x you #theodore nott x reader #theodore nott imagine #theodore nott smut #theodore nott x y/n #theo nott fluff

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bookofbonbon · 8 months

Text

green is not your colour (1) - coriolanus snow.

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x Reader.

Warning: Implied cheating.

Summary: You've been engaged to Coriolanus Snow for a few short weeks and have been living together for even shorter but, the betrothal is put through its first test when Coriolanus's affair makes itself known. Part (1/2).

Wordcount: 1.3k.

A/N: This takes place in the 'You Keep Him There' universe. A couple of months before Christmas Kiss. Please tell me you catch the Yellowstone reference.

11 months ago.

The stone bench cuts into the skin of your exposed thigh, one leg crossed over the other as your arm rests along the back of the garden seat. Goosebumps cover the length of your body; remnants of last night’s cold snap are still evident as the icy blanket that covers the Manor’s grounds slowly melt away with the slow rising sun.

Of course, the cold was of no concern. Not when you had your new found habit to keep you warm.

Taking a drag from the lit cigarette between your fingers, your gaze is unwavering as you stare down the anxious chauffeur who had pulled into the driveway of your new home at the same time that you did - belonging neither to you or Coriolanus.

It had taken you all of 30 seconds to piece together what was going on and who the car belonged to - after all, you weren’t supposed to be home until the afternoon. You aren’t surprised Coriolanus would do this but, it doesn’t make it hurt any less; doesn’t temper the green eyed monster threatening to rear its ugly head.

Sure, you didn’t like him but, the two of you had known each other your entire lives; would marry in less than a year, he belonged to you- you'd hoped those things would at least mean something to him too but, it doesn’t and again, that doesn’t surprise you but, you are disappointed. Disappointed that he would bring this into your home.

The chauffeur fiddles with the cuffs of his sleeves, unsure of where to look as his gaze shifts nervously between you and the front doors until finally, they open and he relaxes slightly, eager to escape the weight of your stare as he wrenches the car door open for his passenger.

You watch, hidden from their view as she emerges from your home, bidding farewell to your fiance. Crushing the cigarette, you wait until she’s about to enter the car to make your presence known.

“I always suspected there may be something more between the two of you but, to become his mistress?” You stand, making your way over to her.

Stopping a metre out, you drag your gaze lazily over her figure until you meet her own surprised one.

“My, my, Clemensia, I never expected that from you,” you tut. “Although, I won’t lie. After your… stint in the hospital back in our academy days, I didn’t think he’d ever look at you again.”

She flinches at your words but it doesn’t keep her down for long. The red-eyed, puffy-cheeked beauty straightening her back and puffing her chest with an air of arrogance that you did not appreciate.

“What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” you repeat, laughing at the nerve of her. “Clemensia, this is my house. I can come and go as I please but, you? Well, we are going to have a problem if I see you around here again.”

"You can't stop me. He was mine first."

You take an intimidating step closer.

“You want to sleep with Coriolanus? Fine. That’s your choice but, not in my house. Affairs are for hotels not homes, and if you ever step foot in mine again, I will make sure you never take another step again. Got it?”

She swallows thickly but nods her understanding.

"Good. Now get off of my property before, I have you removed from it."

You don’t wait for her to go, sights immediately set on the fool you were to take as your husband in less than a year.

“Coriolanus,” you yell, throwing the doors open, anger finally revealing itself. “Coriolanus!”

You find him sitting at the head of the dining table, looking equally as surprised as his whore to see you. Unlike her however, he’s quick to hide it.

“When did you-”

“You keep your whores out of my house, Coriolanus,” you warn him. “You keep your whores out of my house or I will teach you a lesson that I promise you will never forget.”

You spend the rest of the day sleeping, too tired from the morning's events and traveling to do anything else but rest, so it’s dark out by the time you leave your room.

Padding down the staircase, your tummy makes its hunger known, growling out for anyone awake to hear. Sleepily, you make your way to the kitchen, not noticing the dim light emitting from the space until you're already inside with an unwanted guest.

You look at him for a moment, thinking about whether to tuck tail and turn away or continue on your journey for food- your stomach makes your decision for you however, when it growls again.

Coriolanus is the first to speak. “There's a plate in the fridge for you.”

You don’t acknowledge him, opening the fridge in silence and indeed finding the plate of food inside. You pretend he’s not there as you move around the kitchen to warm your food up. When everything is ready, you take a seat at the kitchen bench- it’s then that Coriolanus decides to speak again.

“I think we should talk about this morning.”

“We have,” you answer him, tone clipped. “And I told you not to bring your whores into my house again.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

You breathe a laugh of disbelief. Was it not enough to discover what you did this morning now, he wanted to discuss it too? Picking up your plate, you make to leave- there were other rooms in this place that you could eat peacefully in.

“It’s over-” he follows after you, blocking your path. “Me and Clemmie. I ended things with her.”

“Clemmie,” you scoff the name. “How very considerate of you. Does she know that?”

“She does and I didn’t end it because of what happened this morning- I ended things weeks ago. She’s just having a hard time letting go but, I promise it is. I’m with you.”

You pause- pinching the bridge of your nose.

“You should’ve ended it months ago, well before we even got engaged.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

You nod but don't forgive him and he uses your silence to keep talking.

“I want to make this work, I want us to get along, I want-” he hesitates, taking your free hand. “I want you to like me.”

“What makes you think I don’t?”

“You made it very clear in the Academy that you don’t, I doubt your opinion of me has changed much since.”

You smile bitterly down at your joined hands. Your dislike for Coriolanus in school differed vastly from why you disliked him now.

You wonder if it would ever be possible to like Coriolanus Snow now.

It was hard to see the possibility when your entire being now depended on marrying him. Your grandparents had already loved him, he was Old Guard, cut from the same cloth and as he got older, they saw the future in Coriolanus Snow, future president of Panem. And that was before the proposal was even brought to them. Once it was… they would be damned if you married anyone else. When you attempted to go against it, they had made it known that they were more than willing to reduce you to nothing; taking steps to ensure you couldn’t refuse by hinging your inheritance of the Blizzard Telecommunications and Mass Media Empire and wealth on marrying him. Coriolanus Snow had snatched any freedom or hope for the future you envisioned for yourself away from you and he didn’t even know it.

Maybe one day you’d move past it or maybe one day he'd accept that you never would but, for now you settle for “maybe you can start with buying me a new house.”

Coriolanus chuckles but you're being serious and he agrees, "soon."

“And Coriolanus?”

“Yeah?”

“I don't ever want to see you with Clemensia Dovecote again. I don’t take kindly to those who you would threaten to take what is mine. Green is not my colour and, I promise you won’t like seeing me in it either.”

All fics are my own work - I have not posted my work anywhere else.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters/places mentioned above.

Do not copy. Do not translate. Do not repost.

#coriolanus snow #coriolanus snow fanfiction #coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus snow x you #coriolanus x reader #coriolanus x you #coryo snow #coryo x reader #tom blyth

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florencemtrash · 3 months

Text

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Twenty-Six

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: smut (I finally wrote it y'all), fluff, *minors! DNI*

To skip this chapter, click this link to go immediately to Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

Azriel had no shortage of secret hiding places scattered across Prythian — apartments paid for under alias names, safe houses in towns where everyone minded their own business, hell there was even a residence in the countryside he’d help build with his own two hands.

But he didn’t bring you to any of those. Those places were either in dangerous territory, tainted by the work he conducted as a Shadowsinger and Spymaster, or touched by the hands of lovers he couldn’t even remember anymore. For you, he wanted someplace new. Someplace special.

He grinned with excitement, squeezing the flesh of your thigh as he held you close and trekked through the forest.

“Where are we going?” You kissed the curve of his ear, peppering his skin with kisses wherever you could reach.

“Why are you whispering?”

You shrugged, smiling against his neck as he continued. The mountain woods were silent save for the rustling of cicada wings and the wing beats of owls as they hunted in the night. Moonlight blinked through the foliage, scattering the ground with salt and starshine.

It was calm here. Peaceful.

Shadows covered your eyes and flicked away low hanging branches so they wouldn’t snap on your dress or get tangled in your hair. You heard the rustling of the branches whenever they were moved aside and couldn’t help but flush at the shadows’ politeness.

“Just a little further now.”

You could hear the anticipation growing in Azriel’s voice. His hands were becoming greedy, slipping beneath your dress when it shifted and leaving molten fingerprints wherever he touched. He shivered when you sighed against his neck, washing his skin with a warm breeze.

There was a fire burning close by. You could smell the chimney smoke in the air and the fragrant smell of flowers.

You shifted in his arms, prepared for him to let you back down to your feet, but Azriel didn’t let you go, nuzzling his face into the soft skin of your neck as his shadows finally dissipated.

“Welcome to our new home, my love.”

You gasped softly—a sound that had Azriel’s tongue darting out to feel your pulse as you caught your breath.

High in the mountains and deep in the woods, a clearing had been cut out and the ground turned over. Star magnolias lined the edges of the clearing, their white blossoms clinging to their branches like freshly fallen snow. Grass grew soft and unencumbered, the occasional flowering weed adding drops of color onto the rolling, green canvas that brushed against Azriel’s ankles.

But the cottage… oh, the cottage was a beauty. Cream-white windows bright with firelight peered out from walls made of pale brown stone. Blue curtains hung in the windows like eyelids and an ironwood door made up the cottage’s mouth. The door was nestled between two hanging lamps and they poured their light onto two wicker chairs, a table, and a hanging daybed on the porch. Blue wisteria crawled up the porch columns onto the stone walls, lit up by moonlight until they glowed stronger than the stars in the sky.

“This… this is ours?” You breathed in disbelief.

“It’s ours.”

Azriel made a subtle point of stepping over the threshold with you in his arms before quietly letting you down to your feet. It felt like the right thing to do.

You walked through the cottage in a daze, the roaring blood in your body momentarily forgotten as you moved through the front room to the living room where a cream-colored sofa with plush blue pillows and two armchairs surrounded a flickering fireplace. A bay window looked out over the front lawn arranged with cushions and a small bookcase so you could read. The adjacent kitchen hummed with quiet energy, and you knew that whatever magic touched the House of Wind and the River House also lived here.

It was a fairytale cottage come to life, clean and cozy with its cream-colored walls and exposed wood beams.

There was also a conservatory at the back of the cottage you hadn’t seen from out front and its domed, glass roof reminded you of the Day Court athenaeums — a piece of home away from home. Already plants flourished along the windowsill — courtesy of Elain — and green strings of pearls spilled out of white hanging planters like miniature chandeliers.

“We’re still in the Night Court,” Azriel explained. His hands drifted up to your shoulders as you stood transfixed in the conservatory. “In the mountains along the western coast ten miles from the Day Court border. I figured it would allow us both to be close to home… and far enough away for some peace and quiet.”

Since coming to the Night Court — since meeting Azriel — there had hardly been time or space to breathe. The River House and House of Wind bubbled with talk, constantly moving as people came and went more frequently than the tide.

But here it was just you two.

You were here… alone.

Rooms remained unexplored in the cottage, but all thought of them flew out the window as you turned in Azriel’s arms and took in his burning, hazel eyes. You flung your arms around his neck, fingernails gently dragging through his hair as you kissed him dizzy.

You stumbled up the staircase, still lip-locked with Azriel groaning against your mouth as the buttons of his shirt were ripped off and trickled to the floor like raindrops.

“Which one’s the bedroom?” You murmured as you staggered down the hallway. You were vaguely aware of some beautiful portraits hanging along the wall, flashes of blue, black, white, and gold paint expertly melted onto canvas, but admiring them was for another day. You had other, more important, things currently on your mind — like finding a gods-damned bed to fall into.

You reached the very last door of the hallway before Azriel gasped out, “Here,” and grappled at the door handle, his other arm wrapped tightly around your waist like you were at risk of floating away.

You and Azriel all but fell through the handsome wooden door engraved with some Illyrian markings you couldn’t make out and a large symbol of the sun.

The fireplace roared to life, spurred on by the Cottage’s magic as Azriel dropped to his knees and started undoing the ties of your shoes. He looked radiant even while on his knees. His wings flared out from his back burning gold and orange as the firelight seeped through the thin, delicate membrane coloring his tan skin even more vibrantly as he looked up at you with hungry reverence.

Blue velvet ribbons fell to the floor and your shoes came with them. They were the first piece of clothing discarded as Azriel gripped your ankles and began trailing kisses along your calves.

He threw off his mating crown and it skittered along the floor, disappearing somewhere beneath the dresser.

His lips moved up to your knees. Then further still.

“Azriel.” You breathed your mate’s name.

A four-poster bed took up most of the far wall, bracketed on both sides by wall sconces shaped like roses and mahogany nightstands. Gauzy curtains fluttered in the open windows, allowing inside a cool wind that smelled of petrichor and pine.

You were never more grateful for a bed and a breeze as Azriel’s head disappeared beneath your dress.

You gripped the bedpost, soft sighs turning to breathy moans as feather-light brushes of lips over skin turned to hungry, open-mouth kisses along your thighs. No one had ever kissed you like this.

Azriel’s fingers dug into the flesh of your hips as he groaned.

No one had ever touched you like this.

You felt the air move between your legs and gasped.

You scrambled to bunch your dress in your hands, revealing Azriel’s dark head of hair and his hazel eyes, pupils blown so wide they were nearly black.

“Where did these come from?” He groaned, tucking his fingers into the waistband of your lacy, dark blue undergarments.

“Sloane’s,” You said, chest heaving. It was a miracle you could speak at all.

You’d never been with a male. Hell, you’d never been with anyone. Azriel had been your first for everything that mattered, and he would remain the only one who had you in this way.

Azriel stilled as if the same thought had passed his mind. A shadow curled around your chin, tilting it down ever so slightly at the same time his eyes drifted up to yours, soft and vulnerable and golden. Your cheeks were flush with color, excitement and anticipation written in every muscle of your body.

“Tell me to stop and I will,” he promised.

You swallowed thickly and nodded, but you didn’t think you’d ever want him to stop.

Your head hit the bedpost with a dull thud, mouth open and panting as Azriel pushed aside the lace and tasted you.

You weren’t oblivious to what happened during sex. You were a grown female with access to just about any book on any subject in the entire world. You knew what happened during the frenzy — had been imagining it far too often the last few days— but experiencing it was another thing entirely.

Every time Azriel moved his tongue — every time he so much as breathed — your hips were jolting, fingers twitching as you buried them in his hair and shoved his face closer. He was strong beneath you, breath and tongue hot and wanting.

Azriel let out a strangled noise when the first thrust of his tongue had you tugging on his hair. Hard.

“Sorry, sorry,” you hissed, squeezing your eyes shut. But Azriel grabbed your hand before you could bury it in the folds of your dress and brought it back to his head.

“Do it again,” he all but growled and dove back in between your thighs.

In the beginning, you tried to contain yourself — to drag out this moment that had been ages in the making. You bit down on your lips and stifled your moans in your fist until Azriel’s shadows came to pin your hand to the bedpost.

But then he slipped his fingers between your folds, pressing and twisting and testing you until he’d sunk in knuckles deep. Then there was no stopping the pressure building between your legs and within your core.

“Az,” you moaned, hips bucking against him. You couldn’t see his face, but you could feel his smugness and pride as he brought you to the edge. “Oh… oh gods, Az! Fuck!”

You came around his fingers, thighs clamping down around his head as you shivered and moaned, but he didn’t stop, not even when you began to whine and jerk from the overwhelming feeling. You thought he would stop.

“Az,” You gasped, tugging at his hair. “Az, stop.”

Azriel snapped back from your core, eyes glazed over in a drunken haze. His mouth glistened and he swallowed, standing up and sliding his leg between yours so you wouldn’t fall on shaky legs.

You stared at each other, taking in the sight of flushed cheeks and wet lips and unruly hair. He licked his lips, then slowly wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.

“Was that alright?” He asked seriously.

You sprang forward, lips colliding with his as you pulled at his jacket. You undid the buttons that closed up the slits beneath his wings and in less than a second Azriel had it pulled off and thrown across the room. The buttons of his shirt were mostly undone, but he didn’t hesitate before ripping it open and scattering the tattered silk across the floor.

You’d seen Azriel shirtless plenty of times before. It was how he preferred to sleep. And many hours had been spent awake in bed tracing the tattoos that swirled across his chest and shoulders with your eyes and with your hands. Now you traced them with your lips, sucking gently at the hollow of his neck where one of the dark marks curled.

Azriel closed his eyes and sighed.

He was much gentler with your dress than with his shirt. There was no tugging or tearing. He simply buried his face between your breasts while loosening the corset ties at the back, then slipped the dress off your shoulders. The dress fell to the floor with a whisper and you stepped out of the pool of silk.

Azriel took a step back and went completely, utterly still.

You shivered beneath his unflinching gaze, resisting the urge to bring up your arms and hide yourself. It was a knee-jerk reaction, but one that you no longer needed. This was Azriel standing in front of you — beautiful, kind, and loving, Azriel, who already knew things about you more intimate than your body.

Your lace underthings did little to cover you — a very intentional choice — and you found yourself flushing the longer Azriel went without saying or doing anything.

Finally, he broke the silence and breathed in awe. “You’re beautiful, Y/n.”

Emboldened by his words, you crawled onto the bed, holding out your hand for Azriel to join you. He hovered over you as you reached for his belt buckle, undid the buttons of his trousers, and slowly slid them far enough down that Azriel could kick them off. His shadows took his shoes.

You watched carefully as Azriel leaned you back on the bed and placed his elbows on either side of your head. Every ripple of muscle, every stretch of skin, did not go unnoticed by you. Azriel was your mate and you were desperate for the sight of him.

You slowly moved your hand between his thighs, experimental strokes setting his lungs ablaze as he groaned. The sound sent a new wave of heat between your legs and confidence through your bones, especially as Azriel fisted the sheets by your head, brows furrowed in concentration.

Without warning he tore your undergarments off you, exposing every inch of your skin to the cool wind that blew through the windows. Nesta was right — the blue lace did not survive the first night of the frenzy.

“I’ll… I’ll buy you more.” He promised, leaning down to smother his moans against your lips as you kept stroking him.

“It doesn’t matter.” You whispered and drew him close to you. So close he could feel the wetness that had gathered below. “I want you to see me, Azriel.” You kissed the corner of his mouth before moving your lips to his ear. “I want you to touch me. All of me.”

And who was he to deny you?

His hand took over yours and you gasped when he finally slid inside you. Moans slipped into the open air, interrupting the rumble of storm clouds as they gathered close by.

Azriel breathed heavily against your lips, right hand moving to reposition your legs so they wrapped around his waist. “Are you alright? Are you in any pain?”

You shook your head fervently. You’d worried it would hurt the first time, and certainly there was an odd, but not unwelcome, tightness where you and Azriel met, but all you could focus on was the roar of the bond in your chest and the flutter of Azriel’s wings as he buried his face in your neck.

Inch by delicious inch, Azriel pushed forward, always waiting for your permission to continue until his hips were pressed flush against yours.

You both panted for breath as your bodies molded to fit one another in this new way and Azriel swore there was a faint, otherworldly glow to your eyes as you stared at him and smiled.

You dragged your nails down his back, reveling in the strangled noise that came from deep in Azriel’s throat. A noise that grew louder when you gave a small roll of your hips, testing the waters and loving the pleasure that shot through you.

Azriel’s hands flew to your hips, clamping down and stopping your movements as he struggled to catch his breath.

“Az.” You moaned his name and your core tightened around him.

“Don’t move,” Azriel choked out. “Just… just give me a moment.”

He would never live it down if he came inside you now.

You lifted your head from the pillow, wide eyes staring down at him as he squeezed his eyes shut as if in pain. Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything, then he wouldn’t have to deal with your shuddering walls clenching around him as you stifled your giggles. Who would have thought the Shadowsinger would be so easy to bring to the edge? There was a thrill that shot through you as you realized, once again, just how much he loved you — just how much you drove him wild.

One sharp snap of his hips was all it took for your laughing to turn to whines, hands reaching up and bracing against the headboard. Azriel began slowly, methodically, timing his thrusts to your breathing so he could draw those sweet noises from your lips like music.

“Mother save me, Y/n,” he groaned, capturing your breast in his mouth and swirling it around his tongue.

He flung open his side of the bond and you did the same, drowning in dual pleasure as his thrusts sped up. You thought your heart might explode in your chest.

Azriel kissed his way up to your temple and pressed his forehead against yours, hot breath fanning over your cheeks as he tangled his fingers in your hair. He wished he was an artist so he could capture the sight of you beneath him. Your flushed cheeks and glowing eyes. The stretch of your neck as you tensed. The hot, fervent press of your breasts against his chest as your back arched off the bed.

I love you, Azriel. Your words flowed across the bond, carried on waves and waves of pleasure as you jolted up and let out a choked cry.

That sound. Azriel wanted to hear it every day for the rest of his life. He didn’t stop his thrusts, rolling his hips forward and chasing after his own release as one hand slipped between your bodies. You squirmed beneath him, hips bucking up wildly as he urged you on.

“I’m here, Y/n. I love you so much. Keep making those noises for me. Please.” Azriel clasped his hand in yours, chanting your name as he felt that coil of pleasure tighten further.

Illyrian wings are one of the most sensitive areas of the body, evolutionarily adapted to sense even the smallest changes in air pressure and wind speed. The apex of their wings alone contain nearly 3,000 nerve endings.

Even through the daze of pleasure, you eyed the curve of Azriel’s wings with curiosity.

Do it. Azriel begged. Please.

You squeezed your legs around his waist, mind cloudy with pleasure as you dragged your fingers along the membrane just below the talon.

This time you shattered together, hips slapping and cries of each others’ names spilling out into the night sky for all the stars to hear. Shadows burst forth from Azriel and mixed with the blinding rays of sunlight that exploded from your chest. Together, your magic blew out all the windows in the cottage and sent a roll of thunder so far over the mountains that Rhysand, Feyre, and even Helion felt a disturbance along the border.

The hand you’d caressed Azriel’s wing with shot upward as you came for the second time in a row, slamming into the headboard and punching a hole through the solid wood. You held onto the ruined headboard as every tense muscle in your body slowly loosened with a twitch, spreading warmth and ecstasy across your skin and through the bond.

Azriel collapsed onto your chest sweaty and spent. He could hear your heartbeat within your ribs running faster than a jackrabbit. You breathed heavily, blinking the fog from your eyes as you stared up at the ceiling.

You brought your hands to Azriel’s back, holding him tight as you gathered your breath and tried to calm your racing heart lest it decide to fly out of your ribcage.

“Did you…did you just break the headboard?” Azriel breathed out after some time had passed and neither of you were trembling anymore.

“......No.”

Azriel peered up first at you, and then the fist-shaped hole in the maple bed frame. He burst out laughing. The noise was brighter than sunlight and you couldn’t help but join in.

“Are you hurt?” He grinned.

You shook your head. Laughter spilled out of your lips so brilliantly they were more gasps for air than anything else. He kissed your knuckles, smooth and unharmed. Then, he attacked your neck, leaving gentle bites that tickled as you squirmed and sighed.

“Shall we try and break the bed again?” Azriel offered, still smiling.

“I think we can do more than try.” You grinned mischievously. You rolled over top of Azriel, tracing the smooth skin of his chest before bracing your hands over his heart.

And so the frenzy began.

6 weeks later

You leaned forward, chest pressing against Azriel’s as you gave him a drowsy, content smile. Steam coated the bathroom mirror in a film and condensed on the bottles you’d carefully arranged alongside the bathtub. One of the bottles was empty. It had taken that much to fill the Illyrian-sized tub until you and Azriel were both comfortably submerged in bubbles that smelled of sea salt and lavender. A platter of food — courtesy of the Cottage — gleamed on the low-rise table beside you, cheese, nuts, and cuts of meat half-eaten.

Azriel tore off a piece of bread, dipped it in honey, and placed it on your tongue. He tilted his head back in thought. “The first floor bath?” He suggested.

“The first floor has a bath?”

Azriel smiled and you heard the scratching of pen on parchment as his shadows wrote down the room.

Just this morning Rhysand had gently knocked on the doors of your mind, asking if you and Azriel would ever come back home to Velaris or if they should consider themselves abandoned. The prospect of hiding away in the Cottage forever was tempting, but you and Azriel had agreed on a flexible deadline — you’d both return to Velaris once you had… hmmmm, marked each room of the Cottage.

“We haven’t done it outside.” You offered, looking out the window. The mid-afternoon sun hung lazily in the sky, rendering even the birds and insects drowsy.

“We agreed the porch counts, remember?”

“Since when?” You sat up straight, water sloshing around your waist.

“Since the last time we slept there two weeks ago.”

You rolled your hips down, resting your head on his shoulder and peering up with a look that would have put him on his knees if he wasn’t already on his back.

“We’ll add it to the list.” Azriel breathed out tightly.

There was more scratching of pen on paper.

You decided that of all the rooms in the cottage, you liked the conservatory the best. When Azriel was making those beautiful noises against you, arms wrapped around your back and pressing you into the floor, you could watch the stars as they moved in the sky and drew close to the Shadowsinger. When it rained you could feel the electricity splinter through the sky, almost in tune with your body.

Azriel was partial to the library in the second floor’s west wing. You’d spent days there propped up on every wall and bent over every piece of furniture until you could name over a dozen species of wood.

You blushed just to think about it as you sank beneath the bath bubbles.

Azriel sat in a chair beside the tub, damp hair curling over his forehead as he read aloud from a book you’d stumbled upon during your… activities.

The frenzy had finally burned its way through your system, leaving you sore in places you didn’t know possible. It had taken you and Azriel two days just to sleep off the exhaustion, tangled up in bedsheets heavy with your scent.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, breathing in the smell of night-chilled mist and cedar. Azriel wordlessly kissed your temple, slipping his hand into your hair and dragging his nails along your scalp until you were sighing in contentment.

This… this felt right. You wanted Azriel to know that he was everything. He was the wash of color over the world that makes things bright and safe. He was the only person you felt perfectly at home with. Someone to trust with your body and heart as much as your mind. Someone whose touch you could never dream of shying away from ever again.

I know, my Y/n. Hazel eyes met yours, warm and soft. And you must know that you are everything to me as well.

Everything? You smiled softly at him.

Everything. He replied.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

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Author's Note:

*insert meme* Why is it spicy?

This was my first try writing anything explicit so... hope you enjoyed it! Only took us half a year and 100k+ words to get to a spicy scene LOL

^^ this has been both my reaction, and Y/n's reaction

As always, I appreciate you immensely for reading and would love feedback/to hear what you guys think! We're nearing the end folks!

#the shadowsinger and the inkbird #azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x you #acotar fanfiction #azriel x reader slowburn #azriel x reader angst #azriel x reader smut

491 notes · View notes

annwrites · 3 months

Text

sons & daughters. part three.

— pairing: cregan stark x fem!reader

— type: part of a series

— summary: cregan gives you a tour of the crypts & you begin to open up to one another. sharing truths continue that afternoon in the godswood when you are alone together.

— word count: 6,777

— a/n: i hope this all flows together okay. the godswood portion was actually supposed to happen sooner, but then chapter 2 came along & i rearranged some things so it could still fit.

The next morn comes early with a rapt knock at your door, which interrupts your slumber.

It had taken some time, after parting from Lord Stark, for you to find rest.

You had spent a handful of hours in bed reading, even peeking outside from your balcony when you began to hear wolves howling in the distance. Instead of the sound frightening you, however, it had instead filled you with a sense of longing.

Their singing at the moon was what had eventually lulled you to sleep, though.

You slowly rise, rubbing at your tired eyes before throwing on a shawl and padding over to the door, ready to wring Jace’s neck—as if whatever he wants cannot wait another hour or two. Someone will most certainly become dragon meal, but it won’t be you.

You open the door and promptly shut your open mouth when you are instead met with the sight of Lord Cregan, standing tall before you. Dressed and ready for the day in polished black leather, looking down at you, his eyes trailing along your body before meeting your own once again.

You watch as he swallows thickly, licking his lips.

“Forgive me, Princess. I have woken you.”

You had not been aware he would wish to visit the crypts so early in the morn.

Yet another mistake by you. But of course. What else?

You shake your head, quickly tucking wild strands of hair behind your ears. “No, My Lord, it is I who should apologize. I…could not find sleep the night last. I’m afraid I thus overslept. I have not forgotten about your offer, to show me the crypts.”

You glance behind you, toward your wardrobe, then back to the young lord. “If you would give me a moment, My Lord, to dress, and I will join you promptly.”

You feel wholly off-kilter like this. Tired—just having woken—not properly dressed.

Forgetful.

He nods, once, eyes glancing to your bare feet. “Princess.”

Once dressed, you emerge from your chambers in a soft, warm gray gown, your hair braided and resting atop your shoulder with various pearl pins shoved into it, and you are bundled up beneath your dress, same as the day previous.

Cregan is leaned against the wall opposite your door, foot planted against it, wrist hanging loosely over the pommel of his sword, and when his head rises to look at you, a small smile graces his lips.

He steps toward you then, reaching out, taking your braid between his fingers, which slide gently down the length of it, fingertips brushing over the small baubles you’ve placed along it.

His eyes flit to yours then, as he drops his hand, offering you his arm. “Shall we go, Y/N?”

You merely nod, at a loss for words at his simple touch, as you wrap your own arms securely round his own.

The two of you walk quietly across the yard, crisp snow crunching under your feet, only a few about at this early hour, such as servants and kitchen staff—the sun just beginning to rise in the east. You pull your cloak more tightly around yourself, the morning chill biting against your skin.

And then Cregan leads you underground, down a winding set of stone stairs, until darkness envelops the two of you for only a moment—your heart pounding in your ears—until brazier upon brazier comes into sight, lining an endless dark tunnel—crypts on either side, of men and women both.

You suddenly release Cregan’s arm then, stepping up to the first one you see in wonder.

“Torrhen Stark,” Cregan remarks from behind you.

You look over his finely carved face, deeming him ruggedly handsome.

Cregan comes to stand beside you.

“Do you...regret what he did?” You ask quietly.

He glances to you with a raised brow. “I believe it would be considered treason to.”

You remain silent, awaiting a proper answer.

He sighs. “I suppose at times, perhaps. But had he not, you would not now be here.”

He would be all the more fortunate for it, you think.

“Had he not, had the kingdoms not been broken apart into seven pieces—truly eight, when you think about it—I doubt such a potential war would be brewing at the moment, making my presence here wholly unnecessary.”

“Even before the conquest, we still yet fought one another.”

You nod, stepping over to the next crypt. “Do you not think it better, for those who best understand their lands and customs and people to control them, as opposed to…an outsider?”

He is taken aback to hear you say such things. Northern Independence is not a new idea, but for you to desire independence for all from Southron serpents...

You turn to look at him.

You wrap your arms round yourself. “I only meant… The realm is very large, and to have one head leading it seems a miscalculation, mayhaps.”

There is a beat of silence before you speak again. “I am only glad it will never be mine own.”

You glance down to a direwolf crypt, smiling at it. You weren’t aware stonemasons designed such things. “My duties will, instead, lie in other areas,” you then state.

His brows furrow. “Such as?”

You grow quiet then.

“Y/N,” he presses.

You do not wish to speak on the matter, knowing soon enough such arrangements will come to surely pass. They nearly had once already, and not so long ago, at that.

Mayhaps…you should have agreed. But you know even if you had, things would still have transpired just as they have. Such a marriage would only have complicated matters, if not made them worse.

You’d had so many secrets as children—you and he—what is a proposal, if not another one?

You intend to keep it locked away in your heart—something to hold onto when you one day are forced to wed for duty, instead of want. Because you had wanted. Even for only a moment.

You walk further down the line and further still, and Cregan decides not to push the subject.

“I hope you do not find all of this macabre, Princess,” he states, placing a comforting hand against your back.

He is trying his utmost to maintain a healthy balance of referring to you by both names: your given, and your proper title. He fears growing too used to the former and slipping up amongst others, such as your brother.

Even if calling you by it is far more preferable. Comfortable, even.

You shake your head. “Not at all. I find it fascinating. It is, after all, a singular opportunity. Once my brother and I leave, I fear I will not be presented with it again. I imagine I will never, in fact, see the North again once we return to Dragonstone.”

He ignores his heart squeezing at the thought.

“Not even to visit?” He asks casually, fingers trailing along your spine.

You give him a forced smile. “I imagine I will be wed soon enough. So as to gain my mother an army or castle stronghold or coin to fund this war when the time comes. At that point, my place will be where my husband deems it be.”

You talk about it so flippantly that it unnerves even him, as if it is a fate you have already resigned yourself to: doing as you are told without quarrel. Your own wants and wishes be damned.

You continue walking—his hand eventually falling away—until you have reached closer to the end of the line, and are greeted with the sight of a young woman set in stone.

Cregan gazes upon her for just a moment, feeling an ache at her being so close, but yet so far from him.

He clears his throat then. “My late wife, the Lady Arra Norrey.”

You swiftly turn your head to look at him, while he looks at her and your heart breaks at the look of longing within his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, truly, truly meaning it. You cannot imagine such a pain.

He nods. “Thank you, Y/N.”

You look back to her. “She was very beautiful.”

“She was. My son looks much like her. When he was born—the same day the Gods saw fit to take her from me—he was my perfect reflection. As he has grown, he has come to resemble her more and more. Both a blessing and a curse. Through him, I will never forget her, but also yet reminded of what I have lost.”

You both grow quiet then, only the occasional pop or crackle coming from the lit braziers to break it.

Until you speak.

“I suppose in that much I will be fortunate,” you say, merely above a whisper.

He looks at you, waiting for elaboration. “Princess?”

You look at him, softly smiling. “I do not mean to say that I will not mourn, if one day I were to lose my lord husband. But…no one will ever want, nor marry me for love. So if I lost him, I think it would make the pain easier to carry. A small comfort, I know.”

He stares down at you with furrowed brows in disbelief at what you have just said.

You continue to stare up at him, feeling uneasy at the darkening look upon his face.

Oh Gods, you had offended him. Had upset him. How could you have said such a thing? Mayhaps he feels you have insulted her—her memory. This is why you prefer to be alone. Or, at the very least, when near others: utterly silent.

“Forgive me, My Lord, I did not mean to—”

“Do you truly believe such a thing?” He says, interrupting—his tone that of steel.

You take a small step back, now frightened. “I—”

Tears sting your eyes. You had been too open. Too ignorant. You should have known better than to speak so honestly with a man who is still yet a complete stranger to you.

What if you have now ruined everything Jace has been working so diligently to accomplish? Neither he, nor your mother, will ever forgive you. How could you have been so careless with your words?

He leans down toward you and you nearly flinch, but compose yourself, thinking he now seems the very wolf that is emblazoned upon his broad chest.

“You think no man could ever love you?”

You swallow down the lump in your throat.

His eyes flit between your own. “Whatever man marries you should be aware of just how blessed he is to have you to take to wife. By all the Gods—Old and New. And for you to, much more, one day be the mother of his children? I cannot imagine a finer fate. For if he does not realize it, he is wholly unworthy of having you.”

You stare up at him, wide-eyed and shocked. He…surely he does not mean it.

"That...is very kind of you to say, Lord Stark. But I am aware of my position in the world. What I am to prospective suitors. A means to an end. My title—my heritage—is something to bring them ever closer to the throne, mayhaps, or glory. At the very least remembrance, to be printed within historical texts. When men look at me, just as the same as they did with my mother when she was younger than even I, they do not see us for who we are, but rather, what.

"If I am fortunate, I only hope whomever I am wed to sees me as more than just a walking womb. If not...I must be content with that. At the very least, I will have my children, if nothing else in all the world."

You glance toward the exit, ready to leave.

You do not wish to discuss this any further.

You step past him.

Cregan refuses to let you leave with that. How can you possibly think so little of yourself? How can you care naught about your future? About your welfare?

He suddenly takes your hand in his, turning you back toward him.

Your brows furrow, glancing down to where he now has you within his strong grip.

"You would give up so easily? Just...let whomever is the highest bidder have you without dispute?"

"It is not up to me."

Even if it once had been. For only a moment.

You know you must let it go now.

For it does not do well to dwell on things that never will be.

"From what I understand, your mother was given a choice," he insists.

You slip your hand from his grasp. "War was not looming on the horizon when she was. Everything is different now."

You take a step back, putting distance between you.

He wishes to reach for you again, but withholds.

He grasps for something to say—anything—to make you see sense, but even he himself knows that what you say is the way of things for highborn ladies. That your lives are never truly your own.

And then he thinks of the meeting he is meant to have this morn with his advisors. Knowing that he, too, will be subjected to the same, as he has continually been since Arra's passing: further insistency that he wed again. And soon.

He has but one son—one heir. If something were to happen to Rickon—something as simple as illness—he will be without issue. And without a sibling to succeed him, he fears Winterfell falling back into his imprisoned uncle's clutches once more.

He who had thirsted for power, instead of righteousness.

He is not fit to lead the North. Not anymore. Not now that he showed his true nature those years ago.

Cregan follows silently behind you as you exit the crypts, not wishing to leave matters between you like this as you part ways for the day, but he knows not what else to do.

He knows that further false words of assurance would be of little comfort.

Once you have both reached the surface, he places his palm against the small of your back once again. Merely wishing to touch you. Have you close to him. "May I escort you back inside, Y/N?"

You merely nod, trailing along beside him silently.

Once you have reached your room, you reach for the handle, until Cregan speaks again. "If it was up to you, what would you wish?"

You slowly turn back to him. "Forgive me, I do not know what it is that you mean."

He steps closer to you, while you are forced between his towering form and the solid wood of the door behind you.

"If someone put your fate in your own hands to do with as you wished, what might you choose?"

It once again comes to mind, a conversation from only a few days past.

Then perhaps we steal away in the dark of night, married in secret by a septon, he had told you while holding you close.

You look down, gripping the fabric of your dress nervously. Wondering if you should disclose it.

If you did, whom would he tell?

At that, you do not need to provide him the man's name.

You sigh. "I had such an opportunity once. Not so long ago. And yet still, I put others before myself. Because I knew what would come of it had I said yes. Mayhaps I should have. Even if it would have only worsened matters."

You shake your head. "So, I do not know anymore. I've spent nigh on my entire life trying to prepare myself for the prospect of a loveless marriage, so I am not disappointed when I am finally thrust into one. And then I am given an opportunity to procure myself something otherwise, and I still repudiate it."

His brows furrow, heart hammering, fist tightening at his side. Already one has asked for your hand.

Whom?

He wants his name.

"You have received a wanted proposal," he states flatly.

You shrug. "We were close friends as children," you start.

Cregan thinks to himself how he much understands what such a bond feels like. That it is not something which is easily replaced.

And now he feels envious of a faceless man over a girl he barely knows. One who has shown little interest in him thus far.

But he does now understand why, at least.

The way you spoke of yourself...of course you would never think yourself as desirable by another. Not truly.

Not until him, whomever he may be.

He wishes to discover it.

"May I ask whom?"

You finally look up to him once more and he does not much like the glassy look in your eyes. You miss him, then. This suitor. This...friend.

"You may, but I will not tell. It is for he and I alone to have knowledge of. It is...personal."

A muscle in his jaw feathers. "Do you love him?"

You don't understand his deep interest in a matter which does not concern him.

You dislike this sudden inquisition into your own private matters. You regret discussing it at all.

It was just that he had shared something with you: his beloved wife's final resting place, so you had tried to offer a bit of truth in return. Mayhaps you should not have.

"As a friend, I did once. He has since changed. We simply grew apart. He became someone else, someone I no longer recognized."

That blade cut deeper than just the surface that night. It permanently scarred more than just his face.

Already, after leaving the Red Keep, your relationship had been precarious, but the way he had looked at you while holding tightly to his mother as blood seeped from his injured eye—even as you cried for him....you then knew he was lost to you.

That fact was cemented further when he stopped replying to your letters.

And then you stopped bothering with writing them.

He takes a step back then, allowing you, finally, to breathe. Being near him makes you feel so...enveloped.

"I am sorry to hear it," he replies.

"I am sorry it happened," you whisper, turning your back to him and finally slipping into your room.

Cregan stands there, head swimming. He'd thought that he finally had you figured out: sweet, demure, unable to see your own worth, yet now he comes to discover of a secret romance between you and an unnamed man, which you refuse to elaborate on.

As he turns, headed toward the solar to meet with his advisors, he hopes they do not stoke his ire, as his jealousy has already been set ablaze.

You remain in your private room for awhile, pacing, considering.

You know it is foolish to consider such a thing. Accepting...it would do naught against what has already been done, as you keep telling yourself over and over again—desperately trying to pound it into your head.

And what benefits would it bring to your mother's side, anyway? None. Besides, it would break her heart and lay at her feet yet one more betrayal. And so soon after the last...

But what of you? What will happen to you now?

It is becoming—as time rows on and you grow older—blaringly obvious that signing yourself over to a miserable fate is far easier said than done.

You do not want to be alone, even in marriage. Do not want to be afraid and miserable.

You want...

You want.

Eventually, you exit your room, knowing remaining indoors will do little to ease your troubled and anxious mind. You cannot dwell on such things. Not here. Not now.

Outside.

You need outside where you feel less suffocated and cloistered away.

Mayhaps you will journey into the Godswood to sit alone for awhile.

You wish desperately to stop thinking.

Your footsteps falter and you turn away from your current destination, deciding to instead head in the direction of clanging steel, curious to see how the men train here.

You imagine it can't be terribly different from how they do so in the South, but you are interested, nonetheless.

Something to distract you.

Yes, that is what you need.

When you finally enter the Courtyard, your brows raise at the sight of Jace sparring against Lord Cregan. You decide to keep your distance, not wanting to throw off your twin by him spotting you as he tries desperately to beat back his northern combatant.

Cregan is near-relentless in his endeavors to subdue his opponent, who—while you would never state it plainly to his face—falls woefully short in terms of swordsmanship skills against the stoic young lord.

Jace stumbles back as Cregan rains down blows from above with—you hope—a dulled sword. He seems somewhat irritated somehow.

You hope it is not with your brother.

You take a step closer, and then another, and notice that Cregan is speaking to him—educating him—as he fights.

"Pay attention to your opponent's feet, young Prince. Anticipate their next step."

Clang.

"Turn—yes. Hit hard—from the side."

Clang.

"Keep your head up, or I'll ring it like a bell. Good!"

Clang.

Jace swings forward, Cregan dodging the move with deft footwork.

Just then, their swords meet, Cregan pushing back against your twin with all his might, until Jace falls, sword clattering beside him. Before he can even attempt at reaching for it, Cregan quickly kneels, holding his practice sword close to his throat. "Does my opponent sue for mercy?"

They both grin then as Jace nods in reply.

You are surprised that Lord Cregan had not gone easy on him, out of fear of retribution for 'showing him up', not that Jace is that sort of young man.

Finally, he takes Jace's hand in his, helping him to his feet.

Just as he does, he spots you, a gloved hand held up to your grinning lips as you head in the direction of the Godswood.

Your smile quickly fades, however, as your stomach turns when you enter the empty wooded area.

It hadn't merely been a playful game between young men... It was training for war.

You suddenly imagine Jace dying with a sword in his hand—Vermax falling from the sky—your mother wailing in agony over the loss of her firstborn son and fire raining down upon the enemy for it. Even for they you have sympathy.

You round the large heart tree which stands before a glistening pond of cool blue water and lean back against it, squeezing your burning eyes shut, willing the tears away.

But it only gets worse—your imagination running away from you. Not even coming here was going to soothe you, then.

Lucerys, who is still yet a child, with a sword thrust into his terrified hands, and Joffrey, still yet practically a babe, who may not even remember those who will be forever lost to him in battle.

And then there is Viserys and Aegon—both so young and tender.

Who...if you are all gone, who will raise them? What if...what if the Greens, instead, use them as veal for their dragons?

You feel sick.

You choke down a sob, covering your mouth with trembling hands. Oh Gods, what is happening?

"Princess?" Calls a concerned voice to your right, utterly gentle in tone, his fire quickly extinguished at the sight of you in distress.

You quickly wipe your flushed cheeks, even if you know it is of no use: he has seen you.

"Lord Cregan," you manage to say through the stinging tears.

He comes closer, throwing 'propriety' and 'decorum' to the wind as he cups your face in his hands, his brows furrowed, hard eyes full of worry. "Has something happened? If someone here has—"

You shake your head. "No. It's—"

You burst into tears then, imaging the fall of your family. All of them. Even those you are now meant to call enemy and usurper and worse.

He then pulls you close to him, against his chest, and you press your face against his leather jerkin, which smells of smoke and steel, as he wraps sturdy arms around you.

He gently runs his strong fingers through your soft hair, before cradling the back of your head in his callused palm, shooshing you, desperately wishing to comfort you from whatever has you in such disarray.

Finally, once you have begun to quiet, you pull back from him, leaning against the tree behind you once more, hiccupping. "I'm so...sor—" You shake your head. "Please, forgive me, Lord Cregan. I—"

He takes your hand in his bare one. "There is nothing to forgive."

Your lower lip trembles.

He steps closer, his body-heat radiating onto you against the cold. "Will you not tell me, Y/N?"

It seems a strange dichotomy to you: him.

Last night, with Jace—much like your first night here—he had talked history and fighting and weapons and about the Wall; the grit of the North, which he seems to completely embody. And then his being relentless with a sword in his hand—one always at his side. And there is the way he carries himself: with surety and steel.

But with you he is...gentle. Has been so many times now.

"Watching the two of you, it initially filled me with joy to see: you both getting on so easily. And so soon. And then I realized..."

You look up, meeting his eyes and he cups your cheek, brushing hot tears away with the pad of his thumb, before settling his grip upon your forearm.

You continue. "You were not play-fighting. It's training for war. One that I..."

You trail off for just a moment, taking deep breaths, trying to calm yourself before bursting into another fit of hysterics. "I believe is truly inevitable. If it were not so, we would not be here now, with you, seeking the might of your realm to back my mother. Her...cause. I thought I had accepted it—that which looms before us, but seeing Jace with a sword. Oh Gods, I cannot lose them."

His jaw feathers as he watches you struggle to hold yourself together. You are far too gentle a creature to bear witness to this pending doom.

"She told me once, something which her father—my grandsire—told her at my age; younger, even."

You are quiet for a moment, snow falling softly around the two of you, the sound of a bird flapping its wings in flight.

"When dragons go to war, everything burns."

You meet his eyes again. "Never, at any point in our history, have so many dragons been alive at once. Even at that, my uncle, Daemon, has a score of eggs incubating at Dragonstone. Not that they will be full-grown for some time, if they do indeed hatch."

You let out a shuddering breath. "I...I am afraid."

He rubs soothing circles against your sleeved arm with his thumb, grasping for the right words to give you, which may provide some sense of security, but he, most unfortunately, has none.

He has failed you more than once in that: being unable to comfort you from your troubles.

"I don't want my family to die," you whisper, fresh tears slipping down your face. "Any of them."

He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours, taking each of your hands within his own, holding them up to his lips as he blows warm air onto them, before clasping them firmly between his large hands.

"I wish I had words of wisdom—assurance—to offer you. It grieves me to see you like this, Princess. But in times like these, sometimes we must admit hard truths to ourselves." He's quiet for a moment. "I think you and I both know what those truths to be. That if an agreement—capitulation—is not soon reached, I fear your mother's warning may yet come to fruition."

You sniffle. "Coming here felt—feels—like such an escape. It is as if I'm in another world now. Far from politics and scheming and treachery. Like none of it—or they—can touch me in this place."

You close your eyes.

"Do you want to know the horrible truth?" You question quietly.

"Tell me. Please."

You swallow thickly. "I don't want to go home."

He pulls back then and you stare up at him, ashamed of yourself.

"Might I ask why?" He probes.

You shrug slightly. "I..." You pause.

You don't open up like this. Not to anyone. It's not that you don't have someone to do so with. You do. But it would hurt them to hear. Would break your mother's heart to.

Mama.

So, you have kept it locked away inside all this time. But here, before the Gods—his Gods—if they are listening, you feel it a safe place.

Feel that he is.

"I have always felt othered. Out-of-step. Out-of-place. Within my own life..."

You sigh. "King's Landing was...the sun and the warm water was pleasant enough. And, at night, when I felt lonely, all I had to do was stand on my balcony, and listen, to know that I wasn't. The noise could be too much at times, but at others it served to console me.

"And then we left for Dragonstone, and I had never felt so alienated. Living on an island, away from everyone—everything—I had ever known, and so soon after losing—"

You stop. You know the truth. You always have. You and Jace and Luke had discussed it late one night in your twin's room; that most unspeakable secret which everyone seemed to talk about anyway.

It had lost Vaemond his head to do so, per Daemon.

"Go on," he encourages softly.

You look at him, resolving to finally acknowledge it. You will not shove him aside. He had doted on you. Loved you so.

You could still remember it, even now—that night when you could've been no more than five-years-old, and drifting off to sleep in his broad arms when he had whispered it: 'I love you, my little girl, with all that I am'.

And you had loved him. Laenor as well. And then you had lost them both, and in such quick succession of each other. To fire, no less.

No wonder you had never desired a dragon of your own.

It's because fire takes—kills and destroys and burns away all that remains. Until all that is left is charred bone and ashes and nothing. And it will do it again, soon enough.

Your chin wobbles. "My father, Ser Harwin. And then Laenor..."

You shake your head, and you find that he does not react to you saying it, which you are glad for.

"I had never felt so alone. I had my siblings, but even at that: I was the only girl. And Daemon... I have never considered him a father. I've never understood why my mother married him. He is...selfish. Dangerous and self-righteous."

He straightens. He'd heard rumors of him: the Rogue Prince. Taken his own niece to wife, immediately after the death of his first. He cannot imagine moving past it so quickly; such a loss.

"I feel as if I walk between two worlds, and that neither will ever truly have me. I do not feel high-born. Do not entirely want to be, either. It is why I don't like being called 'Princess'. Do not like others bowing and scraping before me, who I refuse to see as lesser-than. Who I instead wish I can be friends with.

"But I know I am not like them, either. Because they will never see me as as much. How could they? How can I ever relate to their hardships of poverty and constant struggle, when I have never wanted for anything except for perhaps...companionship? Or a sense of belonging."

You gently remove your hands from his own, tucking them beneath your cloak. "But when we arrived here—stood outside your castle—I felt something I never had before."

"What was it?" He whispers.

"Home." Your eyes shimmer with tears.

His heart jumps to hear you say such a thing.

"This place feels like what I imagine home is meant to feel like. And to know that in a fortnight, perhaps a little more time, a little less, that I will have to leave it behind, and mayhaps never see it again..."

You look to the side of you where a white rabbit hops along quietly, sniffing the snow beneath its padded feet. "I must sound ridiculous. To feel so attached to it when I've only just arrived. I know that I do not belong here—"

"I do not believe that," he states firmly, in a rasping voice.

Your brows furrow. How can he not? You are an outsider if there ever was one.

He continues. "I have questioned it: destiny. If it does exist, or if our lives are simply a series of choices we are forced to make day-by-day. But then I think of the Gods. The beauty of our world. The mysteries. The stories and legends." He looks at you. "How can I not, then? You say my home also feels like home to you?"

You nod gently.

"Perhaps our destiny is something that chooses us, then, and not the other way around. At least for some. Others... We are forced to carve our own path. But, for those that remain, unable to see a way forward—mayhaps they have a helping hand guiding them closer. Until they finally find whatever it is that has been waiting for them. And that hand leaves—them able to then forge ahead on their own, the path before them lain plainly."

You think for a moment, trying to understand what he might mean. “Are you saying that you believe Winterfell to be my destiny?”

He stares down at you. “Did you not feel as much when that feeling of home overcame you when standing outside our walls? Something drove you to come here, Y/N. You did tell me it had been a late decision. But one you made, nevertheless.”

You had heard once that Northerners were a superstitious lot. But, at the same time, you cannot deny the things he says.

He notes your silence. “Do you believe in the Gods?”

You look at him from under your lashes. “Which ones?” You ask with a small smile.

“Any,” he says, stepping round the heart tree, looking upon the face that was carved into it so many centuries ago.

You come to stand beside him. “I was raised in the light of the Seven.”

He looks to you, while your eyes remain firmly fixed on the tree before you.

“But I don’t…know that I feel they’ve ever listened to me. I believe in them, yes. I just don’t really pray to them anymore. I can’t even remember when it was that I stopped now. I think not long after Harwin…”

You look to him with worried eyes. “You won’t tell anyone, will you? What I’ve said about my true paternity or—”

He shakes his head. “No worries on that account, Y/N. I would never betray your trust. I consider it a gift—a privilege, even—you sharing such hard truths with me.”

And he does. You have done it time and again, much to his appreciation. He only wishes for it to continue. For you not to close yourself away from him instead.

“Why did you ask? About whether I believe?”

He nods toward the tree. “I do. Believe. Pray. When I am able.”

He turns fully toward you, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, then settling his arms behind him. “Perhaps you should speak to them. If your New Gods did not listen… I wonder if the Old may not be more agreeable.”

You step toward it, considering. “How do I—”

“Just speak to them. As you have me. Nothing else is necessary. No crystals or censers or choosing this one or that to hear you. Tell them what is within your heart, your soul. I cannot promise that things will change, much more for the better, but I always feel as if a load has been lightened after I have confided in them.”

You sit upon the stone bench positioned a foot or so away, looking up at the blood-red leaves swaying above you, a cool winter wind blowing them to and fro.

You tighten your cloak around you then, which Cregan takes note of.

You tuck your chin in close to your chest, to only be met a moment later with the feel of a very heavy and long fur-lined cloak—already warm from his body heat—being carefully draped over your shoulders.

You look up to him. “Oh, you don’t have to—”

“What sort of man would I be if I let you sit there and shiver against the cold while I stay warm? It grieves me to think of you catching a chill while under my protection. Even if it would, mayhaps, keep you in my company longer.”

You flush.

“Besides, I have many others,” he states with a smile.

You wrap it further around you, until only your head is visible and his lip twitches at the sight. Of you, in a way, covered in him.

You smile sheepishly, your cheeks warming, along with the rest of you as you nervously wring your hands beneath the black cloak, which smells of him; of winter.. “Thank you, Cregan.”

Hearing his name uttered from your lips like this—and here—moves something within him. Sends his blood racing in his veins.

“Shall I leave you, then?” He asks, cocking his head slightly to the side.

You nod once. “I will at least try.”

He goes to step away. “I hope, truly, that they listen.”

It’s not quite an hour later when you finally rise from your seat. You had felt foolish at first—talking to a tree—but once you began to pour your heart out, there had been no stopping it.

You had told the Old Gods everything.

Had told them about your true father, and your step, Laenor. You prayed for your brothers, to keep them safe from whatever is to come. And if they do die…make it swift. Painless. You prayed for your mother, and for her to regain her throne with minimal bloodshed. Prayed even for the Hightowers and Alicent’s children, because they were still your family.

And then you prayed for the Realm. That, if and when lives are lost—it makes you sick to even think of it—to let it not be in vain. Let their bodies not rot on battlefields, never to return home, or their corpses strung up on tree branches, to be used as examples. Let them be buried with dignity.

Let families not go hungry, or suffer from illness and disease. Let horses not fall from starvation due to rationing. Let the land not be razed and destroyed, homes burned, shops never to reopen, leaving many without means to earn money, or a way to purchase provisions to survive off of.

The more you thought of war, the worse off you felt. Until you began to cry again. So much so that you eventually exhausted yourself and felt sick.

You had finally risen, thanking them for listening—if they indeed had, before heading out of the Godswood, back into the courtyard and heading into the castle once more to lie down for awhile.

You had knocked on Cregan's door, so as to return his cloak, to no avail.

So you had taken it with you into your own, deeming that you would return it to its rightful owner that evening instead.

You hung it carefully upon a brass hook on the wall, then stopped mid-turn when you caught sight of a present laid upon your bed, concealed in brown wrapping paper.

You gently pull at the twine tied round it, then smooth the paper back to reveal a beautiful heavy black cloak, lined with incredibly soft fur. Set atop it, a small note: To keep you warm. —Cregan

It is only once you have tried it on and are looking at yourself in a floor-length mirror that you notice the small embroidered direwolf above your left breast.

You smile warmly at the sight, your heart squeezing at his kind gesture.

You much look forward to seeing him again that night.

And you then wonder...if he feels the same.

#fic: hotd (cregan stark x reader)#cregan stark imagine #cregan stark x oc #cregan stark x y/n #cregan stark x you #cregan stark x reader #hotd x y/n #hotd x reader #hotd imagine

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bks-writing-adventures · 3 months

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Love? Match. (Aemond Targaryen X Stark! Reader)

This is for a request I got! If people like it, i'll do a part two <3

“Delusional. She is absolutely delusional!” Aemond grumbled, mostly to himself as Vhagar landed on a mount of snow with a low grumble. His breath was turning to fog everytime it left his body, his nose and cheeks flushed from the icy cold. This was the worst type of cold in the world. No sun, no fluff to the snow, just bitter. His nose ached, and his body shivered as he slid down Vhagar’s wing. The great beast would not meet his eye, and he could tell that she was certainly not pleased with him right now.

“I know, I know,” He mumbled, reaching to rub the scales that covered her face. “I will be quick,” he said, but he didn’t think that to be true. The North was stubborn, it was cold, and it was the closest thing to The Seven Hells. With every step, he cursed beneath his breath. Perhaps he should’ve landed closer to Winterfell, but landing that close with a dragon would not be a good look. And while he did love to intimidate, it would do nothing but create enemies. Of course, there was always the option of burning the land, but that was not truly his style.

When he finally caught a glimpse of the building, his eyes narrowed into slits, his lashes coated with snowflakes and his vision frosted 0ver. IF one were to cry, their tears would turn to ice on their face. He was surprised that the very saliva in his mouth had not hardened. Taking in a deep breath, he rubbed his hands together to create a heat, hoping with every bone in his body that it would spread. He was told to aim for Cregan Stark. His mother believed it would be the best of ideas, since men could bond easier, and perhaps he could fish out some sympathy. He would have to get to them before the Blacks, or else they could plant whatever ideas they wanted, and it would grow out of his control. When he finally saw the first flashes of black hair, it was a miracle.

“My Lady,” He called out quietly, taking a few steps closer. She was covered in a heavy cloak of animal skin, and her dark hair was twisted into small buns around her ears, like makeshirt earmuffs. Her face was red from the cold, and her eyes were big and endearing, almost like that of a cow about to be slaughtered. His eye lingered for a moment before he took the rest of her in, noting the metal jewelry around her neck and fingers. She wore several rings, each with a different stone, and he wondered what it would feel like to press a kiss to the back of her hand. “Are you a Stark?” He asked, despite knowing the answer. This would be difficult to play out. He wasn’t a man to stay away from violence, to use words over a sword. And it was hard to convince himself that this would work out, but he swallowed his doubts as he spoke.

“Yes. You are a long way from home, are you not?” She asked. Her voice was quiet, but it had a certain power to it, her head tilting upward, almost as if challenging him. Her dark eyes looked him over, and a smile pulled at her mouth. He was glad for the cold now, because the redness of his face would hide his blush.

“I am, My Lady. The West is in great need of help,” He spoke. She nodded, and she began to walk, not saying anything. It baffled him slightly, and he quickly started to follow her. Perhaps leather in the cold was not the best of ideas, because he grimaced every time it touched his skin. Fur would have been a much better choice.

“And so I have heard,” She sighed, leading him further into the snow, until he could see smudges of people in the distance. “But what I fail to understand is how that is our problem,” She spoke, a brow raised. Ugh. Her voice was just so enticing, and he could feel his body warming up from how flustered she was making him. It was disgusting, and he shook his head to clear his thoughts.

“You understand that Targaryen’s do not back down from a fight. We will destroy each other, and we will destroy you, too. You must pick a side, there is simply right, and wrong,” He spoke, pausing in his steps as she walked along the ice. He was not nearly as graceful as her, and he moved with caution, trying not to go sliding into the mountains of snow.

“And who is decide what is right from wrong? Because forgive me for my honesty, but I do not believe your brother has ever done a right thing in his life. The wind speaks, and we hear of his sins. We would never bend the knee to such a man,” She spoke, and he felt himself groan internally. Her words were.. Well, true. He had no interest in submitting to Aegon either. His ultimate goal was to get himself on the throne and hope that his elder brother would drink himself to his death. It was a terrible thing to think, but Aegon was a terrible man. Such a fate would only make sense. His life’s worst regret was helping Ser Criston into searching for the boy. He clearly didn’t want the weight of the crown on his head, and he knew nothing about anything. He could not tell his right from left, and he knew nothing of history or politics.

“And I deserve to be punished for that?” He asked, looking down at her. She was a fair bit shorter than him, but just as muscular, if not more. She had broad shoulders for a lady. His Uncle Daemon had once said that a Northern woman was about as feminine as a beast, but… she was, well, she was pleasant on the eyes.

“Do not twist my words,” She spoke. “Besides. The North has nothing to give to you. We are dying left and right. The winter is harsh, and the cold is taking limbs and lives. We cannot fight in your silly war,” She responded. He didnt’ say anything for a long moment, following her gaze out to the wall. It was haunting. The sky was dark, and it was impossible to tell night from day. He didn’t like it one bit, he could not imagine living here, or how they could survive at all. He wondered where the food came from, before he realized, it wasn’t coming from anywhere. They couldn’t grow food, and there was no warmth.

“What if, in exchange for your loyalty, we provided food and safety to your land?” He asked. He could practically see the gears turning in her head, and he fought the urge to smirk. She definitely didn’t see that coming. “Ah, you would like that, wouldn’t you?” He asked softly, his voice tickling her ears. Her eyes were clouded with thoughts, and it took her a moment to respond.

“I would like you to speak with my brother,” She spoke, leading him toward the building. The change from the cold to the heat was shocking and welcomed all at once. Itches grew across his body, and he could feel the snow in his hair melting down into water, making his white hair cling to his head.

“How are we to know that you are not speaking just to speak? I could agree, and you could give nothing.” She spoke, leading him through the building. Her boots left wet footprints across the stone, and he took in a deep breath as he scratched at his neck. His clothes were sticking to his skin. This really was hell.

“I am not one to back down on my word, My Lady.” He said quietly, drawing in a deep breath as she started climbing up the stairs. He had no idea how much time had passed, chewing the inside of his cheek. “That does not mean much to me, My Prince. I do not even know which one you are,” She said, making him chuckle.

“Ah, so I see my fame does not spread this far,” He spoke, and his ego was a bit bruised. “I should have introduced myself. I am Prince Aemond Targaryen, My Lady.” He said, gently taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it, his mouth lingering for a moment. Her skin was warm on his cold lips, and he looked at her hands curiously, reaching for her left. No wedding ring. Fascinating.

“Ah, the infamous Kinslayer. I know you now,” She said. Her eyes showed nothing, and he squinted slightly.

“As could be said for most of my family members. We are not known to be… agreeable,” He said softly. He wanted to know more about her, but she was hard to read. His hand was still wrapped around hers, tracing patterns along the veins beneath her skin.

“Hm.” She hummed, saying nothing more as she held his hand, practically dragging him up the stairs like a dog. When she reached the top, she pushed open a door, a group of men sitting awkwardly, their heads whipping toward the sudden intrusion. “Brother,” She spoke, making a boy sigh. “We have an offer from the West,” She spoke, making the room go quiet. Aemond could tell that she was a mighty little thing, no one spoke a word against her. It was a bit of a culture shock, seeing the way that women were treated here compared to back home. At the small court, his mother hardly got a word in, and she’d have to use him and his brother as puppets.

“An offer?” He asked, standing up. He was a big thing, as all Northern men seemed to be. He had a face that looked like it was carved in stone, permanently unimpressed. He was not nearly as beautiful as his sister, in Aemond’s opinion, at least. “This… boy claims that in exchange for our support and men in his stupid, meaningless-” She paused, drawing in a deep breath. “In exchange for our support in the Western war, he will provide us with food and materials to last us the winter,” She spoke, brows raised. The two seemed to be communicating with their eyes, and Aemond could tell by the way that she stood that she was challenging him.

“Sister, what of-” The man didn’t seem to know what to say. “We pledged our loyalty to the Targaryens long ago. But with them going against each other, either side is a fair pick. We may as well choose the side that will benefit us both,” She said, staring at an older man that was sitting in one of the chairs, a brow raised. After a moment, he got up, moving a few paces back so she could take the seat, crossing her legs. Cregan looked at Aemond, head tilting. He was intimidating in a way that was different from the Prince. While Aemond had a carved face and relied on his dark clothes and gaze, Cregan had a natural superiority to him. He was broad and calm, which was the worst. He didn’t show any displays of anger or distaste, he just nodded slowly. “

And is the Prince unwed?” He asked. Aemond’s heart thumped, and he straightened his back even more. This was not part of the plan. He just had to hope his mother would not be angry with him. Marriage was one of the greatest weapons at all. It could be used to bond and manipulate, and it was something that would be in the history books. It would combine their names and their value, and hopefully, give him more access to the other side of the Kingdoms.

“He is not,” Aemond said in response. No one had really spoken directly to him, he felt like such an outsider. Cregan’s face broke into a smirk.

“Well, sister. If we are taking all that we can..” He trailed off. It was weird. Aemond had never been spoken to in this way. It was both humbling and exhilarating. He wanted to argue and say that he never agreed to it.. But at the same time, it wouldn’t hurt.

“And it would give us access to more weapons and money,” The Stark girl nodded in return. When Aemond came to the North, he did not expect to be leaving with a betrothed. But when two hours had passed, she was following him back to Vhagar, a quarter of her things packed into a bag on her back, her eyes narrowed as they walked. He was so awkward, not saying anything as they approached the giant beast that was Vhagar. He just hoped that the Lady Stark would not react negatively, or Vhagar might eat her. “Gīda, Vhagar. Sȳz va se riña.” He spoke, slowly stroking Vhagar’s snout.

“I did not realize how big she was,” Lady Stark admitted after a moment. She did not look horrified, in fact, she seemed almost awestruck. Aemond smiled a little at her words.

“The largest in the world. She is the greatest protector of Kings Landing at the moment, protecting us against our treasonous kin. My uncle has been our greatest threat, you would not like him very much,” He said quietly, taking her hand and leading her to Vhagar’s giant saddle. “Are you ready to fly?” He asked softly. He wanted to reach out and touch her face, and he was thrilled to feel her arms around him as they climbed onto the large dragon.

“Is now a terrible time to mention that I am afraid of heights?” She asked softly as her arms went around his torso. Her arms were strong, maybe just as strong as his.

“That it is,” He smiled, placing one of his hands over hers before they took off. To his delight, she did not scream, she just clenched her eyes shut nice and tight, and held him as they shared warmth. He knew that Vhagar could feel it, this odd feeling growing in his belly like a disease. It wasn’t love, it was.. Infatuation, perhaps. He held his lady as Vhagar’s wings steadied, rubbing her hand in slow, circular motions as she eventually fell asleep. He just hoped that she would not fall. The flight was long and covered the both in snowflakes, and he let out a breath of relief as the air grew heavy and humid once more. The air of the West tasted warm and almost oily on his tongue, the smell of mud and trees tickling his nose with familiarity.

“Wake up, my beauty.” He mumbled softly, nudging the Stark as they made their descend back to the land, Vhagar’s mighty claws slicing into the dirt, sending a spray of dust across the field. She groaned softly, and she seemed to already be reacting to the change in weather, sneezing as she got off of the dragons back. There was not a moment for them to speak before his mother was rushing toward him, her face falling a bit when she saw the girl. Her mind was going to all the wrong places, praying that her son had not kidnapped the girl as ransom or something.

“Mother,” He spoke, taking her arms as she approached. She was stressed constantly nowadays, and the death of his father had aged her ten years. Her brown eyes were tired, and her hair was disheveled, despite the constant conditioning treatments.

“Aemond,” She said, her voice coming out sleepy and cautious as she eyed the dark haired lady.

“Relax, mother. This is my betrothed,” He said softly, reaching over for her arm, slowly bringing the Stark closer as though trying to introduce two dogs, hoping they would make friends.

“Your betrothed?” She asked softly. It was hard to tell if she was angry or simply shocked. But after a moment, a tight smile spread on her face. “And you did not think to ask? Or…” She trailed off, swallowing her words.

“We do not have the luxury of taking things slow in war, mother. And with our marriage will come a bond between us and the North. They will fight with us if we give them the resources they need,” He said softly, and her brows scrunched.

“And what resources would those be?” She asked, seeming rather irritated.

“Food, clothes, safety. We need the soldiers to stay alive if we want them to fight for us. And Lady Stark has much knowledge, politically and socially,” The more he spoke, the more she seemed convinced, and after a moment of thinking, her gaze softened.

“Very well, then.” She said, gazing back at Lady Stark. “We will get you a nice warm bath and some tea immediately. You can sleep in the guest chambers,” She spoke, slowly nodding. Some servants came to take Lady Stark’s bag, but she quickly waved them off. She did not like being separated from her belongings, and when the brunette was finally out of earshot, Alicent turned to her youngest son. “You cannot simply make decisions like that without warning,” She spoke. She didn’t know why she was angry.

It didn’t have much to do with the war at all, but rather, it was the feeling of losing her youngest child. He had remained unwed this long, and he was her best child. She would forever regret what she did to Aegon and Helaena, and she had prayed every night to The Maiden and The Mother for Aemond to get a love match. To find someone that could give him the care and understanding that she could never provide. And now he would be marrying a stranger. But at the very least, they were the same age. And Lady Stark seemed kind enough.

“It is not a good idea to get married when the world is like this. If Daemon finds out..” She trailed off. She was very aware that Rhaenyra’s family was seeking revenge due to Aemond’s disgusting actions. And she would hate to see the Lady Stark be caught in the crossfire. “You will have no grand wedding. There will be no celebration. It will be private, and you will say nothing to anyone at the court. There are spies everywhere,” She warned, and anxiety burned in Aemond’s chest. He hadn’t thought about that, and he did not care to think about it anymore.

When he finally found himself in bed, he watched the ceiling as he desperately hunted for sleep. When it did not come, his mind wandered and his eyes shut as he thought about Lady Stark. Her arms around his torso, the feel of her head on his back, the way her breath hitched the higher they got, all those rings on her fingers- and how she would wear one from him soon, too. The more he thought, the more he wondered, and slowly, his feet touched the stone floor, and he crept to his door, slowly opening it. His guard stood outside, brows raised.

“Going somewhere?” He asked.

“Yes.” Aemond responded, slowly making his way down to the guest chambers. It was a walk of shame of sorts, having to walk past all the guards as they stood by his siblings and mothers chambers. They all gave him small nods, and he sighed, considering turning around. The servants would talk. The Knights would talk. It was a bad idea, but he was so close, and slowly, he knocked on the door of the guest chambers. When there was no answer, he was about to knock again, when the door suddenly whipped open. Lady Stark was staring at him, her skin still rosy and warm from her bath, her hair wet and combed out, slowly curling up again as it dried. Her ears had been covered previously, and he smiled as he saw her in full. She had such little ears, like a cute little mouse. He could almost laugh at the thought.

“Can I help you?” She asked, arms crossed. He smiled at her feistiness, looking at her nightclothes. Her robe was comically large, and he made a small promise to himself that when the war was over, he would have some fine clothes made for her.

“I cannot find sleep. I was hoping you would speak with me about our arrangement,” He said slowly. She looked suspicious, but nodded after some time, stepping aside to allow him into the room. The guest chambers were nothing special. A big bed with generic blankets, a washroom, a bathtub, a chamber pot, some towels, and a fire place. A dresser and a wardrobe, a bookshelf with only two volumes on it. It was dull, but she seemed to light it up.

“My mother says that our marriage will be a quiet one. This is a dangerous family, you understand,” He said softly, following her mindlessly and heating up when she sat on her bed. She just looked so lovely like this, and he cleared his throat, averting his gaze.

“I am well aware. When are the supplies going to the North?” She asked. She had her mind set, and her desires were clear.

“Soon, my lady. We will marry tomorrow once the sun falls, and the day after that, I will bring the delivery myself,” He spoke. They were big promises, but he knew he could do it. When he was very young, he had an obsession with agriculture for some months. For his 14th name day, he had requested only books and seeds, and of course, a greenhouse. A greenhouse that was run by servants and farmers, and was full of plants and vegetables that were ready to go. Perhaps they could build a greenhouse in the North, and they could use mirrors and glass to direct the sun toward it.

“Very good.” She says softly, shifting a little on the bed. “Are you going to stand there forever, or will you sit?” She asked, staring up at him. His eye widened, and he looked at the mattress. It was far softer than his own, and he could only imagine the back ache if he fell asleep on it. But he could not deny her, sitting a good foot or so away.

“...I cannot imagine this is what you envisioned when you were a girl, dreaming of marriage,” He said quietly, making her let out a laugh. Not a soft giggle, but a full belly laugh, a soft wheeze escaping her. “You think young girls dream of marriage?” She asked, as though the idea was ridiculous. “Tell me, My Prince, have you ever spoken to a woman?” She asked him. The answer was of course, no, not really. He had interacted with his mother and sister, but outside of that.. Well, did the Septa count? Probably not.

“Not often.” He admitted. She nodded, smiling a little as she reached out to touch his cheek.

“Oh, I imagine you scare off the western ladies like the plague, with this little thing of yours,” She said, reaching for his eyepatch as he turned his head away. Yes, of course. That.

“It is not my best feature,” He said, trying to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

“Says who?” She asked, head tilted. He couldn’t tell if she was teasing or not. He grew hot at that, looking awkwardly at his hands.

“Says most,” He spoke. He sounded pathetic. He hated what she was doing to him, but he couldn’t get enough.

“Most people are not worth your time or mine. Now, I am tired, and I am looking forward to sleeping on this giant thing,” She sighs, flopping back on the bed, arms above her head and her legs parted like a starfish.

“You enjoy it, my Lady. When the war ends.. I will get you the biggest bed the world has to offer,” He said softly, and after a moment of thinking about it, he finally reached out and touched her hair. It was slightly rough in his hands. It was not silky like his own, and it was much thicker, as though she had adapted to the cold air of the north.

“You make a lot of promises. We will start with the marriage, then the supplies, and we will see where we end up,” She spoke, taking his hand and pressing a kiss to his palm. Gods. He felt like he was full of Milk of Poppy. Utterly euphoric. Now he understood why men loved brothels so much. He would pay an embarrassing amount to feel this way every day.

“Sounds.. Sounds good,” He says, voice cracking a little. She smiled teasingly, gently pushing on his chest.

“I will see you tomorrow, my Prince.” She spoke as he headed for the door, and he mumbled under his breath.

“I will see you tomorrow, My Love.” He mumbled so softly that not even the strongest of ears could hear it. That night, he slept like an infant, dreaming of the days to come.

thank you to everyone who reads!! <3

-BK ♡

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mrsriddlenott · 10 months

Text

The Third Day Of Smutmas

[smutmas masterlist] [main masterlist]

~ Family Christmas ~

dom!Mattheo x sub!Reader x dom!Theo

Summary: Theo brings you and Mattheo to his family’s Christmas dinner for the first time making you a nervous wreck, desperate to make a good impression. The boys notices your anxiety and decide to help you with your nerves in Theo’s bathroom before you eat with his family.

- voldy is dead, no 2nd wizarding war, no angsty death eater stuff for Christmas😤, Theo’s parents are mean, Mattheo calls Theo’s parents mom & dad for obvious reasons -

Warnings: 18+ Content!! d/s dynamics, praisekink, f!receiving oral, m!receiving handjob, body worship(?), kinda public, cumplay(barely)

When you were all at Hogwarts you never would have guessed where time would take you, you knew both the boys adored you back then but they rarely acted on it due to their shared respect for not only their friendship with each other but with you as well. They didn’t want your choice between them to break up your trio, so they chose for you, neither. When you stumbled back into their lives not even a full 5 years later however, they saw it to be fate. They were much more mature than before, and realized it wasn’t up to them to make such a decision for you.

Long before you were clouding their thoughts every day, they vowed to each other that they would never let anyone get between them, so instead you became a part of them. You loved them both equally and there was absolutely no way for you to choose. You knew your relationship wasn’t conventional by any means but you all loved each other more than you thought humanly possible. There was no separating you. It took a while for you all to become publicly official, only your closest of friends knew of your relationship for the longest time. Your first Christmas together was like a fairytale, Mattheo went above and beyond for all of you in your shared flat, excited to finally have something he could call his own.

This year however, Theo’s parents knew of your relationship, that you had taken their sons heart as well as the heart of the boy they viewed as a second son, and now expected you all for dinner on Christmas eve, so you were reasonably scared beyond explanation. Theo’s mother was never fond of you, even when you were basically just a kid invited over with the group during time away from school. You sensed she knew of her boys shared feelings for you long before they did, when they saw you as nothing more than their best friend. She noticed the shift it took when they started acting on those feelings and again when the two decided your future together laid in friendship only, she was overjoyed when Theo and Mattheo brought home girls that weren’t you and when they all inevitably stopped coming around, she always seemed to blame you. You could imagine her sheer disappointment when she learned of the seriousness of your relationship, and it sent a kick to your stomach every time.

The snow crunched beneath your heeled boots as you walked down the stone pathway approaching four steps leading to the door of the ominously large manor in front of you. The warmth of Theo’s comforting hand on your lower back held you down to earth as Mattheo stepped in front to get the door for you. Warmth and the smell of cooking food hit you immediately, what would feel like a welcoming embrace to anyone who wasn’t you.

“Mom we’re here,” Theo called, his voice echoing in the foyer as he removed your coat and showed you where you could put your shoes that were growing damp with melting snow that fell heavily outside. Taking Mattheo’s hand you let him lead you through the large, decorated hallway to an even larger, even more decorated dining room, “They go this overboard every year,” Theo chuckled in your ear, seeing your wide eyes reflect the scene in front of you. His lips grazed your neck and your body began to relax, he left featherlight kisses up and down the back of your neck while Mattheo stepped in front of you to drag a lock of your hair behind your ear before speaking, “It’s not half as beautiful as our girl though is it Teddy?”

“Not even a quarter,” He laughed behind you, you breathed in their scents, soothing yourself with their close proximity before it all came crashing down with an abrupt halt to the clicks of expensive heels on hardwood floors accompanied with a gasp that sent your heart plummeting.

“Have some decency would you Theodore,” Mrs.Nott hissed, sending you a look of disgust as your boyfriends separated from you to greet her, “Oh it’s nothing new Mom no need to freak out,” Mattheo stated as he hugged the thin woman with pursed lips that could rival Professor Mcgonagall, “You remember y/n don’t you?”

“Of course Dear, lets wait for dinner in the living room shall we?” Her shifty eyes avoided you as you began forming a hello, immediately turning away and toward another heavily decorated hallway. Theo’s jaw clenched as he and Mattheo made eye contact over your head before he was speaking in a curt voice, “Mom, y/n was trying to speak to you.” The woman’s steps faltered for a second before continuing to click down the hall, your hand shot up to Theo’s wrist as he began after her with scrunched brows, “Just leave it okay? We’ll have plenty of time to talk.”

Despite your attempts to hide it both boys could see your discomfort with the woman’s clear disdain for you, but decided against making a scene. They escorted you through to the lavish living room with both of your hands in their extended elbows. Mr.Nott was much nicer, patting the back of your hand in his while welcoming you back for the first time in years, and if you hadn’t caught is sideways glance to his wife when his son kissed you on the cheek, you may have actually believed it.

The room was tense and quiet, sitting across from Theo’s parents between him and Mattheo, each with an arm slung behind you that seemed to catch Mrs.Nott’s eyes more than any of her hundreds of decorations. “So…do you three have any funny stories from your Hogwarts days?,” Mr.Nott asked in an attempt to cut the tension knotting throughout the room. “I’m sure there’s something to share based on all those owls we got about your little group you had back in the day.” He laughed to himself, bringing his small glass of bourbon to his lips awkwardly.

“We’d give Mom a heart attack if we listed off our great adventures,” Mattheo joked, laughing as you and Theo joined in before it died down almost as soon as it started, “Well at least remind me of their names again, erm there was Lucius’ boy and that one nice boy that always helped your mother out around the house over summer,” The man snapped his fingers as he tried to put a name to the face he was imagining, ignoring the laughing of his boys.

“Enzo was not nice Dad, you just think he was because he wanted you to. He was just as much as a trouble maker as the rest of us, just smart enough not to get caught is all,” The two laughing beside you had a much needed smile growing on your lips, thinking of the old days with your large group of friends that grew simply because of circumstance helped to ease the tension of the night and you were finally able to think this wasnt such a bad idea.

“Remember that Pansy girl you were always bringing around during that time Matt, she was lovely wasn’t she….but she stopped coming with the rest of you lot….” Her eyes darted to you as she spoke, “Whatever happened to her?” Your chest hurt, your stomach seeming to meld with it as the room suddenly went silent. You knew Mrs.Nott was never fan of you but you never would have expected her to bring up your boyfriend’s ex at a dinner meant for getting to know you better.

“She cheated on me Mom,” Mattheo responded with an unmistakable bite to his voice, “y’know what they say, can’t judge a book by it’s cover,” He huffed, looking to you with a clenched jaw and apologetic eyes as Mrs.Nott cringed while her eyes darted between you and her boys, seemingly looking for anything else to comment on as a distraction to her rudeness.

“Well you know we fully support whatever experimenting you need to do before settling down,” Mr.Nott cut in, knocking the wind from your lungs as though you were just smacked into. Your eyes darted from person to person, all eyes were on someone else as the tension began to bubble over, you felt invisible, hurt, discredited. Too many thoughts and feelings swirled through you as the room remained eerily silent.

“We have settled down Dad….for fucks sake we’ve lived together for over a year,” Theo snapped, teeth gritted, creaking together while his fingers flexed and un-flexed in anger beside your head as he forced himself to remain seated despite his fathers words. Your chest pounded as your ears began to ring, your breathing was shallow and your palms were growing damp with sweat. Were they experimenting?

“I’m just saying that this isn’t natural,” His fathers voice that was eerily similar to Theo’s rang in your head louder than your own voice, “A female mind only wants one mate. It’s science, eventually she’ll want children and one of you will be chosen to father them, one of you will get hurt and that will be that unless you get out of it,” Mr.Nott leaned back against his leather couch with a smug face, taking another sip of his drink as though he had it all solved.

“Loving them is the most natural thing I have ever done, and maybe don’t talk about her like she’s not literally right here,” Theo shouted at his father, pushing forward toward him and using his hand to gesture towards you beside him, “I know you’re not that stupid Dad a “female mind” can choose what she wants for herself and she’s chosen both of us okay?” Theo sighed, he seemed hurt by his parents inability to accept you, “and when the day comes that she wants us to we will both father her children,” Theo’s eyes were rolling before his father could even start speaking again, “You act like we haven’t thought this out, we’ve had all the hard conversations already and when more come up we’ll have those too.”

Mr. Nott was stunned at his sons outburst, taking a second to ground himself before speaking again in a lower voice as though you were a child he was hiding the truth about Santa Clause from, “Son….can’t you see what this is….you’re two very attractive and well off men she-“

“I don’t think you should finish that sentence if you want us to stay for dinner….” Theo’s jaw was clenched as his stern, demanding eyes dug into his fathers identical irises.

“I think I’m just gonna go clean myself up before we eat.” You willed yourself to keep your tears hidden, pushing up from your spot and quickly making your way to the bathroom right down the hall you entered through, shutting the door as quickly and quietly as possible before letting your tears fall. It was ridiculous to question and deep down you knew it, but your mind raced with questions of if they really wanted you or if you were some fantasy or experiment.

The thick door behind you clicked open before shutting with a thud seconds later, the sound of your crying flooded the room as the two boys behind you remained silent, “May-maybe they’re right….I mean what if you guys realize too late you would be happier with two separate girlfriends.” Mattheo scoffed with a roll of his eyes, grabbing your shoulders firmly and spinning you to look at them both.

“You, y/f/n, are the only girl we want and you have been since we were 15 years old. They’re just gonna have to come around, okay?” You nodded your head weakly, tears still slowly falling down your cheeks before Theo’s rough hand was grabbing your chin and tilting your head up to meet his eyes.

“Looks like someone needs a reminder of who she belongs to, don’t you agree Matty?” Theo’s dead eyes bore into you as you whimpered, “You think we’d toss you aside for someone else huh?” Theo scoffed out a laugh before continuing, “You’re stuck with us Baby….Muffliato.”

Theo’s lips meet yours for only a second before he moves back to grip your hips in his large hands, yanking you up to sit on the oversized counter in a flash. His lips met the left side of your neck as Mattheo’s comforting hand ran through your hair, his eyes meeting yours before he was leaning forward to leave kisses up and down the right side of your neck. Your hands trailed up their biceps and around their shoulders, tugging them impossibly closer to you as Mattheo’s hand began to sneak across your right thigh, squeezing and molding the flesh with his hand while slowly moving your dress up, bunching it higher until it sat above the hem of your panties.

“We’re the only ones that will ever get to have these thighs,” Theo whispered against your neck, his aggressive hand now occupying your left thigh with a possessive grip as Mattheo’s lips separated from your neck, taking a second to watch your eyes before aggressively tugging your dress up your torso and over your head, revealing your naked chest and hardened nipples to them both. Waisting no time in diving into your chest, he begab sucking and biting at every section of flesh he could, marking you as theirs for anyone who would happen to glance at your body.

“We’re the only ones that will ever get to have these tits,” Mattheo sighed, taking your nipple between his teeth with a tug, making you whimper and whine before he was nursing the red bud with a swirl of his tongue. Theo’s possessive hand snaked it’s way all the way up your thigh, sending shivers down your spine as he started tugging at the edge of your underwear expectantly. You finally let moans slip past your lips when Theo’s tongue trailed up your neck at the same time Mattheo nibbled at your chest before dropping to his knees to trail kisses, nibbles and licks down your stomach.

“There’s our girl, now tell me what you fucking want before I tell Matty to stop what he’s doing.” Theo growled beside your ear, waiting for your response as Mattheo left open mouth kisses over your belly button, falling farther down every once in a while just to return to their original spot teasingly. Theo’s lips found your neck again, as if solely to distract you from forming your sentence, trailing their way up and down slowly as Mattheo’s teased your underwear, pulling at the elastic with his teeth and letting it snap back on you, forcing out whimper of a please.

“Please what Baby?” Theo’s warm breath on your neck mixed with Mattheo’s on your lower stomach and thighs had you on cloud nine, begging for them to do something, anything to you, “Show me that I’m yours and you’re mine,” Your voice was barley above a whisper as you pleaded to your boyfriends who almost immediately worked together to shred you lace underwear.

“Fuck I wanna kiss every inch of your body,” Mattheo whispers, standing as Theo takes his place kneeling before you and smashing his lips into yours passionately. His hands held your face against his while your lips melded together as his tongue danced against yours, swallowing your moans and gasps when Theo’s tongue glides through your folds. The tip of the strong muscle worked expertly against the bundle of nerves, sending jolts of pleasure through your whole body as you subconsciously began to grind against his face and tongue while losing the focus needed to kiss Mattheo.

You could feel the outline of Mattheo’s hard dick against your side as he leaned in to nip and kiss down your neck, urging you to let your fumbling hand trail it’s way to his belt buckle slowly, giving him plenty of time to deny you before quickly tugging it apart and tossing it aside with a clank of metal. Mattheo groans as your warm hand slips under the waistline of his jeans, palming him lightly before shoving both his boxers and jeans down his thighs impatiently. Tugging him in your hand as he moaned loudly in your ear, “Fuck Princess, I love your hands,”

You giggle at his confession before being interrupted by a particularly loud moan as Theo pushed his tongue inside of you, groaning against you and sending vibrations up your body. He smacked at your thigh to gain your focus, earning a yelp of a moan as your shining eyes looked down to him, seeing those deep, dead, jealous eyes staring up at you as he worked his tongue inside you was almost enough to send you over the edge alone. His bruising grip on your thighs as he held them apart to make room for his head had you spiraling as your brain fogged. You slowly pumped Mattheo, lathering your hand in his precum as you started matching your pace with the thrusts of Theo’s tongue inside of you.

“You’re doing so good for us Princess,” Mattheo’s deep voice echoed off the walls accompanied by his pants and whines that egged on your own, the slurping sounds coming from between your thighs was driving you insane as the tension in you lower stomach began to grow. You grind yourself against Theo’s nose, wishing more than anything to have friction against your clit. It’s not long before he brings the pad of his thumb to rub fast, small circles against the bundle of nerves, making you jolt forward on the counter with a scream of a moan. Your hand speeds up on Mattheo’s dick, feeling each groove and vein of him as his hips drove him further into you, moaning messily with his eyes screwed shut, his hand firmly grabbing the counter beside you for support as you followed beads of sweat that dripped down his bicep with your eyes.

Mattheo’s hips began to falter and stutter as your hand tightened around him, your head falling back against the mirror with a thud, moaning carelessly as Theo’s fingers and tongue worked together faster to push you up and over the edge, sending you into a euphoric state of pure bliss as your legs shook and the thrusts of your hand became erratic. Mattheo’s high was fast approaching behind yours, feeling your fingers tighten around him uncontrollably as your tried to ground yourself had his head falling back with his mouth opened in a silent moan as large spurts of his cum painted your stomach and chest, dripping down in enticing trails.

“Fuck that’s insanely hot,” Mattheo’s voice was jumbled in your ears, your chest pounded blocking out most sounds as Theo stood from your dripping, aching core with a smile before wiping his mouth clean. You felt Mattheo’s fingers on you as he began spreading his cum around your stomach, mesmerized by the look of it on your skin, “You did so fucking good Baby,” He whispered, eyes still trained on the mess on your body, “Looks so pretty covered in my cum doesn’t she Teddy?”

“Fuck yes she does,” The taller boy responded, laughing with Mattheo at your weak state as he grabbed a rag to wipe it from you as your muscles slowly regained the ability to function. Theo helped steady you on your feet as Mattheo straightened out your dress, guiding you to put your hands up so he could tug it down your body. Theo worked to fix your hair as Mattheo left kiss down your neck before Theo spun you around to capture your lips in his, pressing his rock hard dick against you in the process and making you pull away quickly with a squeak.

“What about you Teddy?” You asked, genuinely concerned as you pouted up to him with concerned while Mattheo tugged his pants up, panting and running a hand through his sweaty curls, “Don’t you want something in return?” Theo chuckled down to you, grabbing your chin and smashing his lips into yours in a heated kiss that left a trail of spit connecting you as he backed away.

“I’m okay for now Gorgeous, this was about you, we would have done absolutely anything to help ease your nerves,” Theo chuckled, staring into your eyes as though you were a piece of art meant to be in a museum, “Besides, Matty can always drive home and give us some time in that spacious back seat yeah?” He laughed, looking to Mattheo who shrugged as he slid his belt through it’s loops stating a simple, “I don’t mind,” before you all made sure you looked presentable before slipping out the door and back to the hell that was this dinner.

~~~~

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