#Brilliant Northern Lights

[watchilove]

Rihanna stunning during her live performance at the Superbowl with the Jacob & Co Brilliant Northern Lights timepiece!

February 12th 2023, the stage of the State Farm Stadium in Glendale, Arizona was set on fire by Rihanna. A prelude to the KC Chiefs vs. Philadelphia Eagles final game,  the star performer illuminated the crowd with her blazing energy, her all-red outfit and her matching Jacob & Co. Brilliant Northern Lights timepiece. (more…) “”

[chinacatmoonflower]

aurora tonight <3

[dinosaurwithablog]

Brilliant!!! 😍 this artist makes this look so easy, but it's not easy. Thank you for showing me how to paint the Northern Lights. I'm gonna try to do that. I hope that someday I can create the beauty you have created and shared with us as well as you have. That is a magnificent painting. It's as phenomenal as the Nightmare Lights themselves. Thank you so much 😊😍

[hellishjoel]

wild like the west

3.3k / pairing: cowboy!joel miller x cowgirl!reader

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summary: joel and his cowgirl warnings/information:  MA 18+ (minors DNI), implied but unspecified age gap, joel is technically reader's boss (so power dynamic stuff), swearing, dirty talk, pet names (baby girl, brat, etc.), unprotected p in v, pussy pronouns, asphyxiation kink, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, clean up on aisle reader's stomach, reader is described having hair but otherwise (I believe) reader is a blank slate, no use of y/n, barely edited A/N: I unfortunately have not stopped thinking about a game joel miller x yellowstone crossover, and I feel like he would like this to be his long, happy life. I also haven't written for joel since may which feels like a sin! sorry baby!

It doesn’t matter how many ass bruises you get, or the pain of repeated thrashes to your knees from getting bucked off; this unruly horse will bend its spirit to your will. 

Half the job of purchasing new horses for the Miller Ridge Ranch is breaking them in like a pair of new shoes. 

Any cowboy, or for you, cowgirl, knows that a horse can sense your personality and fear from a mile away. If you sprout fear, it won’t trust you to be the guide on its back. It’s a mutual thing to trust one another. It’s the trust Joel thrust upon you after loyally working at the ranch for a handful of years. Sure, you were young, but you had a good head on your shoulders.

He perches his cowboy boot on the low fence rail, teeth gnawing at a toothpick as he watches you with careful eyes. The morning dew settles over the long grass and tall trees, untouched by man, fostered by nature. With the sun clawing at the horizon, the land turns from a pale blue to a beaming orange glow.  It’s beautiful here, peaceful. You imagine this is the life that Joel always wanted, craved. He’s not from around here, he’s got too much Southern twang to be from these northern Montana woods. 

Life guided him up here and he never turned back. 

You can feel the horse grow agitated under your haunches, whinnying with anxiety as it takes a few rough steps backward in the ground-up dirt. 

“S’okay, boy, take it easy, easy,” you coo in a gentle voice that lets the horse breathe through its panic. You grip the colt’s mane at the very base of his neck, right by the horn of your saddle, gently scratching that sweet spot that seems to bring him some tranquility.

You’re the only one who seems to calm these beautiful boys. 

“You got a habit of gettin’ in’ta trouble before it even knows to start lookin’ for ya.” Joel’s southern drawl rumbles deep from his chest, stepping into the training ring and crooking his first two fingers in your direction. 

“I got it, Joel,” you say insistently, guiding the horse by a little squeeze of your boots to its belly in Joel’s direction. 

“Know ya do.” Joel stops at the horse’s chest and pats its neck, large and calloused hand stroking down its coarse mane as he stares up at you, squinting from the morning sunlight. 

His eyes are starkly brilliant in this light, typically a dark brown, now a glowy amber under the brim of his black cowboy hat. “You know that part of learnin’ how to be a cowboy is lettin’ them break in their own horse. Hop down.”

A sigh leaves your parted lips as you unhook one boot from the stirrups and throw yourself off. Taking the reigns, you walk with Joel back to the main fence. 

“You’re too nice to ‘em. I hired you to be a bit more…” He pauses indefinitely, tilting his head.

“Ruthless. I know.” Your eyes connect, both hardened after years of this long life. One day of being a cowboy felt like a year at any other job. 

The plan was plain and simple, a route you’d taken a hundred times with a crew that changed on and off for the past couple of years. The cattle were in need of fresh resources, lush grass to graze on, and streams of pristine crystal water. Up through the valley they’d go. 

The cowboys and cowgirls were gathered on their horses, Joel sat atop his beautiful black mare, eyes piercing his crew even behind his tinted sunglasses. Any season besides summer in this state demanded thick, warm work wear. Joel adorned a chocolate brown Carhartt and thick denim jeans under old, worn-out brown chaps. 

“I want Wyatt and Jack to take front, Bo and Sadie, swing, Jess and June on the flank, Tucker and Sammy on the drag. Wear your bandanas, it’s gonna get dusty back there,” your eyes flick up to a string of confused faces, “any questions?” 

“Why do we have to go through the valley? We’d have to push hundreds of cows through open water,” Bo mutters, disdain for a woman making all these choices for him, perhaps. 

“Yeah, n’I can’t swim. Never learned.” Another pipes in. 

“Then you’re a goddamn idiot,” old man Wyatt gurgles up a chuckle. Wyatt has been a cowboy longer than you have been alive. He raised you up to be tough with a streak of kindness that could never be washed away. He gives you a tight nod of reassurance as you sigh weakly. 

All this tomfoolery seems to be a bit much for Joel’s taste. “She’s takin’ questions about the plan, not your ‘pinions on it. I tell her what to do, she tells ya’ll what to do. You question her, you question me. So do as she says, or you answer to me.”

Joel’s always had a tight hand on the crew. He intimidates them. He is their boss, after all. They have a problem with you or this ranch or anyone else, they answer to him. Joel takes off his sunglasses and narrows his eyes on Bo, the newest cowboy with a pretty big mouth on him who bucks just as bad as your new colts. And his dead eyes are set on you. 

The rest of the crew sets off towards the direction of the cattle herd, everyone except Bo. 

Your head jerks upward in his direction, your own eyes narrowed. “You wanna say somethin’?” You ride alongside Bo, who seems to be wrestling with his stupid thoughts. But before he gets a chance to say anything, Joel intervenes. 

“Got a fight in you? It starts an’ ends with me.”

Bo looks between both of you, simply scoffing before he backs his horse off and trots along towards the crew. 

The view from the top of the valley is beautiful, all yellow and golden, with a pale blue sky and tall trees that harbor the secrets of the forest. Joel used to tell you it would whisper to him, warn him. Your chestnut-colored horse stands tall next to Joel’s, and both of you are overseeing the herd and the crew working together. 

“Not as bad as I thought this was gonna be,” Joel mutters, turning his head in your direction. You’re unrecognizably quiet. He’s never known you to be so still. 

He watches as your fingers anxiously twirl your horse’s mane. “You undermine me in front of them, and they don’t respect me, Joel.” 

So that’s what got you so stiff. He takes in a deep breath of mountain air, crossing his wrists over the horn of his saddle and glancing over at you out of the corner of his eye. Your hair blows in the wind, gentle and flowing. Almost graceful if it wasn’t in this wild west. Your beauty was city beauty, he was surprised you ever found your way out here. 

“Bo’s as green as grass. He needs to learn not t’talk to you like that. And if he needs to learn from me, so be it.”

Keeping your lips zipped, your eyes scan the points that use the dogs to guide the herd in the right direction. The swings and flanks work the mid to back-mid to maintain movement, and the drags stationed at the back ensure that any loose stragglers keep up. 

Joel rolls his eyes and sighs, reaching his hand across to your horse’s reigns, keeping your horse tucked to his side. 

“C’mon, Cowgirl. Spit it out.” 

“You go about defendin’ me, it looks like we’re sleepin’ together,” you gripe, “and I don’t need our crew slingin’ the slander that I got my job fuckin’ the boss. I don’t want that shit, Joel.”

Joel shifts his jaw from side to side, silent as he usually is. His tongue muscles over the right words, the words that will settle that ball of uncertainty you have nestled in your gut. 

He settles on the truth. 

“We are sleepin’ together.” 

Shaking your head, you steal your reigns back from Joel and gently nuzzle your boots against the horse’s underbelly. “Well, maybe that should end.” 

Joel watches on with a small smirk as your horse is set in motion down the grassy hill. He shouts loud enough for his voice to carry down from the high ground. “You set those boys straight, or I’ll have to keep doin’ it for ya.”

You sling back your middle finger in his direction, both of your horses riding side by side now as you follow the crew through to the valley. 

Joel sighs upon entering his large, private cabin, resting his cowboy hat to air out on a hook by the front door. His clothes wreak of his musky sweat, and the shower calls his name. He walks stiffly. Joel’s thick thigh muscles are as strong as iron from riding his horse, and his back cracks each time he inhales.

But he can’t deny that this life was made for him. 

Training to be a carpenter, earning pennies on the dollar to work in the hot Texas sun, and for what? Building someone else’s dream property? He had his own dreams. 

The ranch was his dream.

He always had a profound appreciation for nature and the outdoors. 

Fuck the city, fuck car horns honking obnoxiously, fuck the traffic. He found more fulfillment in listening to the wind flutter through the trees and would much rather hear the moos of his cattle than impatient commuters at six in the morning. 

Plus, he’s never felt more free or independent. This was his land, and he made the decisions on how it was run. Hiring the sassy cowgirl from the metropolis just happened to be a nice bonus on lonely nights when there wasn’t much left to his whiskey bottle, and the ride into town was more than twenty minutes for a new one. She sated him all the same, better, even.  

Despite years of riding and wrangling, you’re so fucking soft. You have soft eyes, a pretty voice, and satiny thighs. Your lips are plush against his weathered ones, and you don’t seem to mind sitting in his lap with his rougher-than-barbwire hands feeling over your body. 

But in turn, you’ve made a little soft spot in his wild like the west heart of his. And he swore he’d never settle down; you seem to have the same intentions. 

Things were easy. Nice and easy. Almost routine. 

The bunkhouse would be busy with cowboys and cowgirls playing card games, drinking their beers, singing to the music on the radio, and talking nonsense. You’d slip out after dark and wind up upstairs in his bed. 

He recalls you saying something about how his bed is more comfy than the ones in the bunkhouse. 

“Whatever you say, darlin’.” 

Tonight was no different. Fresh from his shower with a towel secured low on his waist, he hums curiously at the sight of you sprawled out across his bed. No more than a minute later, you are tugging it loose from his frame and letting it pool around his ankles. 

“Thought you said you were done,” Joel muses with a hint of teasing. You sit up from the bed on your knees and wrap your arms around his broad trap and shoulder muscles. 

“I ain’t a quitter,” you mutter against Joel’s mouth, feeling his tongue glide along yours as he explores you freely. 

He sheds your clothes, feeling your freshly showered skin and hair under his rough palms. He can’t help but touch you like you’re his, like he owns you. But no man can possess the wind. 

You kiss as he slips you under the bed’s cool sheets, drunk on the way you move so pliantly under his guidance. His lips move to the slope of your neck, his greying whiskers scratching your skin before he washes over the irritation with more kisses. 

Joel’s hands slip between your legs, cupping your clothed center in one hand. Your eyes light up at the friction, mewling up a moan of his name as he massages over the wet spot growing on your panties. 

“She’s already soaked, darlin’. You been thinkin’ ‘bout this?” Joel muses, sitting up properly to peel your shirt off your body, two fingers curling around the hem of your panties and chucking them mindlessly on the floor. 

“Joel,” you whisper breathlessly as he’s about to slip down between those pretty legs of yours. 

“What?” He asks, damn near annoyed. 

“I can’t wait,” you beg breathlessly, his eyes meeting yours. “I-I can’t, I’m beggin’ you, please. It’s been a long day.” 

Joel sighs but ultimately nods. It’s not what he wants, but sometimes you both need a quick fix. 

Joel’s body parts your legs, a grunt escaping the depth of his throat as he ruts his hips against your own. 

“Good idea,” he mutters against your mouth, leaning down and distracting himself with your kisses as he lines his length up and down your soaking center. 

You sharply inhale as he enters and the sound is music to his ears. He feels your nails carving into his back muscles as he sinks himself in deeper deeper deeper, both of you panting with eagerness by the time his hips are flush with your own, lost in where you end and he begins.

You let out a string of moans as he reels himself back, only to return to your depths with a snap of his hips that releases a shrill whine of his name from your throat. His forearms are buried in the fluff of the pillows on either side of your head, forehead against forehead, his hips grinding against you now. 

The friction is enough to make your head spin. You can feel the coarse hair of his happy trail tickling your already anxious pearl. 

“Fuck,” you huff out, letting your hands slip down his back, knowing that if you want him to pick up the pace, you’ll have to ignite his fire. In one quick movement, your hands drag themselves up Joel’s back, your nails creating etched lines that raise red once you finish at the very tops of his shoulders. 

Joel releases a long, low groan in response as his eyes snap open to meet yours. The sting of pain creates heat along Joel’s spine. His jaw is wound tight as he brings his large hand to wrap around your pretty throat, thumb on your chin to force you into staring straight at him. 

“Such a goddamn brat,” he growls, adding pressure to the column of your throat as he begins to pound into you harder and harder with each thrust of his hips. You cry out his name, a cacophony of your panting moans and your slick squelching against his hips fill your ears. The ecstasy of losing just a smidge of air is enough to make your eyes roll into the back of your head. 

He’s obsessed with the way your eyes gloss over in lust, your body jerking up the bed with each powerful thrust he gives you. Your mouth hangs open, gasping for air that’s just out of your reach. 

“You take it, baby girl, you keep takin’ it. She’s so fuckin’- goddamit, so fuckin’ good for me,” he pants, feeling the warm air dissolve against your skin as Joel begins to swell fatter inside of you. 

Perfectly slick and warm, he loses himself in your pussy. You squeeze and choke him, his orgasm only building as you whimper how good he feels. 

“Holy fuck, Joel, please please please, right there, ohmygod you’re gonna make me-” you gasp, your back arching off the mattress as you grip onto his forearm that’s still holding your delicate throat, your other hand gripping the hair at the nape of his neck. He knows to squeeze a little harder as you fall apart, the euphoria of the combination sending you over the edge. 

Joel’s holding on for dear life, always focused on putting you first, always trying to prove your jokes of him being an old man wrong. But he can’t deny he’s nearly finished twice now, your pretty cunt all nice and warm for him. 

What’s wrong with pushing you over the edge a little?

Joel abandons the hold on your throat as you still are witnessing the aftershocks of your orgasm, his two thick fingers circling over your swollen clit. 

Joel smirks as your eyes snap open, your jaw dropping wide as you silently scream in pleasure. He nods sadistically, smirking as he overstimulates your already twitchy clit.

“You’re gonna give me another, right here, right now,” Joel grunts, stilling his hips as he’s buried to the hilt inside you, feeling your pussy clench around his cock as your gasps and strangled moans fill the room. 

“Fuck, Joel I don’t think I can,” you cry out, bracing the wrist of the hand that’s still working figure-eights around your pearl. Joel watches as your chest rises and falls quickly, nipples at peaks as you continue to clench repeatedly around his cock. 

 “Know you can, baby, cum on this cock again. You’re a strong cowgirl, ain’t’cha? You been thinkin’ ‘bout this all day, getting this pretty girl drilled by me, know ya have.”

And he’s right. Shamefully so. Denying Joel looks good in and out of his cowboy attire is just nonsense. The way he rides his horse with his thighs snagged tight around its middle, gnawing on his toothpicks to ward off the need to smoke a cigarette or chew; at this point, it’s everything that he does that turns you on. 

And maybe that’s why it’s so easy to give him a second one. 

Your nails pierce into his skin as your hands grip his biceps, mewling and moaning something wrecked, feeling the warmth gather deep in your belly once more. 

“Keep fuckin’ me, I didn’t say to stop,” you pant.

Joel disguises his laughter by meeting your lips with his own, giving you messy kisses that taste better than perfect ones. His hips and fingers work in tandem to force you over the edge. You’re shaking under him, your thigh muscles twitching with excitement, legs wrapping around his middle as he grows closer to his own finish. 

Just as he feels like he’s going to give way, he can feel your pussy clenching around his aching cock, his tip brushing so perfectly against that spongy spot that sets your insides alight. 

“Fuck,” he grits, ripping himself loose of your perfectly wasted cunt as he yanks over his length. One, two, three more times, and he’s spilling warm spend across your belly. The pretty splatters are like a Jackson Pollock. He stares in awe at how pretty you look getting finished on. 

The bed dips as he falls into place beside you. He doesn’t lay idle. He reaches for some tissues from his bedside table, politely wiping away his mess as you stare at him with lustful eyes. You were so fucked out. Sorta cute. 

“Quit,” he mutters, avoiding your eyes. 

“You ain’t as old as I thought you were.” You whisper, a smirk tugging on the corners of your mouth. 

Joel chuckles softly at your familiar tease. He's heard it countless times, but it never ceases to make him roll his eyes and pull you closer to him. He kisses your forehead affectionately, his voice carrying a hint of playful banter.

“You gonna keep remindin' me about my age every chance you get? Don’t stop ya from comin’ back each night.”

You lay your head on his chest and listen to his heart thump. 

Joel’s got one arm slung around your shoulders, the other on your thigh that’s draped across his middle. His strong hand works slowly into your tired muscles. You play with the greying curls on his chest, taking note of the dark, nearly black ones still speckled throughout. 

“Goodnight, old cowboy.” You say, patting his chest, hearing his slow laughter rumble from his chest. 

“G’night, pain in my ass.” 

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[entitled-fangirl]

A brilliant melody.

Cregan Stark x quiet!reader

Summary: Cregan marries a woman who never speaks. When she finally does, he feels his heart melt three times over.

Warnings: SMUT (p in v), talk of abuse, tears

A/n: I've been wanting some kind of cool transitions for my writing. Like instead of the "...", some people have really cool art there. Does anyone know how to do that? I hope that makes sense 😬

Masterlist

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

She was quiet. 

Being surrounded by the loud men of the north made her a quiet girl.

Cregan wasn't sure what to do with her. 

…

"You're a meek thing, aren't you?" Cregan asked as the two walked the courtyard of Winterfell.

In one day, they'd be wed. Bonded for life.

She only nodded.

She only ever really nodded or shook her head. 

He hummed as they continued walking. 

Her father had told Cregan of this days before, as if it was a defect that could put a halt to their betrothal plans. Cregan made sure to assure her father that it was not.

After all, she could speak. She just chose not to.

"Winterfell is beautiful in the winter," he began to ramble. "When the snow falls, it covers all of this in its brilliant white. Do you enjoy the snow?"

She considered his question and gave a small nod.

He grinned, "That's my northern girl. Luckily, Winterfell is warm." He noticed the light shiver in her frame. "Perhaps we should go back indoors. Don't want my future bride to freeze before I can place my house cloak upon her shoulders?"

…

True to his word, Cregan managed to place his cloak over her shoulders the very next day. It was a wondrous ceremony filled with many from across the North. 

Everyone gawked at the beauty of the new Lady of Winterfell.

But when one-by-one they moved to speak to her, Cregan was quick to deny them.

The two enjoyed the feast after. Seated at a high table, Cregan often leaned over to whisper things to her.

"You look radiant. Like the sun itself."

"I do believe the other lords may be envious that I have captured the most gorgeous woman of Westeros."

"I do wish you'd eat more. You've hardly touched the plate."

It was a strange sight, seeing such a burly brute of a man whisper sweetly to his wife.

"Is something bothering you?"

She shook her head.

Cregan sighed. "I've only known you for a few days, but I do believe I recognize the shaking of one's hands to associate with nerves."

It was true. Her hands shook violently.

"Is it the bedding ceremony?"

She shrugged.

His brows raised and he leaned closer, "You can be honest with me. I… I want you to be honest with me."

The woman looked down at her hands in thought. Finally, she looked back up at him and nodded.

"Aye. I see." Cregan leaned away and rested his elbows on the table, his head in his hands as he rubbed at his forehead. "Then I'll call it off."

He didn't miss the way her brows pulled together.

"The ceremony, lovely. I'll call it off." 

…

Not long after, Cregan stood and held his hand out to her. "May I dance with you, dear wife?"

She grabbed his hand with enthusiasm. It seemed she didn't need words, for expressions were enough.

He smiled at her as he lead her to the dance floor. 

Cregan was a lousy dancer. Being a northern lord meant there were many more important matters than learning how to properly dance. So, it was put aside. 

He knew the steps in truth, and he could lead just fine, his steps were just too harsh, his movements too calculated. 

It was just not how he expressed himself.

She, though, was marvelous.

It was as if each step was not one of a practiced art. It was as if it was how she naturally moved. 

Cregan was in so much awe that he nearly forgot to continue the lead. 

She didn't need words to express herself. Her movements were enough.

He felt as if he was finally seeing her. 

And she was beautiful.

The song ended, to Cregan's surprise as he snapped from his thoughts, and the guests clapped for their Lord and Lady of Winterfell.

…

Honoring his word, Cregan forbade the ceremony. No other living creature would be a witness to their consummation but the two of them.

After laying her upon the rich furs upon their bed, he was careful to properly prepare her to take him. 

Now, he forced himself to do so slowly, his hips slowly pushed to meet hers as he entered her.

She hissed lightly at the pain, and he swore he heard a small noise come from her throat instinctually.

He began to wonder what her voice sounded like.

Once seated in her fully, he paused to give her a moment to breathe. Her breath was quickened and her hands gripped his biceps as she tried to regain herself.

Cregan placed a light kiss to her lips, basking in the newness of her lips against his, as well as the eagerness she gave back as they did so.

Her hands slid up to cup his cheeks, suddenly gaining confidence.

"Have you adjusted, pretty girl?"

He shifted his hips, not thinking much as he waited for her response.

The sweetest breathy moan left her lips.

Cregan's eyes widened, and he had to stop himself from letting his lust take over then and there.

He tucked his face into her neck, laying heavy kisses along the way. "Easy now. Just tap me to stop."

And with that, he began to move his hips.

Not much came from her lips. She was used to not using her voice, that it almost seemed as if it was more work to use it then stay silent. It was hard for Cregan to tell her feelings, so he often had to tilt his head back up to gauge her reaction by her expressions alone.

He didn't realize how much he spoke in general until he was around her. How someone could happily be so silent, he wasn't sure.

But if the scratching against his back was any measure, he'd say he was pleasing her well.

"You're taking me so pretty."

She practically preened at his praise, her breath catching or escaping each time.

At one point, he pressed his hips firmly to hers, reaching deeper than he had before.

His face found its way to her neck again, her hands pulling at his hair.

But he paused, catching his breath and trying to instill a reaction from her.

Her hands recaptured his hair and pulled again. When he still didn't move, she tried to shift her hips to gain more friction. He was enjoying every second, despite the mere torture it was to not chase his own high.

He pressed a sloppy kiss to her neck, "Patience."

Her motions should have been enough of a reaction for him, but he wanted more. He'd do anything to hear her voice more. 

One of his hands moved down to her clit, pressing his thumb down and circling the bundle of nerves. 

A small whine came from her throat.

He felt warmth spread across his body, "Needy, aren't you?"

Her hand made a last-ditch effort to pull at his hair. He could hear her barely contained breath in his ear and a small voice.

"…Cregan… please…"

Cregan almost finished then.

Her voice was so soft. So sweet. Hoarse from its lack of use and so breathy. 

It was beautiful.

But guilt overshadowed all of that. He shouldn't have pushed her to the point of speaking. 

His hand trailed up her body to the bed, preparing himself again. "I won't deny you any longer. I'll give you what you want, sweet girl."

…

She began to speak to him after that. 

The times were few and far between, but nonetheless, he never took a single word for granted. 

Because she only spoke to him. 

 She never spoke her mind in full, so Cregan took it upon himself to do it for her. 

In meetings, she'd pull at his sleeve, prompting him to instinctually bend his head down towards her to properly hear her soft voice amongst the others. That was how she contributed to meetings: to tell her thoughts to the only one there she trusted. Over time, the men in the meetings caught on, and would pause to hear what the Lady had to say. It was a game of telephone, barely hearing a peep from the woman as she spoke to Cregan, and he voiced it aloud in his own manner. 

When they walked through the busy streets of the city, he kept his hand wrapped around hers, promising to give his attention to her when she squeezed it tightly.

Outside of their chambers, their form of communication was touch, often tapping one another gently. 

Inside, however, soft exchanges were common. She would only speak calculated thoughts, not one to ramble, but she would talk of her day, her newest book, or questions of things she always wondered about the man. 

In turn, he'd respond in the same manner, quieting himself naturally to match her tone as the two gazed into the flames of the fire that warmed the room.

"I wish you'd dance more."

Her head snapped up to him with furrowed brows.

"You're a beautiful dancer. I only wish I could see it more." He leaned against the back of the sofa. "Who taught you?"

"My mother," she spoke softly. "She was wonderful."

He smiled when he noticed the reminiscent look in her eyes at the thought of her mother. He pushed a strand of her hair from her face. "Tell me about her."

She leaned into his touch. "Father mocked me when I wouldn't speak. Said it was shameful. But mother always told me that feelings are expressed by actions rather than words."

"How so?" He absentmindedly asked.

"Men often say that they love their wives, but their actions are rather the opposite."

He hummed as he considered it. "Have I ever made you feel that way?"

"No."

It was the quickest response he'd heard from her. It only fueled his need to know as much as he could. To know her fully.

"Have you always been so quiet?"

As if a switch had been flipped, everything about her quieted.

Her breathing. Her voice. Her expressions. Her thoughts.

Silent. 

Whatever had happened had to have been traumatic to instill such a reaction from her.

"Forgive me. That was too forward, even for me to ask-"

"-I don't wish to talk about it today."

He felt relieved that his question hadn't dissolved her trust in him completely. 

"Well," he pulled her to him. "When you are ready to speak, I shall listen."

…

The next day, Cregan meticulously planned. And his efforts had paid off. 

She walked into the meeting room at the same time she did every week, to see it lacking its usual members. 

The table was pushed off to the side, and Cregan stood in its place as he donned a bright smile at the sight of her. 

Against the back wall, a few musicians stood with their instruments. 

Confusion spread through her and a wave of anxiety as well, prompting her to only stare at him blankly.

He was quick to correct it, stepping forward towards her. "I've excused the council today. I… I wanted to see you dance again."

Once her mind warmed up to the idea, a bright smile came across her face, accepting the hand that he extended to her. 

"I must admit, my love," Cregan said as he stepped in time with the music. "I am not a gentle man. But I am trying. For you."

She nodded, not daring to speak her overwhelming thoughts at the moment. 

…

After, they sat at the large dining table, the emptiness of it mattering not to the two lovers who sat together at one end.

"My uncle," she stated, breaking the silence.

His head tilted up to meet her gaze, "Hmm?"

Her cheeks turned a slight pink, "You asked how I became so quiet." 

Recognition flowed over his face, "Ah. Yes, I did." He sipped his wine and leaned towards her. "Your uncle, then?"

She nodded. 

"He was unkind to you?"

She picked at the skin of her fingers, seemingly reliving the moments in her mind. 

A battle within herself.

He put a hand on her thigh, "I will not force you to tell me things you do not wish to."

"I do," she insisted. "But I know not how to."

"Begin to speak, and I shall piece it all together."

She took a deep breath. "My uncle hit me when I spoke out of turn. At first, at least. Then… it was whenever I spoke at all."

He felt ice go down his veins and a feeling like a rock going down his throat. 

But being such a skittish thing, he knew not to react too harshly.

"When I told my father, he…" her eyes became glassy. "He said he was right for it. That… that a girl was made to only… shut her mouth and open her legs."

He couldn't keep it in anymore. "And you believed them?"

"When I spoke to you for the first time, I feared you'd be the same."

"I bask in the sound of your voice, my girl. I hope that you see that."

A warm tear ran down her cheek as she looked up at him.

"Oh, sweet woman," he cooed as he cupped her cheek. "Do not cry over false words."

When more tears began to fall, he quickly pushed her chair out from the table and pulled her into his lap.

She tucked her face into his neck, melting against him as if she wished to disappear. 

He held her close, not caring when his tunic became damp. When he did speak, it was soft and assuring whispers.

Once she caught her breath, she pulled away from him. "Forgive me."

"I don't believe I will."

Her eyes widened, and he realized his mistake in word choice. 

"Sweet girl, you've nothing to apologize for. That's all I meant."

She relaxed at that. She reached up and wiped her cheeks with a sniffle. "Actions have always spoke more than words."

He reached up and brushed a stray tear from her cheek. "Have they?" He asked softly.

She felt a smile come to her lips at his touch. "You are different. You could speak or act, and still, I'd only hear a brilliant melody to which I can always trust."

He never felt such love radiate as it did then.

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

Taglist: @misswynters, @cosmosnkaz, @sithapprentice, @kaniromi, @lovemesomevesey, @its-jackie-bb, @8812-342, @thorins-queen-of-erebor, @kingdomzeldaquest @nyxbranwenn, @callsignwidow, @a1lexh-blog, @alyssa-dayne, @ethereal-athalia

[filurig]

sekuuti and akestur, deities of the rau-kakse and crakam

LONG ASS CREATION/ORIGIN STORY OF THE RAU KAKSE AND CRAKAM HERE

the sun and moon both have important roles in northern basilisk religion, and are interpreted as two deities: sekuuti (sun) and akestur (moon).

both seen as patron deities of their respective people (rau-kakse aka basilisks and crakam aka harpies). their eggs were originally stars in the sky that fell and hatched in the world below.

at first, there was only pure spirit. something known as "tukaarti" (which is an unconscious but all powerful driver of all things) - the "natural force", arose, and began create shapes from this spirit, polarities, warmth, energy eventually the forces shaped this spirit into The World, which was barren at first, amorphous, but this shaped energy began to solidify, first into mountains, then into lakes, rivers, flora etc etc. but the water did not stay liquid long for after the formation of these things, and a brief flourishing period, the World cooled down, and fell under a great winter, as it had no sun. the sky is basically where tukaarti resides in its rawest form still, and stars are "concerntrations" of it, and the only light source. the stars began to fall eventually on occasion into the world, and that would spawn Creatures. early on when the world was still fresh after this was when the eggs of sekuuti and akestur fell, they were among the last creatures to fall onto the world. prior to them similar animals had hatched from other eggs, but they all perished trying to survive on their own.

both sekuuti and akestur were lonely and struggled on their own - persecuted by hostile ancestors of other creatures. not only was it difficult, most of all, it was lonely.

sekuuti was so lonely that she desparately wanted children, but as she was the only one of her kind she prayed to tukaarti for a way to achieve that company she desired. she was heard, and granted the ability to shapeshift to any creature that she found. this also was something tukaarti needed, as it lacked a way for spirit to go from the World back to tukaarti, and by "collecting" bodies to learn as forms, sekuuti would also return their spirit to tukaarti. with this ability, she resorted to courting different birds that she transformed into and bearing their young. and she did successfully hatch them. her children would not only inherit a lot of her features and shapeshifting ability, but they also inherited the plumage and some other traits from their other parents, and she loved them all the same. this also means that according to rauk-kaksian lore sekuuti "has no comparison" and doesnt look like an extant bird in particular, but interpretations vary. these children were the first "rau-kakse". the most important established trait of her depictions though is that it seemed that the glow from her egg ("star") never faded, and her plumage glowed strongly and brilliantly.

akestur, meanwhile, sought company with birds in a different way. he found flocks of corvids, flocks of nightjars, and found certain comfort with them. but he was frustrated with the fact that they could not communicate, he prayed for the ability to "hold a conversation" with his new contemporaries. and the tukaarti granted him his wish - the flocks that he had become familiar with were granted a blessing, but with that blessing, they also changed in morphology - they became harpies (crakam), and gained sapience. he was reminded, however, that he had gotten this wish without cost - and that the forces counted on him to do what they wished in return if they so needed it. they only cryptically let him know to "not keep his eyes off of the flame". akestur is thought to have looked like a harpy slightly, but with a different face, black as night, but with brilliant glowing white eyes.

again, the world during this time was pretty barren and harsh due to an eternal winter, as they had no sun. sekuuti, while having found comfort in her kin now, was unhappy with the state of affairs - especially as many young would die in the harsh conditions. akestur, too, hated seeing his new contemporaries suffer.

the two groups would meet one day, sekuuti and akestur leading them. the two were fascinated by one another - sekuuti brought warmth to akestur and the crakam, while akestur brought a certain darkness, that while somewhat discomforting at first, also shrouded both groups from other hostile creatures, theyd come to find out. there was safety in his darkness. sekuuti and akestur grew very close and became partners (according to most legends).

sekuuti wanted to change the state of the world and set her eyes upon the sky, wanting to become a sun and bring warmth to all and end the eternal winter. akestur was hesitant, for he did not want to lose her, and her children needed her. when seeking the guidance of tukaarti - they discouraged her from it, urged her to stay and perform her duty as a bringer of spirit from corpses of this plane back to tukaarti. but she was insistent, and one day, decided to simply go for it. she flew so fast, with such force, that she caught flame, but her will was so strong that it didnt bother her and she became one with the flames eating her as she flew up to the sky.

akestur was too late, and only realised she was gone once she had lit up the sky. betrayed, upset, but most of all - realising that he had failed tukaarti. he had let his eyes off his flame. as a punishment, tukaarti undid the blessing it had granted his people for half of them, leaving half of them as regular birds again.

sekuuti lighting up the world had done something - it had taken away the eternal winter, but the problem was - sekuuti had nothing to temper her up there. the world was beset by a devastating drought with no end in sight. akestur, trying to lead his people as well as the basilisks, then realised what he had to do.

before leaving his people, he urged them "to not take their eyes off the flames", meaning the basilisks in this case, and then, he also set off for the sky. instead of setting ablaze, his eyes seemed to burst with the pressure of the speed of his flight, engulfing him in a cold, bright light. once he joined sekuuti in the sky - the heat was finally tempered.

however, sekuuti, both overwhelmed with love but also guilt and shame over abandoning akestur, fled him. but he, loyal and also overwhelmed with love, began to follow her. and basically, the day/night cycle is their eternal chase after one another - and on occasion, they meet, during eclipses :,) perhaps they also realised that their chase is what brings the world balance. and perhaps its a bit of a punishment from tuukarti for disobeying it.

[cherryheairt]

Not Yet Blossomed

Cregan Stark x Bolton's wife!reader

Summary- When Cregan visits the Boltons to oversee their livestock problem, he can't help but be enamored with Lord Bolton's meek wife. When he finds the truth of their relationship, he commits himself to saving her.

named Tully reader no desc

part 1?

Cregan's journey to the Dreadford was uneventful to say the least. He had enough problems to deal with in Winterfell, so being summoned by the Boltons to oversee their newest livestock problems was the least of his concerns. However, Ryen Bolton's letter remained ominous when he first sent for Lord Stark's help. Apparently, the livestock were going missing in bundles at a time. Too many to be regular predators or the animals to simply be wandering off on their own.

Cregan promised himself to deal with this swiftly. No more than a few days, then he could go back home and deal with bigger problems.

Bolton was lucky that it was still summer, warmer, and bountiful in its harvests. If it were any other season, Cregan would not have bothered with the matter himself and instead sent his trusted bannermen to meet with Ryen. Though the ground was mostly clear of snow, it did not stop the slightest tears of white to fall from the sky in light showers, the sun deterring it from sticking to the floor for long. The air carried a chilling breeze, though the sunlight kissed his cheeks warmly as he traveled on horseback.

A few days, he reminded himself.

It was only when he first saw Lady Bolton that his mind was swayed.

A beautiful young lady, to be sure. Cregan had once considered her for his own marriage before her hand was swiftly taken by Ryen. The elder man had been enamored with her beauty and grace when she had visited the Dreadfort with her father, Samuel Tully.

A shame, Cregan had thought those years ago. The two of them were so similar in age, and their houses were both paramount over the Northern and Riverland Houses. A beneficial arrangement would have surely come from their marriage. Plus, he had found a pleasent friend within their short time together.

He had met her only once, when they were both five and ten. The young Lady had been a picture of Southern elegance and flowery words, though she had none of the falseness of her kin. She was all genuine, a breath of fresh air to all who sought her company.

Ciara Tully had married at the age of six and ten to Ryen Bolton, a man of eight and thirty. Cregan had scowled when the raven had come from Samuel Tully to inform him of his daughter no longer being available. If only he had moved sooner, he had sulked for days after the news before finding his resolve and moving on to other prospects. He had no regrets in that regard, for he found a love match in his searching.

Ryen had always been a callous and frustrating man to deal with, but Cregan persevered through their occasional meetings by telling himself it would all be over soon. The Lord never liked to speak for long, not when he was more focused on drowning himself in his cups. When he did speak, it was a whole lot of nothing.

When Cregan entered the keep's council room to meet Lord Bolton, he was shocked to be met with a young boy at the man's side instead of his wife. The seat next to him was empty, and only a few adult male kin of House Bolton and the Maester were also in the room. "Will Lady Bolton not be in attendance?" Asked Cregan, sitting across from Ryen. It was the one empty seat in the room now.

Ryen coughed, shifting in his seat. "Ciara has other matters to attend to. She need not bother with the matters of men." He said dismissively, though it seemed to Cregan that he had forgotten that most Ladies would attend council with their Lord husbands at all.

Arra Norrey had when she was alive, attending every meeting Cregan held until the unfortunate day of her parting. She was a brilliant and influential mind, never afraid to speak her opinion. The North was better for it.

Ryen did not seem to share the opinion that the Bolton Lady should attend to her political duties.

Cregan nodded and left it at that, glancing briefly at the boy next to Ryen, who puffed out his cheeks and fiddled with his fur coat boredly.

Ryen seemed to perk at the opportunity to introduce. "This is my son and heir, Dalton. A boy of four just recently." He said, russeling the boy's brown hair that perfectly reflected his own. He was a bit young to be learning the ways of Lordship, but Cregan dismissed that as the man being eager to have his son learn the Bolton ways. Who was Cregan to judge, anyway? He was no longer a father himself, nor had his son lived long enough for him to consider education.

The Stark nodded his greeting, turning back to the Bolton. "What of the situation at hand?"

Ryen straightened up, folding his hands. "My farmers have accounted for flocks of sheep and pigs going missing. Which, normally, I would send for poachers to deal with the wolves or bears taking from the fields, but none of my men have spotted any signs of such predators." He took a moment to lubricate his throat with an arbor red wine.

"Many farmers are reporting such activity, and it has come to a point where I thought we could benefit from an outside view on the matter."

Or he wanted to wash his hands of the burden of being Lord, Cregan thought wryly. Lazy as his father.

He firmly nodded. "I will scout out these areas myself, with Night Seeker to guide. The direwolf is a better tracker than most hunters, to be certain." He smiled tensely, scooting his seat out and excusing himself. "I will be back in a few days' time."

Cregan found himself wandering to the gardens of the Dreadfort after he finished gathering the farm locations from the resident Maester. He needed to clear his mind and plan for any possible outcomes. He had not yet dealt with a curious situation like this one.

There, he saw a woman in a blood-red dress crouched over some winter roses. Not yet in full bloom, the bright blue of the flowers was dulled and closed to a point.

Approaching slowly, Cregan cleared his throat gently to announce his presence.

Met with an almost violent flinch and swift turn, the woman revealed herself to be Ciara. "Lord Bolton—" She started, cutting herself off when she was met with a man other than her husband. Her hands grasped anxiously at her skirts, ruffling the silky material within her palms. She wore a fine ruby necklace and earrings to match, black laced gloves upon her smooth hands. It seemed far too thin and frilly to warm her properly in such weather, but the Lady seemed not to mind it, perhaps wearing such attire daily.

"Lady Ciara," Cregan greeted kindly, bowing his head to the young woman. The years had been kind to her, transforming her from a comely girl to a radiant woman.

"Lord...Cregan?" She asked tentatively, only going off of her faint memory of the man. He seemed to have grown in both height and muscle since their meeting years ago. "It has been a while. What brings you to the Dreadfort?"

Her voice was tense but not unfriendly. He was stunned at how warily she eyed him, not at all the joyful and outgoing girl he had met before. "Aye. Six years, if I remember correctly."

Ciara glanced behind Cregan, wringing her hands together. "It is nice to see you again. I am sorry to hear about your wife and..." she trailed off quietly, not finding the words to express the loss of his infant child. It had been three years ago that Arra met her unfortunate fate, followed by Rickon a year later when he had come down with fever.

"Thank you, my Lady. I am here to deal with Lord Bolton's problem with the flocks going missing. I'm sure you've heard of it."

"I have not, actually." Spoken hesitantly. "Is everything alright?"

"That is none of your concern, wife." Ryen Bolton spoke harshly from next behind Ciara's shoulder. Cregan almost cursed at the suddenness, as if the man had a beacon that told when others congregated on his lands. Glancing at the elder, he raised a straight brow at the interruption.

A firm had was placed on Ciara's shoulder, earning a barely consealed flinch from the lady. She seemed to shrink further under Ryen's presence, bowing her head and looking to her feet. "Forgive me, Lord Bolton. I will return to my chambers." With a curtsy and flurry of silk, she was gone.

Ryen spoke first, a heavy sigh coming from his thin, cracked lips. "Forgive my wife. She seems to wander these days, against her better judgement. Always disturbing the house and the children. I'll see to it that she does not bother you during your stay, my Lord."

Cregan narrowed his eyes, ticking his jaw at the tone and words used on the man's own wife. Never had he thought his former wife to be a bother in any circumstance, nor had his father spoken like that about Gilliane. "A disturbance to her own house and children, my Lord?" He asked.

"It may sound exaggerated to you, but you don't live with her. She is constantly interrupting the children's lessons and the staff for menial things. One would say she's trying to help, but I say she's always been like this—desperate for attention." Ryen leaned closer, hot breath hitting Cregan's senses unpleasantly as he did so. "Between you and me, she's always been a bit slow. Only good for her looks, I suppose, so she has her uses." The man bellowed at his own jest, excusing himself to attend to the awaiting Maester at the archway of the gardens.

Cregan silently seethed in the spot he was left in, breathing carefully to not lose his cool. He was Warden of the North, his attentions must first and foremost lie with the people's problems. He could not intervene in martial problems.

The rest of the day went by quickly, with Cregan waiting for the morrow's daylight before he left. At supper, Lady Ciara was missing too, only noticed by Cregan. Everyone else seemed not to mind or care, going about the dinner with loud laughs and shallow conversations. Young Dalton was now joined by an even younger sister, who Cregan learned was named Mabel. An imagine of her mother, even at the young age of two. The hair, skin color, and even eye color were all inherited from Mabel's mother, while Dalton was a mirror of his father. Mabel was ignored by Ryen, too, but not by the maids and servants passing by, always attending the children equally and kindly. The wet nurse spoon fed Mabel a few seats down from Ryen, quietly working to get through the supper before the men got too drunk and rowdy.

Cregan did not mention Ciara's absence again. He simply sipped on his ale and chewed on his mutton while waiting for enough time to pass for a suitable time to excuse himself.

Finally, when Ryen had drank enough to put a young squire to rest, the Stark abruptly left with the excuse of resting well for the morrow.

He made his way through the fort's winding halls, only stopping at the opened nursery. Ciara was not in the room, unsurprisingly. With no babes to look after in it, it was empty. He moved on to the next rooms, sure to find the Lady of the house's room nearby to her children.

It was not. After minutes of searching empty rooms and quiet halls, Cregan found Ciara's room in one of the towers of the Dreadfort. Tucked away in a cold corner, the towers of large keeps were usually reserved for when the keep housed many guests due to the towers having thinner walls and less insulation. Ladies and Lords never kept rooms of their own residence in such places.

When Cregan heard the quiet and peaceful humming, he followed it all the way up the spiraling stairs. The door was ajar, an inviting position for any passerbys—though none seemed to take it but himself.

Ciara sat on the stone floor, dressed in a velvety blue gown suited for dinner, though she did not attend it. She hummed on lowly as she embroidered what appeared to be a lavender baby's blanket, weaving darker flowers into it for her daughter. The stitching was near professional, similar to the stitches he was used to seeing on the clothes he bought from tailors, though hers was more personal instead of used for the practicality of his sigil.

Ciara huddled herself as close to the hearth as she could without burning herself, furs being placed over her shoulders and atop the fine dress. Still, she shivered under them and shook her hands occasionally to warm them. Even Cregan suppressed a shiver in the cold room, with his leathers and furs on his person.

The room itself felt empty and impersonal. There was no decoration; only a bed, hearth, settee, wardrobe, and what he assumed was a chest filled with embroidery supplies.

He announced himself with a brief knock on the open door, standing awkwardly in the archway. Her eyes shot up immediately to meet his, appearing like a rabbit in front of the wolf, betraying her Tully blood's 'fish' heritage. "Lord Stark." She said, swallowing harshly. "What brings you up here?"

Suspicious eyes glanced between him and the stairwell as she stood, setting her supplies down.

"I wished to apologize for earlier in the gardens. It was not my intent to bother you or upset Lord Bolton. I hope my mistake did not sway you to not come to dinner tonight?"

She shook her head quickly, though she furrowed her brow as if gauging his intent. "Of course not. In fact, I had wished to come tonight. It is nice to see an old friend, someone familiar to me. But...I was not summoned tonight." Was the simple answer.

"Summoned?" He could not stop himself from asking. "Surely you need not be summonded in your house." He said lightly.

Twisting her ring, she pursed her lips. "My husband gets irritated easily. He says it is best that I stay in my room most nights, so I cannot be in the way. Most of the time, I think he just forgets to send for me." She smiled sadly, though her words were beyond casual.

Cregan held a sigh back, going along with her casual attitude. "Your rooms are quite far, my Lady. Are there no open ones next to the nursery?" He asked.

She looked down at her feet again. This time, an indescribable tone laced her words. "I stayed there when Dalton was first born, but Ryen says it was much too close. That a woman's softness should not influence his son. I suppose he was right, I did spend too much time with them."

"They are but four and two. Children at that age need their parents—their mothers." Cregan offered, stepping a bit closer. He remembered little of his youth at that age, but knew from watching his own younger siblings grow that his mother and father both doted on them until they gained their own independence and started spending time with courtyard friends than their parents.

She took a subtle matching step backward, leaving Cregan to still himself entirely to not discomfort her. Shaking her head 'no', she disagreed with the Lord. "He is right. The children had started crying when parted from me. It was best that I moved away."

"That is a normal thing for one's own children to do. It shows that they are most comfortable with you, rather than servants." He stated.

"I'm afraid it is not possible. Staying up here has allowed me to keep Ryen happy. And Dalton, I'm sure." She nodded to herself, still avoiding Cregan's eyes.

"Dalton? Have you not spent much time with him after your move?"

"Oh, no. Of course not." She laughed quietly, brushing a stand of hair behind her ear. It held none of the true joy that it once did when she was younger. Her eyes held the same dullness that the winter roses in the gardens did, like the life had been sucked out of her since her marriage. "I'm not to see him at all, unless I am allowed to come to dinner. My daughter, though, is different. Her wet nurse takes breaks, and then I look after her for a time."

It should be the other way around, with the wet nurse taking Mabel only when Ciara felt drained from all the energy babes took to care for. Cregan had truly never heard of babes being taken from their own mothers except for special exceptions like illness or the occasional post-birth rut that trapped new mothers. Ciara was neither sick nor unresponsive, so Ryen's orders made zero sense.

"Have you eaten, my Lady?" He changed the topic of conversation, afraid to upset her or himself any longer.

"I have, earlier. Gresha brings me meals to my room." She said brightly, nodding to the settee and small table in front of it that he hadn't noticed before. Cregan felt a squeeze in his heart, seeing the half-emptied plate alone on the table. He had never guessed how Lady Ciara's life had been since her marriage all those years ago. Never would he have assumed it would be so desolate.

Most Ladies, even when dealt a poor hand with their husbands, always had their children to keep them company. Or visiting family, since their Houses were so close together. Ciara had none. She lived her days like a forgotten ghost haunting the Dreadfort, only remembered by the servants assigned to her and her husband, occasionally, when she got bold enough to wander the halls of her own home.

Even then, she could not find it in her heart to hold anger. Ever the patient and kind soul, Ciara persevered through the situation and found the best of it. Grateful for every crumb of respect and decency she was provided. This was no way a noble lady of her status should be treated.

For once, Cregan Stark felt utterly helpless.

He left early in the morning, Night Seeker at his heels. His first destination was to White Tower, one of the larger farms he had marked down on his map. Within the lands of the Boltons, White Tower held many acres and the largest flock of sheep available to the House. Cregan figured the root of the problem could easily be found at such a place.

White Tower was nothing special, only a few barns, mills, and a small house at the top of a hill. There, Cregan was greeted by Zayne and Milly Narrows. An old and kind couple, they recounted tales of their missing sheep with stressed tears filling their eyelines.

"You see, Lord Stark, it had only started with one or two at first. Then, weeks later, the sheep dissappeared in bunches at a time. We're already down to half our flock, and if it continues like this, we'll lose everything we've worked so hard for." Milly Narrows told him, hankerchief brushing her eyes and nose to keep appearances.

Zayne nodded solemnly, a more quiet presence than his wife. "I thought it was some coyotes or wolves, like it normally is, but our livestock dogs haven't alerted us to anything. No blood, no tracks, just missin' sheep."

Cregan hummed thoughtfully, glancing out of the window to the green fields. "That is a conundrum. I've never had a livestock problem where the dogs didn't know the situation better than the farmers." He said, mostly to himself.

"Can you help us, Lord Stark?" Milly asked, teary eyes hopeful.

"I will try my best, miss." He promised, leaving the home with his sword strapped to his shoulder. Whatever he would face, he would never do so without Ice. Night Seeker was already waiting by the fence where Cregan left him, panting at the sight of so many sheep flocked together in a confined space. Luckily, the wolf knew better than to give into such baser instinct. Cregan clicked his tongue for the direwolf to follow, pointing out to the forest where the Narrows had said the most foliage was tussled.

Night Seeker ran ahead, sniffing eagerly at anything and everything. It seemed he immediately found a trail, much to Cregan's surprise. Why hadn't the Narrows' dogs found anything?

He trudged forth, brushing past any bushes or trees in the way to follow the tracker. Night Seeker moved with a vigor, excitement growing at the chase, though admittedly Cregan's own curiousity grew as they went. Indeed, there were no animal tracks or strong scents to be seen by the human eye or smelt by the human nose.

Finally, after perhaps two hours of this, the forest broke into clear daylight. Beyond the treeline was more grass, though the chill was still lingering from the cool morning. Empty rolling fields, it seemed to be, leading Cregan to glance at his companion.

The direwolf's tongue lolled from its maw, tail wagging at his grand find. "What is this?" Cregan asked tiredly, doubting the location of multitudes of sheep being in such an open area.

The wolf huffed before breaking off into a dead sprint ahead, leaving Cregan to stammer and chase after him as best he could.

The fields winded for what felt like forever before leading to the border stones between House Flint and House Bolton. Only a few towers of smooth grey stone, as borders were oft marked by, it was an underwhelming sight. The direwolf knew better than to cross such things without Cregan's explicit permission, so he was left waiting for the man to catch up. Panting heavily, Cregan's brow furrowed. "House Flint?" He asked himself softly, wondering why the sheep trail would lead to the border.

House Flint had stayed unproblematic for Cregan's current rule and for Rickon's before him, too. Not having to do much in terms of peacekeeping, Cregan was glad to have a lightened load when it came to the ancient house.

"Go on." He commanded. They were surely close to the answer.

The direwolf happily led the way to a series of massive makeshift barns. Peeking inside, Cregan could not count the amount of livestock being held. On the doors was labeled 'Narrows', 'Fresc', and 'Limbant', three of the family farms that reported livestock missing.

Cregan cursed quietly, moving on to the next barn. Inside were pigs of ranging sizes and colors, labeled all the same. Wielding his ancestral sword, Cregan rounded the wooden buildings to the end of the row, finding a camp filled with a group of young men.

"What is this display before my eyes?" He demanded harshly, earning shocked stares and gaped mouths. The young men seemed no older than himself, perhaps thinking this all to be a fun juvenile prank, unknowing of the livelihoods being ripped from people.

One stood up from the bench, stuttering out his words, "Lord Stark!" He bowed quickly, the rest of the group following in suit. "We mean no harm, I swear! Simply following our orders, m'Lord."

Squires, the lot of them. It was clear to see now, these boys were not culprits but pawns. Fools, nonetheless. "And who has ordered hundreds of livestock to be stolen from House Bolton's lands?"

"Not stolen, m'lord!" Another valiantly spoke. "It is collateral, from the promise Lord Bolton owes our Lord Flint."

"A promise? What was owed that is equal to hundreds of livestock?" Cregan huffed out, shealthing his Valyrion steel sword.

"You don't know, m'Lord?" A blonde-haired boy asked, glancing between his friends. "Lord Bolton promised Lord Flint a hundred gold dragons if he could borrow working men to build some houses for him."

"How many? That's a steep price that few would pay for mere houses."

The one next to him shrugged, a shaggy-haired brunette, "a village, I 'eard. Right on the outskirts of the Dreadfort's walls.

The price made more sense, then. But for Bolton to offer a hundred gold dragons to outside help rather than his own men was an odd thing indeed. The first thought that came to mind was that Ryen Bolton was cheap—promising a payment that he never intended to pay and thinking he'd suffer no consequence for it.

"I see now." He sighed, rubbing his temple stressfully. "How did you get past livestock dogs with a whole group of men?"

The blonde smiled a crooked grin, puffing out his chest proudly. "That was my idea, m'Lord! I used some chamomile in their water supplies a few days before taking the herds. Knocks them to sleep real fast, though it doesn't last long."

"And how did you cover the tracks of so many?"

"Carts, m'Lord." One shrugged. "We took the trading route paths at night while some stayed behind to cover the tracks we entered through in the forests. A nasty job, it is." He huffed, scratching at his reddened legs. Seemed like he was one of the ones stuck with that job.

As much as Cregan wished to be angry at the boys, he could not find it in himself to blame them. Orders were orders, after all, and any young squire must follow them to achieve knighthood. "Get to work on returning them. Every. Last. One. I will deal with Flint and Bolton, and see to it that you go unblamed." He said heavily, making it clear that his command was non-negotiable.

With a few scattered groans and sighs, the squires all obeyed and got to work.

Cregan left again, borrowing a chestnut mare to make his journey back faster. He had much to think about.

💠

It was well into the afternoon when he finally returned, pointedly guided away from Lord Bolton's councilroom and chambers by a few maids. "Lord Bolton is resting at this hour. You can join him for supper." One said as she settled down lunch for Cregan in his guest chambers.

Cregan had half a mind to burst down the man's door and demand explanations, but knew that patience would yield the best results in this circumstance. He could not butt heads with such a stubborn and self-righteous man like Ryen.

Finishing his stew quickly, Cregan found himself too restless to stay confined. He took to the halls, intending to head to the gardens for a walk. As he passed the halls, commotion in the nursery caught his attention.

"...Didn't mean to, I promise!" Ciara's voice pleaded tearfully. Cregan wasted no time barging into the room, which had its door shut behind the last who entered. Ryen, it seemed, who loomed over Ciara and Mabel like a wild beast.

Ciara had Mabel clutched in her arms, protectively guarding her babe though she trembled like a leaf. In the hand holding the girl's head was also the lavender blanket, soft as silk and finished with its last sewn touches, he presumed. Neither adult noticed his presence, though young Dalton sat on his little bed and held himself in a ball, glancing up at the newcomer.

"What have I told you about coming in here?! You should be in your rooms until I say otherwise. I cannot deal with such nonsense any longer, I have tolerated your dimwitted behavior for far too long." He boomed, then dwindled into a growl as he spoke.

"I waited for someone to come in so I could ask to come downstairs. It's been nearly all day, so I thought Gresha had gotten ill and forgot to tell another maid to come up." She hurriedly explained herself, expression laced with guilt as she struggled to meet the man's eye.

"This is two days in a row that you've disobeyed my orders and left your room. At this rate, I'll have to lock you in the dungeons just to keep you in place."

"I only wished to give Mabel her blanket. She has been complaining at the night's chill for days." She mustered out, rocking the girl in her arms in a soothing matter as the girl whimpered at her father's tone.

"It is Summer, you daft girl! That girl would complain about the grass being too green, and you'd try to dye it blue just to appease her." He snatched up the blanket, tossing it into the warmed hearth and earning a squealing cry from Mabel.

Finally, Cregan thought he had seen enough. In the comfort of his own home, Ryen Bolton showed the kind of person he was beyond the watchful eye of the Starks. Stepping between Ryen as he took another intimidating step towards his wife, the grip Ryen had taken on Ciara's hand had slackened at the sight of the Lord.

"What are you doing in here, Lord Stark?" He grumbled out, unwilling to back down so easily when he was worked up so much.

"Watching my host make an utter fool of himself. I could hear you from my own chambers," he fibbed slightly. "Shall we reconvene in the council room?" He asked through gritted teeth, wishing to spare the children of a proper argument.

Ryen backed up, shaking his head firmly. "We will speak on the morrow." As he stormed out of the room, calling for a maid to bring him a keg of ale.

Turning to Ciara, Cregan gently brushed her wrist with his calloused fingertips. He saw only the conflicted storm held within glossy eyes, admiring how composed she managed to hold herself for the sake of her babes.

"Are you alright, my Lady?" He asked in a hushed tone, careful not to frighten the girl in her arms. He knew his size was not the most welcome sight to an already shivering young girl, much less one who had clearly been used to the biggest man in the house regularly using his size as an advantage.

Ciara nodded curtly, rocking Mabel in her arms until the girl stopped crying and only sniffled every so often. The repeated motion seemed to work to calm both of them. "Thank you, my Lord." She mumbled as she set the drowsy child into bed. Only afternoon, but little hands were adamantly rubbed at puffy undereyes already, the poor lass had worn herself to exhaustion.

Cregan saw similar puffiness on Ciara but chose to stay silent in his revelations. "Will you not stay in here, or bring the children to your room?" He offered. "I will ensure Lord Bolton does not bother you again today. Perhaps the quietness of the tower would do good for some quality rest."

Ciara seemed to contemplate but sadly shook her head 'no'. "The maester says the tower is much too cold for the children. They cannot regulate body heat as well as we can." She said, tucking Mabel into drab grey sheets. The whole room seemed the same to Cregan, though Dalton's side had more color and personality to it. Spoiled with toys and perhaps any other thing a boy of four had temporary whims for. Most lied scattered at the foot of his bed, though, untouched until a maid came in and cleaned it all up.

"And Dalton?" He asked, hesitating this time.

Ciara glanced up to the bed where he still sat, curious blue eyes on them both as they sat in the still silence. As quick as she looked, she broke the eye contact and left the room.

Puzzled, Cregan ushered the waiting maid at the door into the room, ensuring the children were taken care of being following the woman.

Her steps were hurried and floating, hands holding her dark emerald skirts to allow such fast movements. He noticed then that she was adorned in more fancy jewels. Emerald bracelets and a heavy necklace to match. Even in her simply-braided hair, that he assumed she did herself, lie a few studded pearls.

"Ciara?" He called after her, jogging to catch up with her head start.

She did not turn, instead rushing to the steps faster. On the first step, he was able to catch her arm before she could disappear into the sanctuary of her cold room. "Please, wait." He huffed.

Meeting his eye line better from the height boost, Ciara's face was dimmed with the low light available in the corridor. "What?" She demanded, a harsh and shocking contrast to her previous demeanor.

"What is wrong?" He scanned her briefly. "Is something...wrong with your son?" When he mentioned bringing Dalton along with her, the shift that he saw in her was concerning.

"Of course not!" She said, immediately defending her son with narrowed eyes. "Why would there be?"

"You didn't speak to him—nor comfort him like you did your daughter." The blunt words made her look away, blinking away tears rapidly. None fell, and she sighed shakily, as if the one thing she could control in such an unforgiving place was her own appearance.

"I cannot."

"Cannot speak to your son?"

"I am not allowed to, my Lord." She answered, clenching her jaw tightly. An unladylike behavior to grind her teeth or bite her nails, but both were nasty habits that she anxiously indulged in often.

Cregan laughed almost disbelievingly, shaking his head as if she told a most humorous jest. "Allowed to? I was not aware that mothers were given rules permitting their children's company." Though his growing anger seethed from his body clearly, none of it was directed at the woman in front of him. That did not stop her from stepping up another stair, twisting her ring around her finger as she did.

"It has been set for many moons, now. Lord Bolton had been unhappy with Dalton's behavior when I looked after him. He's better off with the maids." Her own son's name sounded foreign on her tongue, like she had tried to erase him from her mind to make the distance hurt less. Only, there was no distance. There were mere hallways apart at all times, yet it seemed like the Narrow Sea itself was placed between them.

"What could he have been upset with?" Cregan tried to make sense of Ryen's mindset, if he had any at all. A four year old boy could have many problematic behaviors, but surely none that could be influenced by a mother as sweet as Ciara.

Ciara sucked a breath sharply through her teeth, retreating a few steps more. "May I be excused, My Lord? I am quite tired from the day's affairs." She asked. There had only been the one 'affair', as she said herself earlier, but Cregan could not outright challenge her.

"I only wish to understand, Ciara. I want to help you." He pleaded, brows knitting together as he clasped the wooden rail of the stairs.

"You can't. There is no need to meddle in the affairs of others. Please, conduct your business and be on your way." She bit, turning her back and rushing up the steps finally, closing the door behind her.

Cregan was forced to retire to his chambers, his previous plans of visiting the gardens spoiled and his mind exhausted.

Early in the morning, Cregan woke before Ryen Bolton and weaved his way around the staff to start his day. Presuming that the Lord would sleep well into the day, Cregan made his way to the 'village' that had started the problem in the first place.

It was a short walk from the Dreadfort, and an annoyance to the residents who had already made their homes near the keep. When the Stark had asked a villager of the whereabouts of the new town, the old man had scowled deeper and pointed his nose toward the direction, grumbling as he walked off. "These young'ins...always with too much time on 'er hands."

Bemused, Cregan continued on.

As he passed the first building, he finally understood the old man's irritable nature. The entire place smelled of incense, sweat, and sex. He almost gagged, the scent reminiscent of his brief stay in King's Landing. He had made a point to make his visit very short after truly seeing the disgusting sights of the capitol. True, there were brothel houses and short 'silk streets' in the North, too, but never an abundant amount, nor were they as frequented as the ones in the South.

The further he walked through, the more he realized just how dire the situation was. Every single building was not a house like he had figured, but a mere cesspool of vulgarity. Even in the early morning, peeks passed opened doors showed sights of young men indulging themselves in the young and pretty women of the street.

Now, he realized what Bolton's intentions were. He had commissioned an entire 'village' to be made purely for the sake of pleasure and sin. As if the one pleasure house lying on the streets of One Hill, the collection of towns nearest to the Bolton's Dreadfort, were not enough.

It was an insult to the Flints, who made the buildings without compensation. It was an insult to the Starks, who, represented only by Cregan, had generously offered to solve the problem for the Boltons and were lied to blatantly. Most of all, it was an insult to Ryen's wife, who sat locked up in her room day after day, unknowing of her husband's unfaithful nature.

Cregan assessed how many buildings there were total, counting twelve along the cobble path before abruptly making his leave. An older 'Madam' standing at the curtained doorway of one of the houses beckoned the Lord close, a sultry look in her blue eyes. He brushed past the touch she laid on his shoulder, not bothering with polite words as he ignored her entirely.

He would ensure the Bolton Lord never saw the same status that the Starks had granted his house hundreds of years prior. He was not as generous and forgiving as his ancestors.

🩷

this was so hard to write solely in his pov idk why

I had so many good ideas going into this but none translated to words like I wanted them to, most getting scrapped. I need to get something out so I can stop focusing on one-shots for now and get dd chap 15 out its nagging my mind 😪

lmk if I should do a part 2 eventually

[todayontumblr]

Wednesday, December 6.

At this time of year? At this time of day? In this part of the country?

Localized entirely within this blog? Well, yes. You better believe it. Unlikely as it may seem, Aurora Borealis is here. It is big, bright, and brilliant, and we have confined it entirely within the cosmos of this series of digital communications, for your viewing pleasure. So why not take some well-deserved time out this Wednesday, December 6, to marvel at the mysticism and wonder bestowed to us by the natural world. Don't say we don't spoil y'all. 

@prinnay

And while you're at it, please indulge yourself in quote possibly the finest one minute and eleven seconds ever to air on television, inspired by the magnificence of The Northern Lights, and, of course, steamed hams.

You can also find the complete transcript here for the sole purpose of memorizing each line verbatim, and reciting it to impress friends, family, and strangers alike. 

[sehaedazokla]

he that dares

part five

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems. 

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

chapter warnings: grief, suicide mention, assault mention

word count: 9.3k

previous part | next part | series masterlist

The sun burns bright upon the courtyards of the Red Keep, its blinding rays showering the grass in warm morning light. Lords and ladies make their way through the stone pathways, chatting in lowered voices as the sacred and ancient exchange of gossip and rumor occurs. Few clouds dot the brilliant blue sky, and the flowers seem perfectly content to rise up towards the crystalline heavens. Upon a white marble bench, Lady Tyrell finds little solace in the pleasant weather. A book rests upon her lap as she attempts to make her way through its pages, but what is normally as natural as breathing today does not come easy. Each time she tries to read a page, her mind wanders and becomes embroiled in worry and anxious trepidation over yesterday’s events. She had rested fitfully, waking from nightmares thrice over. 

Fingers drum against the cover of the book in a jumpy rhythm, and she taps her shoe against the stone pathway beneath the skirts of her gown. The words run together upon the page, blurring and mixing and dancing about, and by the time she has supposedly read through a chapter she finds she has not retained enough information to create even a simple summary. Closing her eyes and taking a long breath, she releases a slow sigh and lifts her chin to stare up at a single white cloud that drifts lazily in the sky. 

One of the ladies stops to greet her, and despite her troubled mind she is glad to have an excuse to close the book that has been giving her unusual difficulty and chat about idle gossip. 

It is during this discussion that Cregan Stark pauses in the hall, partially hidden in one of the stone passageways. The Northern lord had found sleep eluding him, his mind troubled and occupied by the previous day as well. And there upon a bench, bathed in morning light, sits the cause of his insomnia. Laughing sweetly at a likely scandalous comment whispered to her behind a hand, eyes sparkling in the sun. Her hair has been returned to a delicate arrangement and her dress is a dulcet cream that plunges just as low as any that typically adorns her figure.

As if nothing had happened at all. But Cregan knows better; he knows far more than he ought to, and the knowing is what stills his boots and causes him to stare out into the courtyard. There he stands, storm-cloud eyes unable to be torn away from how she brushes a strand of hair out of her face before leaning over to offer a delicious piece of gossip herself. The gloves upon her arms have his attention raptly captivated.

Ivory satin that covers the bandages on her wrists, the reddened and now bruising marks that Cregan had helped to cover. It had been his hands upon her arms, his calloused fingers ghosting over her soft skin as her eyes watched impartially, allowing him. What a strange thing it is, to look at this lady who has been so wrapped in secrets and deception and to know that him and her now have a shared secret of their own. 

Lady Tyrell senses a foreign presence in her peripherals and her sharp eyes flicker over to the corridor that runs parallel to the courtyard.  She meets Cregan’s eyes in an immediate recognition, faint surprise present in her own as she holds his gaze a moment. But just as soon as she notices him, her eyes dart back to her companion and she redirects her full attention to the conversation in front of her, as if she has not seen him at all. 

Cregan watches as she nods to the lady sat upon the bench with her, hands folded elegantly in her lap, and his eyes narrow at the poignancy with which she ignores him. It is so pointed and evident, when she has been tracking him down like a hound with a scent from the moment he set foot within the Red Keep. And now she turns away, as if he is no more noteworthy than a passing page or a squire. His chest tightens.

His redirection is swift and purposeful, and he squares his shoulders as he approaches the two women across the courtyard. Lady Tyrell’s companion stiffens and blinks up with concern, but there is only faintly concealed irritation in the eyes of the lady he seeks. Her lips press together, likely to produce a sugary sentiment with which she can dismiss him, but Cregan shall not let her rid herself of him so quickly.

“If I might have a moment with the Lady Tyrell…?” The tone is detached and proper, and the other lady upon the bench offers a quick nod before she gives a worried glance between the two of them and scurries off. 

Lady Tyrell finds herself casting an irritated glare in the direction of the other woman, frustrated at the quickness with which she catered to Cregan’s wishes. Annoying, yet far from surprising – It is he who causes such fear and worry about the castle these days. Is that not why she had been seeking him out? How ironic, this turn of events where she now wishes to be rid of his presence but instead must simper and smile to keep him at newly preferred distance. 

Giving a slow sigh, she feels her shoulders lower and her hands fall to rest upon the cover of the book within her lap. As her chin tilts upwards to meet his stare, Cregan is keenly aware of how little she seems to desire his being there at that moment. Even so, a sweet smile falls across her lips as she gazes up at him expectantly. A skilled combination of powder and lip coloring has been applied to her mouth to hide the flowering wound he knows is still there. If any manner of thoughts upon the way his eyes fall to her mouth fill her mind, she gives no indication of opinion.

“Lord Stark,” Calm as the fair weather this morning, her voice is soft and pleasant. The tired, thin cobwebs that hung from her weary words the previous evening have been brushed aside, and the emptiness of her eyes polished and shone until they shimmer as brightly as ever. A broken puppet that has been patched and mended and returned to the playhouse to continue a never-ending show. With the flap of pearl wings, a gull flies over head in a lazy swoop. “Such a pleasant morning, is it not?”

“Are you well, my lady?” Steady and low, the words interrupt her honey-coated offering of returning to their previous routine. Cregan will not play pretend with her, will not join her upon her wooden stage. The imagined audience that she is consistently acting for, all prolonged pauses and enunciated projection, shall not find amusement in the Lord of Winterfell. The telltale signs of irritation that Cregan has come to recognize – a twitch to her eyes, a tightening of her fingers as they rest on top of each other – inform him that she much prefers he not ask.

“I am, my lord. How kind it is for you to ask after me.” A gloved hand raises to her chest, pressing softly into the exposed section above the low neckline of her morning gown. The skin beneath her hand gives slight way, and Cregan might find his attention drawn if he did not harbor such insistent and gnawing worry upon her wellbeing. 

The ease with which she has returned to amiable pleasantry only serves to concern him further. In a flash of unusually petulant selfishness, Cregan discovers he wishes her to speak candidly with him, as she had the night before. No matter how venomous some of her words had been, to communicate with her free of presentation had been strangely liberating and rewarding. “Your hands–.”

“Is there a particular matter that you wish to discuss, my lord?” The interruption is swift and final, in spite of the gently bright and melodious way it is delivered. Soft lashes flutter as she gazes up at Cregan from the marble bench upon which she sits. The faint echo of voices can be heard, both from the courtyard and further within the castle’s halls. It is as busy a morning as ever.

Lady Tyrell cannot help the anxiety and frustration that she feels tightening her chest and pressing into her lungs at his presence. Keenly aware of the severity with which she has disgraced herself in front of him, embarrassment pounds hotly in her veins. It is only with years of practice that she keeps any of this from showing upon her face. For all his patient and genuine apology, and the gentle care with which he had tended to her wrists, she cannot help but retain the crashing waves of suspicion within the harbor of her heart.

Cregan is silent a moment, jaw tense at her quick dismissal of his attempt to reach past her heavily fortified walls, draped in fragrant flowers as they may be. The tossing and turning in his bedsheets the previous night, admittedly not the first time her image has found its way into his mind during such dark and silent hours, has left the lord with an unsettling understanding of her perception of him.

Far from perfect, he knows well that he has made a few mistakes since his descent upon the Red Keep. And so needing for allies has he been of late, there has been not one Southern noble whose opinion he has truly drawn upon in his decision making. With a deep sigh, Cregan finds himself sitting next to her upon the bench. She pauses.

Her eyes dart about quickly, as if to see who might notice this, but she does not strike him nor rise to leave. Suspicion can briefly be read upon her face, but it is swept away just as rapidly as it arrives. His heavy gaze falls upon her for a moment, and she does her utmost to not fidget under such an intense look. She imagines she ought to be used to it by now, but there is something about its weight that she cannot grow accustomed to just yet. It is clear, when he parts his lips, that the matter he is presenting has been onerous to entertain within his mind.

“Sit upon my council this morning.”  It is phrased with that Northern lowness that is more resembling a command than a request. Lady Tyrell blinks back at him with an empty smile, fighting back the urge to behold him as if he has grown a second head. The possibility that he has lost his mind entirely does briefly wander through her brain with faintly amused disbelief. A few heads have turned at the two of them sat upon a bench in the courtyard together, fans fluttering over mouths whispering of the odd pairing.

Yet Cregan regards her with utmost seriousness as he continues, his brows drawn low above his bright eyes. “I have realized, in my mistreatment of you, that I have acted with certain prejudice in mind while carrying out my responsibilities here at King’s Landing. I believe a neutral Southern presence among my retainers might serve to temper the storm that gathers at my table. And to offer a perspective I would not have otherwise.”

It is a thoughtful proposal, a prudent and gracious offer in the wake of the uncompromising and violent war that has racked the Seven Kingdoms. And it is this that brings her pause – the wise action of a leader seeking knowledge and perspective from an outside source while he holds court in a city that is all but foreign to him. She has not believed Cregan to be a tyrant, save for the misunderstanding yesterday, but neither has she believed he genuinely intends to practice the justice he mentions so often.

Her face remains impassive, but she lowers her gaze a moment, eyes resting on the cobblestone pathway that weaves lazily through the courtyard, like a stream through a meadow. If she were his advisor, she would be utterly aghast at this. But as a lady of the South, who has grown unsettled by the increasing arrests and murmured spoiling for war that looms darker upon the Realm by the day, she finds she is quite nearly impressed at his willingness to listen. She does not like the thought of being impressed by Cregan Stark. She shifts uncomfortably upon the marble bench.

“If you ask this of me, my lord, I would be honored to serve both you and the Realm.” Sweet and gentle, she agrees with a blossoming quickness to his offer. After all, she would be an absolute fool to refuse such a ripe opportunity. One she has been working towards from the moment he seized power – a chance at his ear and a place within the temporary inner circle, gained through the winning of his favor. How many lacy smiles has she woven for him, how many delicate, intentional movements of her body? And yet, it does not seem to be his favor she has gained.

Lady Tyrell cannot quite pinpoint what about her that the Lord of Winterfell has seen and decided is acceptable enough to bring her to his council table, and this produces a sense of nervous unease. Since she is unsure what she has done to earn this hesitant truce, she does not know how to continue to present it and solidify her position. Worse yet, rolling about her gut in a nauseating condition reminiscent of sea sickness is guilt. 

Never before has she felt anything of the sort when manipulating various lords and ladies of the court to act in her best interests. But this victory feels unearned, underserved. Cregan had bested her thoroughly and completely, despite his own genuine apology over the matter, and she can admit defeat civilly. Her brows pinch together in a wary frown as her eyes lift to meet Cregan’s, a hesitant uncertainty flickering in her pupils. “…Only if it is truly your wish, Lord Stark.”

It is not that he trusts her – Cregan cannot say he does, in truth, but the vibrancy with which she expresses love has eased his worries of her possessing a blindly ambitious nature. It is as clear a picture of raw honesty as he has seen from anyone in the castle thus far. Coupled with her sharp mind, he has decided it is worth it to take the risk at one meeting, as a test. “It is you that I wish there. You need not offer your true opinions in front of the others, but in private I would ask that discerning mind of yours to tell me plainly your thoughts.”

The fabric of her gloves presses together with a soft rustling as her eyes fall once again, the cogs within her brain turning quickly to design a proper response to this line of reasoning. Although she can find no fault in it, there is a selection of data that she has collected so far that does not support his supposedly courteous offer. With a delicate lift of her chin, she begins to arrange the words eloquently upon her tongue. “If you do not mind, my lord, I only believe--.”

“Speak your thoughts directly. Only I can hear you and I have already heard the truth, Lady Tyrell.” Cregan’s stern gaze is met with a lightning flash of faintly repressed irritation at the interruption. It does not faze him, wishing for her to deliver herself plainly and discard the word games with him. Have they not overcome this? Cregan shall ensure that they do so.

With all the elegantly annoyed scorn of a cat that has been bothered, she blinks at him a moment before casting her gaze about the courtyard. They are not completely alone, but no one is close enough to eavesdrop upon the manner in which she speaks to him. Lowering her voice to a soft yet sturdier whisper, that same even and exasperated tone she had spoken to him with last night graces him with its presence. The serious look upon his face becomes slightly less so, and he resists the urge to nod in approval.

“Why do you care to have a Southern perspective cast upon your planning? I have heard the whispers brought to me regarding your men. They want war.” Dispelled is the persona and her sharp words spiral into smoky arrows fired towards the target that is his mind. She wants an explanation for the whispers brought to her by her network of lingering spies, and he can hardly fault her for that. It is entirely possible he seeks to utilize her for his own gain, and naturally she is suspicious.

“Aye, the elder men I have brought wish for the continuation of the war,” Cregan begins, his voice lowering to match her quiet tone. Running a heavy hand through his red hair, he shifts his muscular figure upon the bench to better face her and gives her a neutral look. “Many of my soldiers have seen far too many winters. They came south with the intention of dying, of sparing their families another mouth to feed in the coming winter. If your spies report upon disappointment, it is not wanton bloodshed my men desire. But worry they harbor in their hearts at the prospect of marching home to burden their kin.”

This catches her attention. A frown creases its way onto her features as she tilts her head, searching Cregan’s eyes for any sign of a lie. She cannot find anything that indicates his words do not hold truth. It would never have occurred to her, the idea of these men wishing fighting and death upon them for the security of their families. She could not imagine a season so brutal and devasting that it is better to die than wait it out. The Reach has not yearned for food in her lifetime, not when their grass is fertile and yields a healthy crop each year. Starvation had sunk its unforgiving claws into the capital during the war, but she herself has never wanted for food within the walls of the Red Keep. 

As this information settles its way into her mind, she feels a heavy understanding fall upon her. Perhaps the Lord of Winterfell is correct – there is a holistic lacking of perspective between the North and South after all. It is her responsibility to carry out her mother’s wishes while the lady remains at court, and to do her utmost to put an end to this war so that her House might see a peaceful future. For her younger siblings, and the people who rely upon her family. Slowly, her eyes lift to meet Cregan’s evenly.

“I shall accept your offer then, my lord. In hopes of a better way forward for both of our peoples.”

A white flag has supposedly settled within the dust of the night before.

The Northern nobles convene within the room that had previously hosted the Small Council meetings, hazy pale light drifting in through a collection of small circular windows that rise from floor to ceiling. Archways of grey stone connect to pillars of similar material, the sunlight reflecting in lazy shimmering rivers across the floor. The long rectangular stone table has ornamentally carved wooden chairs placed around it and as Lady Tyrell enters the room, she cannot help but recall the scarce instances when she had seen the council gather. 

A few of the lords have already arrived, and she takes note of the faces she can place names to – the young lords of House Tully and House Blackwood, whose reputations have grown large and fanciful from their exploits during the war. The remaining two she is able to deduce are the lords of House Corbray, and with the arrival of Lady Jeyne Arryn it would seem that the council is completely present. A rather small gathering, she concludes, and if she is to make swift judgement based upon the rumors she has collected regarding those present, not entirely unmanageable. 

Despite this conclusion, as she stands within the room, gaze drifting demurely about the space, the eyes that rest upon her are suspicious and wary. Her hands remain folded in front of her, and it would seem that the only thing preventing outright confrontation is the steady presence of Cregan Stark at her side. The Lord of Winterfell does not let her wander far from him, and this tethering leads her to feel akin to a child that has been brought to a playdate rather than a lady at a formal gathering. If it irritates her, she does not allow it to show upon her sweetly pleasant expression. The stares do not bother her, not when she has spent the last few years of her life subjected to far more reviling glares of hatred.

These Northerners stand within her territory, regardless of their positions at present, and they will not scare her with glances. And it is of little consequence as she has not come to play, but simply to observe.

When Cregan calls the nobles to begin the meeting, it is with little fanfare that he introduces her to the gathered lords and lady. In spite of their unwelcoming stares, not one voice is raised to argue with their liege lord when he informs them that she shall be attending the entirety of the meeting. One of the lords of House Corbray shifts rather uncomfortably in his chair and Lady Jeyne Arryn does little to hide the mistrust in her eyes, but nary a word is uttered in disagreement.

Lady Tyrell finds herself seated next to Cregan, a matter which does not go unnoticed by those around the table, and she smooths her gown down elegantly before she folds her hands within her lap. She need not do anything but listen intently and gaze with amiable neutrality as various concerns and issues are brought to the attention of the Northern council. 

It is in this time that she ensures herself take careful study of each leading character at Cregan Stark’s table, for the information will surely prove useful sooner rather than later. Lord Leowyn Corbray is a stout man whose reputation as a warrior precedes their meeting, but after listening to him speak for more than a minute she does not believe she shall be hearing any groundbreaking tactical suggestions from him either now or in the future. His brother Corwyn seems to have his head on considerably straighter and enough so to regard her with the most suspicion of all of those present, but she does not find it particularly cruel in nature. Both Oscar and Kermit Tully appear quite eager to prove themselves as capable leaders now that they have achieved greatness on the battlefield, and she imagines that once time tempers the bold pride of youth, they shall become quite wise. Benjicot Blackwood seems to have similar potential, although is considerably more quiet than the Tully brothers.

Lady Jeyne Arryn piques her interest above all, and she finds an unwilling flicker of respect for Cregan’s keeping of a woman at his table. It is a wise decision that few male leaders make and as Lady Arryn speaks, it is clear how much insight and shrewdness she brings to the gatherings. With each problem that arises, a swift combination of practicality and experience is wielded expertly between Lord Stark and Lady Arryn, resulting in admittedly efficient solutions. Lady Tyrell finds her eyes remaining upon the older woman, keen to hear her wisdom and the confidence and ease with which she presents herself among the men of the North. An unmarried woman who sits upon a ruling council is a rarity that Lady Tyrell cannot help but gaze after with faint wanting and curiosity.

“The Lady Johanna Westerling has agreed to the peace terms sent by Corlys Velaryon, on behalf of the Lannisters. Her raven arrived only this morning.” Lord Corwyn Corbray informs the table, his brows drawing together pensively as he presents the letter in question for the gathering to gaze upon. Cregan Stark reaches for the parchment, his face stern as his eyes flicker over the lines of dried ink. With a slow inhale, he nods, his broad shoulders lowering as he hands the paper over to Lady Arryn to read as well. There is a heaviness to his gaze, as if he is weighing a matter of great importance upon his mind. Lord Kermit Tully leans over to whisper something to his brother Oscar, who frowns before offering a quick response in an equally hushed tone. 

“It was less of a matter of if and more one of when, with Lady Johanna.” Lady Arryn observes dryly, an unreadable expression upon her face as she scans the written text of the letter before passing it along down the table. When handed the parchment, Lord Leowyn Corbray gives a mighty sigh, stroking his chin in a manner Lady Tyrell might describe as thoughtful if she believed he thought for very long about any matter at all. 

“An agreement is progress nonetheless.” There is a rotund rumble to his manner of speaking, as he possesses a portly voice that is decidedly fitting of his physical figure.

Lord Oscar Tully gives an unimpressed scoff at this, and when the letter finally reaches him, he beholds it quickly before letting it pass to his brother. The young lord’s eyes narrow, his hands folding together upon the table with a sharp swiftness. “It matters not, when our great trouble still has yet to send any indication of even reading the terms given.”

“We knew from the start that Oldtown would not be easily persuaded to abandon the war.” Lord Corwyn reminds the nobles with a knowing gaze, his eyebrows raising with the words. He offers a neutral partiality that seems to balance the boldness of the younger lords and the reservation of his brother. With an inhale through his nose, he shakes his head slowly. “They have risked too much to surrender outright, and it is likely they see their House’s future upon the line. They quite nearly had the Seven Kingdoms within their grasp, they will not be so quick to concede.”

“Lyonel Hightower is young and hot-tempered; he will spoil for war so long as he believes it is his right.” Cregan remarks calmly, his stormy eyes even as they gaze down at the stone table in serious thought. Lord Leowyn gives another deep sigh at this, nodding rather vigorously to express his agreement as the letter makes its way to the hands of Lord Benjicot Blackwood, who seems to take the task of reading it quite seriously.

Lady Tyrell finds the matter is the first one that truly draws her attention. It would seem that the general consensus among the room is that there is want for the peace terms to be agreed to, despite the widespread belief that the Northerners desire further bloodshed. Her eyes lower down to the table as she rolls the matter over in her mind, like marbles in a hand. It is a delicate situation, as Lyonel Hightower does still possess a host large enough to continue the fighting with, and a reason to do so as his father had been killed in the fighting. And he lacks the judgment and experience that might prevent an older lord from responding with callous and reckless rage.

“He seeks vengeance for his father,” Lady Arryn points out with a thoughtful tilt of her chin. Her eyes are calm yet have a distinct edge that gives the impression of a bird of prey surveying its options. “Lady Samantha shall find it difficult to convince the young lord to stand down, even should she have his favor.”

This situation Lady Tyrell has heard whispers of – a shocking rumor that the new Lord Hightower has become infatuated with his father’s young widow, only two years his senior, and yearns to make her his new bride. The ladies of the Red Keep have been shaking their heads and pressing disapproving hands to their chests over the matter, but the lady cannot say it is particularly appalling to her despite its scandal. An unfortunate side effect of spending far too much time around Targaryens, perhaps.

The haze of sunlight sneaking in through the small circles of windows casts a soft glow over the mutely colored room, revealing particles of dust floating about. Lord Benjicot is taking his time reading and then rereading the letter, but Lady Tyrell’s eyes have flickered over to Cregan in the seat next to her, who remains silent as the rest of his council continue to ponder the issue presented by the Hightowers. The Northern lord listens with stern attentiveness, his large hands clasped together in front of him as his elbows rest upon the stone table. Strands of his red hair fall about his face, curling slightly at the tips that reach just below his jaw. 

As she watches him lead his council from the head of the table, she is pointedly reminded of the power and influence he possesses, no matter how gently he attended to her the night before. There is a strange juxtaposition in the sheer strength he has a leader and a solider, and the quiet and steady honorability she had seen within him yesterday. A feeling of unease begins to coil in her stomach again, and beneath the table she feels her fingers beginning to press into each other anxiously. 

Cregan must feel the weight of her stare, because he flicks his eyes over to meet hers while the young Tully lords raise the idea of crushing Oldtown before they have the chance to march on King’s Landing. She gives a silent inhale of breath at this, but does not look away. His grey eyes give an asking narrow, but her own face remains neutral as she regards him calmly, thinking back upon the events of yesterday. 

Her eyes widen a fraction when the realization crashes down upon her in a thunderous tidal wave and her hands still.

The Lord of Winterfell takes silent notice of this, his eyes becoming more questioning before she turns her head to look out across the table, the gears of her mind spinning with rapid perspicacity. He pauses with a steady gaze as she draws her conclusions, patiently awaiting the presentation of whatever scheme her mind has quickly drawn up in solution to his problem. A faint flicker of pride burns hot within his chest, and he attempts not to look too pleased with himself for deciding to include her in this morning’s meeting. It would seem his gamble is about to pay out, and quite profitably.

“If I may, Lord Stark?” When her quiet, sweet voice breaks softly into the conversation, Lady Tyrell’s eyes turn to Cregan for approval to speak. Her lashes flutter gently, and she sits with all the poised grace she has been offering each time she performs for an audience, no matter how large or small. 

“Go ahead, my lady.” He is already staring back at her, and with a start, she swears for a heartbeat she can see the ghost of a smile curl at the edges of his lips. As if he already knows what she is about to say, despite him lacking the information that would allow him to draw that conclusion. Does he truly have such faith in her? Her gaze flickers with soft suspicion before she shifts delicately in her seat and turns her attention to the faces that have cast their rather unwelcoming gazes to her. Taking a small breath, she relays her plan to the Northern council.

“If it is Oldtown that causes you worry, I might have means by which to dissuade Lord Hightower from continuing the war,” Lady Tyrell begins with soft inflection, ensuring she makes proper eye contact with the nobles gathered about the table as she speaks. Her hands remain together within her lap, and she keeps her chin raised and straight while she addresses the room. “You see, it happens that his younger brother Garmund is a ward of House Tyrell. A companion of my own younger brother, who is being raised in Highgarden.”

The room falls silent at this revelation, and at its implication. Presented by this delicate lady, doe eyes soft as she gazes about, it seems like quite the mild observation. But the truth of her words rings out clear as a bell to the temporary council: every ward is a hostage, and every hostage can be leveraged in a time of war. Lady Arryn lowers her chin, her sharp eyes focused on Lady Tyrell as she leans forward.

“And House Tyrell would then demand the Hightowers stand down?” Lady Arryn questions slowly, seemingly unsure of how trustworthy House Tyrell and its representative are in this troubled time. The Lady Tyrell gives a small, elegant shrug as she meets the other woman’s eyes with soft detachment.

“I am not the head of my House, and therefore I can swear you no oaths. But I do believe that if I explain the delicate situation to my mother that she will be persuaded to suggest to the Hightowers the folly of raising a host without her approval.” It is a tentative offer, carefully phrased and wrapped in the ribbons of soft-spoken eloquence. The Lords Tully are quick to offer their own opinions on the matter, and Lord Leowyn Corbray remarks loudly upon the assistance a Hightower hostage would provide. But it is Cregan that Lady Tyrell looks to, her eyes narrowing as he gives her a slow nod of approval. Her plan has apparently pleased him. 

Her lashes brush the tops of her cheeks as she looks down a moment, not eager to continue to be subjected to his stern and silent approval. It evokes an unusual feeling; one she does not wish to give name to. Cregan’s own scheme the day before is what sparked her idea, reminding her of the strength found in the weaponization of loved ones in wartime. She does not wish to give him too much credit – they are still not quite allies, after all, but perhaps if he asks she shall reveal the truth of the matter to him. As the council seems to come to the general consensus that this is their best chance at securing a peace with Oldtown, Cregan voices his quiet agreement and Lady Tyrell does not look his way.

The council is soon dismissed, but she can feel the lingering of Cregan’s eyes upon her figure as the other nobles trickle out of the room. Pausing in her ambivalent drifting towards the door, she waits for the space to empty before turning to meet the lord’s steady gaze. When the heavy wooden door draws closed, leaving them in equally weighted silence, Cregan gives her a long look.

“Your cooperation does not go unnoticed, my lady,” Low and even, his Northern manner of speaking carries the words across the hollow and dusty room to her with a gruff quality. His brows are drawn together, not in a frown but in a serious appraisal of her, and his eyes flick up and down her body as he speaks. She raises her chin slightly at this, hands folding atop her cream gown as she shifts her balance to stand straighter. “I thank you for your assistance with our pressing issue.”

“It is not for you that I offer a solution,” Lady Tyrell’s words are direct and straightforward, signaling an end to the performance she has given in front of the other Northerners. Cregan’s chest warms at the realization that he does not have to coax honesty out of her this time. That ghost of a smile returns to the corners of his lips, his brows remaining low atop his eyes. “But my House’s own desires and the good of the Reach.”

“I could hardly expect anything less from you,” Cregan gives a slow tilt of his head, nodding to affirm his understanding of her motivations. His eyes squint slightly and his lips press together, his gaze dropping to the floor as he takes a few large steps towards her slowly. “My gratitude is offered nonetheless.”

Lady Tyrell watches with wary gaze as Cregan draws near, his sizable stature still giving her pause even in this hesitant armistice. Fighting back the urge to retreat to the door, she allows him to draw nearer. With a deep breath, her eyes fall to his face and she confirms what she had seen last night as he had knelt in front of her armchair, firelight upon his skin. Tiny freckles dot his nose and cheeks as stars in the heavens. Her eyes flicker between them.

“You might attempt to show that gratitude, in that case, my lord,” There is a serious look upon her face at the suggestion, provided as she readjusts her gaze to stare into his eyes instead of upon his face. She need not think of such trivial details, not when so much is still at stake, and he remains an uncertain piece upon the grand chessboard. “Actions hold more importance than words, after all.”

“You are right, my lady.” Cregan acquiesces with smooth and deep timbre, absentmindedly closing his hand into a loose fist as he gives her eyes his full attention. There is that weight again, bearing down upon her with such intensity regardless of intention. She has half a mind to scowl and ask if he chooses to look at people this way, or if it is a byproduct of his Northern upbringing. “Is there something I might do for you then?”

There are half a million things Lady Tyrell ought to ask Cregan Stark for. A permanent place upon his council, an agreement between their two houses, for her to be released from the temporary cage of the Red Keep. But simmering in the back of her mind, like a kettle that is never quite removed from the stove and never far out of reach, is the worry that has anxiously filled her mind night after night since prisoners had been taken by the Northern forces. Cregan is awaiting her response patiently, stood quite still in front of her, but her mind is elsewhere as the realization that she cannot put aside her own selfishness in this instance settles thickly into her mouth, molding into the words that fall from her lips.

“I wish to see Princess Jaehaera.” She takes a long breath as soon as it leaves her tongue, her arms folding across her chest as she looks away from him, stepping past Cregan so that her back is to him when he turns to face her. The Lord of Winterfell is not expecting this request, and a somber confusion finds its way into the pull of his brow and the tightness of his lips as he stares at her hair and the back of her gown. At the way her arms have drawn protectively across her front. A silence settles between them as Lady Tyrell keeps her attention cast to the circular windows, the cloudy glass of the small frames preventing her from seeing anything outside clearly.

“The princess is meant to be kept in solitary confinement, save for her Septa.” Cregan begins slowly, unsure of what the lady might want from a visit to the young girl. His intention to politely suggest that she provide a different request disappears from his mouth when she turns on him with such swift force that her hair whips about her face before it settles upon her back.

“She is five. A prisoner in her own home and alone.” There is no hiding the emotion that her voice catches on, snagging across it like fabric upon glass. It burns in her eyes then, that same look that she had given Cregan when she had spoken of her sister. Love, of this Cregan is quite clear, but it is encased in something painful. It has the quality of an open wound, bruising and tender like damaged fruit. A rushed sigh breaks out of her lungs and she presses her lips together in a tight line, her chin raising as her eyes scan the room, attempting not to say anything too scathing at the rush of anxiety and loss that fill her lungs. Cregan offers her the silent courtesy of patience while she collects herself.

“Her mother–.” Lady Tyrells makes a valiant attempt to explain herself, knowing full well that she cannot simply ask to see the princess without reason. Any number of people might wish to bring the girl harm – in a way, she supposes she is grateful to Cregan for being so selective about whom is allowed to see her. But the words lodge themselves into the lining of her throat and an attempt to force them out only results in near coughing. Her lips part, her brows furrowing deeply, her hands opening and closing into fists as she finds, to her utmost horror, her grief rising sharp and fast despite her being in front of Cregan Stark. Biting back her own frustration, she digs her nails into her palms so quickly that she is sure to leave marks.

Cregan finds himself staring into a reflection in a broken mirror, watching a state of being he knows all too well.

The pain from her hands steadies her, and the lady is able to loosen the words from her throat enough to string together a phrase that is somewhat logical. “I swore an oath to her mother.”

This raw and honest side of her is something that Cregan will need getting used to. It is refreshing and liberating, to have her opinions and thoughts spoken so plainly, but he cannot stop the wrenching of his chest each time she wears her love so clearly upon her face, so deeply within her words. He wishes, in decided and utter foolishness, to give her what she asks of him if only to ease the jagged pain held within her eyes. It is quite obvious to him that she only desires to see the princess to uphold this oath that has been sworn. Far be it from Cregan Stark to deny the fulfillment of an honorable promise to the deceased. “…If you shall agree to my remaining present during the visit.”

The compromise is soft and firm. As if she has been turned to marble, she stills. Unblinking and unmoving, eyes cast down to the stone floor as she considers his terms. Slowly, she looks up at him and nods wordlessly. 

Late is the hour that she arrives outside the guarded section of Maegor’s Holdfast, and low is the torchlight. While most of the nobles attend to their supper plans, and busy themselves with socializing as boredom runs amuck throughout the Red Keep, she stares numbly out an arched window and down at the iron spikes that fill the dry moat below. It is not the first time she has cast her gaze to the metal outside, but the first time since the Northerners had taken control of the castle. So busy has she been, concerning herself with the host occupying the capital and with its liege lord, that she has not had time to sit in her grief.

It is far from gone. She can count every single day that has gone by since Helaena threw herself from her window, and with the passing of each week a sense of wrongness and longing sinks its teeth into her heart. On occasion, she wonders innocently where her dearest friend has gone, expecting to see her turning the corner or sitting in the garden. And then Lady Tyrell is back in front of that open window, night air unforgiving on her cheek and sheer white curtains blown back gently. Staring down at Helaena, whose eyes were closed and whose body was so very still. It rushes back with the terrifying sense of falling, as if she is being jarred from a nightmare. Only the nightmare is her reality, one that is unbelievable at times and numbly accepted at others. 

There is no one that she can share her grief with – the dowager Queen has been locked away and Lady Tyrell is not certain that she wishes to see Alicent even if given the opportunity. Helaena’s brothers have all died, and the strangeness of nearly every immediate relation to the girl being gone is an eerie reminder of how haunted the quiet stone halls are. In her deepest, rawest sadness she finds herself even wishing to speak to Aegon and Aemond, whom she had always loathed in life. If only to have a connection to Helaena, to talk with someone who might begin to understand. 

Without Helaena, Lady Tyrell has not a single true friend in her life, not one person who sees her for what she is and loves her still. How good Helaena had been to her, how truly loved she had always felt from the closeness and understanding shared by the two girls. Without the late queen, there is no place for her within the castle. She grows restless with the stinging ache, finding it hard to exist within walls that seem to loom closer and darker by the day. Walls that hold their laughter from moments of shared childhood, their exchanged smiles and whispered secrets. No amount of screaming nor crying shall rectify the anxious energy that buzzes beneath her skin, nor the guilt she feels for simply living. Lady Tyrell had always known how important Helaena was to her, but when she had seen Helaena’s body, how clear had become to her then.

Lady Tyrell would have waited there with Helaena forever.

Dull eyes remain tethered to the spikes as she hears the approach of heavy footfalls, that draw closer and then stop in front of her. 

“Are you ready, my lady?” Cregan Stark’s steady voice is a buoyant raft tossed to her in the turbulent storm of her mind and she accepts it after a moment of considering drowning. Tired eyes meet his own, dimly lit by the glow of golden torchlight from the wall. There is a heaviness to her expression that tugs at Cregan’s own grief, reminiscent of that which ate at him the first year after Arra’s death.  Part of him wishes to ask her, to extend assistance in what he knows is an impossible situation. But he does not believe he knows her well enough yet, and does not want to overstep.

At her soft nod, he leads her down the halls to the chambers in which Jaehaera is being held. The Northern soldiers guarding the rooms give their liege lord a deep bow and allow Cregan to unlock the door as Lady Tyrell watches on with an unreadable expression. Jaehaera had been brought from Storm’s End only to be locked in the Queen’s Chambers, where Helaena had once lived. The irony seeps its way bitterly in the lady’s bones, a deep sickness that might never be cured as the door opens with a soft noise. How many times has she stood before this very door, waiting for Helaena to allow her in? How many times has she heard that exact clicking of the locking mechanism, how many times has she been met with violet eyes and silver hair? 

Lady Tyrell does not believe in much, but she has, on many an occasion now, felt Helaena’s presence around her. Soft and persistent, staring back at her when the lady cannot manage to do anything but bawl until tears have run into her hair and tangled it horrendously. 

When the little girl looks up from her bed, Lady Tyrell sees Helaena nearby, watching. As clear as if the other woman were standing within the room. 

Jaehaera’s eyes go wide with instant recognition, the book she has been reading immediately discarded by her pillow as she jumps to her feet. The lady has pushed past Cregan in a moment, practically breaking into a run to reach the girl, falling to her knees upon the stone floor with such impact that it will surely bruise. But it matters not, not at all, because Jaehaera is there in her arms, safe and breathing. The princess holds onto her with such tightness that the lady wonders if she will ever let go and finds herself with her hand on the back of the girl’s head, holding her close as she had when Jaehaera was just a baby.

“Muña.” Jaehaera’s voice breaks upon the word and Lady Tyrell cannot help the tears that begin to pool within her eyes. It has always been strange to her, that ‘muña’ is used to refer to both one’s mother and maternal aunts. No matter how many times Helaena had patiently explained it to her, the lady had firmly repeated that it was nonsensical to not have two different terms. But hearing the princess call her now, the same way she had called her mother, fills her with a sense of protectiveness and love that she cannot put into words even if she takes up a quill and writes for the remainder of her life. 

“Oh, sweetling,” Lady Tyrell cannot bring herself to say much, the tears already finding their way down her cheeks. It frustrates her to no end that no matter how many times she cries, it is never enough. She always has more tears, stinging her eyes mercilessly, always threatening to fall down her face. Others have offered condolences to her, stating that she would stop crying once the reality sets in, but to her own irritation that day has still not arrived. When she hears Jaehaera’s soft sniffle, the lady’s tears only fall quicker. “I am here. I am right here, little love.”

Cregan lets the door close, not wishing for his guards to watch her cry. It feels wrong to intrude upon the pair of them, to witness this tender display of love and loss. He shifts uncomfortably by the door, moving his weight to his other foot. This draws attention to him, and the little princess looks up with worry. Tears stain the girl’s face, and she turns to Lady Tyrell, who leans back and rests her hand on the child’s cheek. Catching Jaehaera’s concerned gaze, the lady turns to look at him.

Upon her knees on the stone floor, tears down her face and red-rimmed eyes, her hand on the young princess’ cheek tenderly – Lady Tyrell looks up at Cregan with parted lips. He cannot utter a word, even if a sword were to be pressed to his bare throat. 

She does not speak to him, but instead musters up a soft smile for Jaehaera, giving the girl’s cheek a comforting brush of her thumb before she drops her arm to take the girl’s hand into hers gently. “This is my friend, Lord Stark. He is only here to protect us from anything bad happening, so you need not worry.”

Jaehaera does not seem convinced, quite wary for a girl of five after everything she has lost and endured, and she gives Cregan a timidly unsure blink before she squeezes Lady Tyrell’s hand. The princess’s voice is barely above a whisper. “Are you sure?”

“I am sure. I swear it to you.” Lady Tyrell tells the girl with certainty, any doubt vanquished from her voice as she brushes a loose strand of silvery hair from Jaehaera’s face with her free hand. This seems to settle the princess a little, and after a moment of pause, the girl leads Lady Tyrell to her bed in hopes of showing her the book she has been reading. 

Cregan settles himself by the fire, within a plush chair that faces out into the large room. The Queen’s Chambers are an extensive set of rooms – he had hoped that the princess would not feel overly trapped within its walls. But seeing the young girl now, sat beside the lady at the head of the bed, fingers running over the words of her books, it seems too big a space for a child to be kept in alone. 

Lady Tyrell manages to prevent any more tears from spilling down her cheeks and chin as Jaehaera tells her of the books she has been reading while she remains locked within the room. The princess does not ask if she can be freed, which only serves to worry the lady further. The girl has lost so much and suffered so because of the war, and the lady wonders with a sickening start if there is nothing that she can do to help Jaehaera. But as the girl begins to read the book aloud to her, showing how good her Valyrian has grown, Lady Tyrell knows she must do her utmost to keep her promise to Helaena.

Her oath to protect Jaehaera. If it is all she can do, she shall do it. 

The rest of the night is spent reading together, as they had many times before. Jaehaera does her best to teach Lady Tyrell more Valyrian, and the lady in turn tries to repeat the language correctly. It does not bother her when she gets the words wrong, because if her pronunciation is poor enough then the princess’s face lights up with a laugh and the girl smiles as she tells the lady to try again. The hours tick by until Jaehaera begins to yawn, and Lady Tyrell takes a brush from her bedside table to begin combing through the girl’s silver hair gently. 

How familiar a scene it is, how comfortable. The soft candlelight of the Queen’s Chambers, the wooden tables scattered with books, the moon shining brightly outside of one large window. Since Jaehaera’s birth, they have repeated this routine many times. Lady Tyrell has missed it dearly. She has always known she wishes to be a mother, and Helaena had given her three beautiful children to help raise in preparation. Jaehaera is all she has left. 

As the princess’s eyes flutter closed, her hand holding Lady Tyrell’s as if she is afraid the woman will disappear, a soft voice can be heard whispered into the silk pillowcase. “Jaelagon muña.”

I want mama.

Lady Tyrell’s hand trembles slightly beneath Jaehaera’s as the girl drifts off to sleep, her own eyes closing heavily as she tries to fight off any more tears that might wish to drip down to her chin. After she is certain the child is asleep, she rises and turns, eyes widening as she is reminded quite suddenly of Cregan Stark’s presence. The lord had been so quiet and still that she had all but forgotten him.

As she makes her way across the chambers to him, a dry swallow is forced down her throat. It is against her nature to allow others to see her in vulnerability, and the Lord of Winterfell has now seen much more than he should have. She decides not to speak of it, simply folding her hands together. Her eyes drift to the fire as Cregan remains sat within the soft armchair, his gaze upon her face. Finally, with a sigh, she speaks softly. “I do not wish to be demanding, but if I could only see her-.”

“Whenever you wish.” Cregan’s voice is quiet and sturdy as he interrupts her. With a creasing of her brow, she raises her gaze to meet his eyes, searching for some sort of trick or ploy. She is instead met with a look that makes her lips fall open slightly, her expression softening. There is nothing but steady certainty upon his face, bathed in the warm glow of firelight. “I shall bring you by whenever you wish, my lady.”

A gentle gust of wind blows through the open window. 

a/n: i have once again written an incredibly long chapter, my deepest apologies. i know i promised protective cregan but he is on the way! this ended up being much lengthy than i planned and therefore a scene got shifted. 

this chapter and all of my writing is dedicated to the person i would wait with forever, and to everyone experiencing grief. 

october is domestic violence awareness month and i encourage everyone to try and find an event or drive near you, or to simply repost information and resources. the links below offer free educational materials on domestic violence prevention, as well the american national domestic violence hotline:

Free Materials | Domestic Violence Awareness Project (dvawareness.org)

national domestic violence hotline website

almost all localities in the us have a specific organization for helping victims of domestic violence, and it is important to familiarize yourself with it even if you believe you have no need. your vigilance and self-education could one day save you or a loved one.

[novaursa]

The North Remembers Her (the winter has come)

- Summary: He captured you, but you will not allow him to break you.

- Pairing: stark!reader/Ramsay Bolton

- Note: This is the last part of this story.

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (blood, gore, violence, death)

- Previous part: whispers of snow

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

Winterfell’s walls buzzed with ill omen as the icy wind carried the distant rumble of an approaching army. Ramsay stood at the top of the battlements, his pale blue eyes scanning the horizon, his grin sharper than ever. His men moved with precision beneath him, assembling for the battle that loomed closer with each passing moment. Crimson banners bearing the flayed man of House Bolton flapped wildly in the stormy winds, a dread sight upon the gray and white of the Northern landscape.

One of his captains approached, bowing quickly before speaking. “My lord, the scouts report Jon Snow’s army is nearly upon us. They’ll be at the gates by nightfall.”

Ramsay’s grin widened, his eyes brilliant with anticipation. “Good. Let them come,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “We’ll crush them under the walls of Winterfell. And when their bodies are piled high, I’ll send their bastard leader’s head back to the Wall.”

The captain nodded and retreated to relay the orders. Ramsay turned to Reek, who lingered nearby, trembling under the weight of his presence. “Reek,” he said, his tone deceptively light, “make yourself useful. See to the hounds. They’ll have a feast tonight.”

“Yes, my lord,” Reek stammered, scurrying away like a frightened animal.

Ramsay inhaled deeply, as though savoring the scent of blood and battle on the air. His grin faltered only slightly when another soldier approached, hesitating before speaking.

“My lord,” the soldier said, his tone cautious, “the Lady Bolton… she’s gone into labor.”

For a brief moment, Ramsay’s expression froze, the grin slipping into something unreadable. Then, just as quickly, it returned, triumphant than ever. “Well, isn’t that fortuitous?” he said, his voice laced with mock cheer. “Two battles in one day.”

Inside the castle, the sense of foreboding was no less palpable. You were confined to your chambers, clutching the edge of the bed as another wave of pain tore through you. The midwives moved frantically around you, their voices low and urgent as they prepared for the child’s arrival. The room felt stifling despite the chill in the air, the fire in the hearth doing little to warm the cold reality that had settled in your chest.

Your breaths came in short, ragged gasps as you clutched the sheets, the pain almost blinding. “It’s too soon,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “This shouldn’t be happening now.”

The head midwife glanced at you briefly, her face tight with worry. “Babes come when they will, my lady. Focus on breathing. Save your strength.”

The door creaked open, and Ramsay strode in, his presence filling the room like a storm. His eyes swept over the scene, his smile returning as he took in the chaos.

“Ah, wife,” he said, his voice lilting with mock affection. “You couldn’t have picked a better time. While your bastard brother marches to his death, you’re giving me an heir. How wonderful.”

You glared at him through the haze of pain, your voice a low growl. “Get out.”

Ramsay chuckled, stepping closer to the bed. “Oh, but why would I miss this? My child’s birth is a momentous occasion. The future of House Bolton, born amidst the cries of battle.”

“You don’t care about this child,” you snapped, your voice trembling with a mix of pain and fury. “You care about your power.”

Ramsay’s smile faltered briefly, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “And power is all that matters, isn’t it? This child ensures our legacy, wife. It ensures my legacy.”

Another contraction tore through you, and you cried out, clutching the sheets tightly. The midwives murmured words of encouragement, urging you to focus, but Ramsay’s presence made it impossible to find any semblance of calm.

The soldier from before appeared in the doorway, his face pale. “My lord, Snow’s forces are nearing the gates. They’ll be here within the hour.”

Ramsay turned, his smile returning as though the news were a gift. “Excellent. Ready the men. I’ll be down shortly.”

The soldier hesitated, glancing toward you before retreating quickly. Ramsay turned back to you, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

“Do try to hurry this along, wife,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “I’d hate to miss the moment. But duty calls.”

Before you could respond, he turned on his heel and strode out, his boots echoing against the stone floor.

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to breathe through the pain. The midwife leaned closer, her voice steady despite the tension in the room. “My lady, you must focus. The babe is coming.”

Tears pricked at your eyes as another wave of pain surged through you. The sounds of preparation outside the walls echoed faintly in the distance—Ramsay’s army readying for war, Jon’s forces drawing closer.

But here, in this room, another battle was being fought.

And you prayed silently to the Old Gods for strength, for survival, for the child you were about to bring into a world of blood and fire.

The winds howled across the snow-covered plains before Winterfell, whipping the banners of House Bolton against the sky. Ramsay rode at the head of his force, his eyes alight with amusement as he surveyed the opposing army. The Stark banners—proud direwolves on fields of white—stood in stark contrast to the flayed man of the Boltons. The sight of them seemed to amuse Ramsay even more.

Jon Snow sat astride a black horse at the front of his army, his expression grim and determined. To his right rode Davos Seaworth, his gaze scanning the Bolton forces, while Tormund Giantsbane sat to Jon’s left, his wild red hair and beard bristling against the wind. Behind them, the men of the North and the Free Folk stood united, their presence a defiant challenge to Ramsay’s rule.

Ramsay grinned widely as he reined his horse to a stop just a few paces from Jon. His men halted behind him, a wall of crimson and steel. The air between the two armies crackled with animosity, the silence broken only by the whinnying of horses and the rustling of banners.

Jon’s voice cut through the cold air like a blade. “Ramsay Bolton,” he called, his tone steady but filled with restrained fury. “I’m here to give you a chance to save your men. Surrender Winterfell. Release my sister. And retreat to the Dreadfort.”

Ramsay’s grin widened, his pale eyes gleaming with amusement. “Your sister?” he said, his tone mockingly light. “You mean my wife. My lady. She belongs to me now, Snow.”

Tormund growled, his hand gripping the hilt of his axe. Davos placed a steadying hand on Jon’s arm, though his own expression was hard as stone.

Jon’s voice rose, cutting through Ramsay’s taunts. “Surrender now, and I’ll let you leave with your life. Refuse, and I’ll take Winterfell from you. I’ll rip your banners from its walls and burn them in the Godswood.”

Ramsay threw his head back and laughed, the sound sharp and grating against the tense silence. “Oh, you are amusing, Snow. Truly. Do you think you’re in a position to make demands? Look at you.” He gestured to the army behind Jon, his grin twisting into something cruel. “A ragged band of Wildlings, deserters, and broken men. Do you really think they can stand against me?”

Tormund’s horse stepped forward, the wildling’s voice a deep growl. “You’ll find out soon enough, bastard.”

Ramsay’s grin faltered briefly, his eyes narrowing. “Careful, savage,” he said, his tone cold. “I don’t take kindly to threats.”

Davos spoke then, his voice calm but firm. “This doesn’t have to end in bloodshed, Lord Bolton. You could save your men, save yourself, by walking away.”

Ramsay tilted his head, his grin returning. “Save myself? I don’t need saving, Onion Knight. I am the Warden of the North. Winterfell is mine. And no bastard, no savage, and no smuggler will take it from me.”

Jon’s voice was steady, but the fury in his eyes was unmistakable. “This is your last chance. Surrender, or face the consequences.”

Ramsay leaned forward in his saddle, his grin widening further. “Consequences? Oh, Snow, I think you’ll find I enjoy consequences. Tell me, have you ever seen what a pack of hounds can do to a man? Or perhaps I’ll show you what they can do to a sister.”

Jon’s hands clenched around the reins, his knuckles white. The hatred between the two men was a tangible thing, thickening the air until it seemed ready to snap.

But then Ramsay leaned back, his grin softening into something almost playful. “You’ll die here, Snow,” he said lightly. “You and your little army. And when it’s over, I’ll hang your body from the walls of Winterfell for the crows to feast on.”

Jon didn’t flinch, his voice cutting through Ramsay’s mockery like ice. “Then we fight.”

Ramsay’s grin widened, his eyes gleaming with malice. “Yes, we do.”

With that, he turned his horse sharply, his men following suit as they rode back toward the gates of Winterfell. The sound of their retreating hoofbeats echoed across the field, leaving Jon and his army in tense silence.

Tormund spat into the snow. “Cocky little bastard.”

Davos shook his head, his voice grim. “He’s dangerous. Too dangerous for games. We need to be ready.”

Jon turned his horse back to his men, his face set in grim determination. “He’ll pay for what he’s done. For everything.”

And as the Stark banners fluttered in the icy wind, the two armies prepared for the storm of battle that was about to descend upon Winterfell.

The clash of steel and the screams of men echoed across the snow-covered plains before Winterfell, mingling with the howling wind. Ramsay’s banners of flayed men flew high above the battlefield. Below, chaos reigned.

Jon Snow led his forces into the fray, Longclaw shone as he cut through the lines of Bolton soldiers. Beside him, Tormund roared like a wild beast, his axe carving paths of destruction. Davos Seaworth commanded the left flank, his calm and strategic orders keeping the line intact against the relentless onslaught.

Ramsay sat atop his horse at the rear of the battlefield, his pale blue eyes gleaming with excitement as he watched the carnage. “Beautiful,” he murmured to himself, his smirk cutting as a blade. “Simply beautiful.”

Inside the walls of Winterfell, the battle was far from your mind. Your screams filled the chambers as another wave of pain tore through you, the midwives bustling around in controlled chaos. Sweat beaded on your forehead despite the chill in the air, and your hands gripped the sheets with white-knuckled intensity.

“Breathe, my lady,” one of the midwives urged, her voice steady despite the chaos. “The babe is coming.”

“I am breathing!” you snapped, though your voice wavered with the strain.

Another contraction gripped you, and you cried out, the pain overwhelming. Outside, the distant sounds of battle seeped through the stone walls, a grim reminder of the war raging just beyond the castle gates.

Reek hovered near the door, his hunched figure trembling as he watched. His eyes darted nervously between you and the midwives, his fear visible.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you hissed through clenched teeth, glaring at him.

“I-I’m supposed to stay,” he stammered, his voice barely audible. “My lord’s orders…”

“To hell with his orders!” you snapped, another scream tearing from your throat.

On the battlefield, Ramsay’s forces began to falter under the relentless assault. Jon Snow’s men pushed forward with somber resolve, their cries of vengeance ringing out as they fought to reclaim Winterfell.

Jon himself was a blur of movement, his sword cutting through Bolton soldiers with precision. His focus was unyielding, his mind filled with the faces of his siblings, the memories of what had been stolen from them.

Across the field, Ramsay watched with growing irritation as his lines began to break. He dismounted his horse, his smirk replaced with a cold fury. “Hold the line!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos. “Hold it, or I’ll flay every last one of you!”

But even his threats couldn’t stop the tide.

Inside Winterfell, the midwives worked frantically, their hands steady despite the urgency of the moment.

“The head is crowning, my lady,” one of them said, her voice firm but encouraging. “You must push.”

Your breath came in ragged gasps, the pain blinding as you gripped the sheets tighter. “I… I can’t,” you gasped, your voice trembling with exhaustion.

“You can,” the midwife insisted, her eyes meeting yours with determination. “One more push, my lady. For the child.”

With a scream that felt like it would tear you apart, you bore down with all the strength you had left. The sound of a baby’s cry filled the room, strong and piercing, cutting through the air like a storm.

The midwives moved quickly, wrapping the newborn in a soft blanket and placing the child in your trembling arms. Tears streamed down your face as you looked down at the tiny figure, its cries subsiding into soft whimpers.

“It’s a boy,” the midwife said softly, her voice filled with quiet awe.

For a brief moment, the world outside faded away, and all that mattered was the child in your arms.

On the battlefield, the tide turned completely. The sound of hooves thundered across the plains as the knights of the Vale appeared on the horizon, their banners snapping in the wind.

Riding at their head was Petyr Baelish, his gaze fixed on the chaos below. Beside him, Sansa Stark sat tall and proud, her expression cold and determined as she watched the Bolton forces falter.

The knights charged into the fray, their lances gleaming as they crashed into Ramsay’s men with devastating force. The Bolton lines broke completely, their soldiers scattering in every direction as the battle turned to rout.

Ramsay stood amidst the chaos, his pale eyes wide with fury and disbelief. “No,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous. “This isn’t how it ends.”

But as Jon Snow approached, his sword raised and his face calm, Ramsay knew the end was near.

Inside Winterfell, the midwives cleaned the room quietly as you held your son close, his tiny hand grasping at your finger. The sounds of battle had faded, replaced by the muffled cheers of victory from outside.

Reek remained by the door, his trembling figure a reminder of the world you were still trapped in. But as you looked down at your child, a spark of hope flickered in your chest.

The wolf was still alive. And so was the fight.

The courtyard of Winterfell was eerily silent, the snow thick beneath their boots. The air was heavy, carrying the metallic tang of blood from the battle that had raged just hours before.

Jon Snow stood tall, his chest heaving, Longclaw gleaming in his gloved hand. Across from him, Ramsay Bolton lingered, his eyes alight with something dark and dangerous. The smirk on Ramsay’s face belied the truth of his situation; his men, those who hadn’t fled or been slaughtered, cowered at the edges of the courtyard, leaving him exposed.

The snow crunched beneath Ramsay’s boots as he stepped forward, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. “You’re persistent,” he said, his voice carrying a mockery that only served to ignite the tension further. “I’ll give you that.”

Jon’s grip on Longclaw tightened, his knuckles white. “Surrender, Ramsay,” he growled, his voice low but steady. “This is over.”

Ramsay tilted his head, his smirk widening. “Over? Oh, no, Snow. This is just beginning. You see, Winterfell is mine now. It doesn’t matter how many Wildlings, traitors, or Starks you bring.” His voice turned icy, venomous. “The North is mine.”

Jon’s eyes burned with fury, but he held his ground. “You’re wrong. The North belongs to the Starks. It always has, and it always will.”

Ramsay laughed, a low, grating sound that echoed off the walls. “The Starks?” he sneered. “A dead house. A memory. The North follows power, and I’ve shown them power. Fear is stronger than loyalty, Jon Snow.”

Jon took a step forward, his voice rising. “You think fear will protect you? You think it will save you from this?” He gestured around them, to the fallen men and shattered banners. “The North remembers, Ramsay. And today, they’ll see justice.”

Ramsay’s grin faltered, his eyes narrowing. “Justice?” he repeated, his voice laced with mockery. “Is that what you think this is?”

He raised his arms, gesturing to the empty courtyard. “Go on, Jon. Fight me. Kill me. Prove to the North that you’re just like me. That you solve problems with blood and steel. Show them that you’re no better than the bastard you despise.”

Jon’s grip on Longclaw tightened further, his rage barely contained. “This isn’t about me,” he said firmly. “It’s about everyone you’ve hurt. Everyone you’ve killed.”

Ramsay’s grin returned, sharper than before. “Oh, you’re so noble, aren’t you? So self-righteous. But tell me, Jon… how many men have you killed to get here? How many lives did you throw away to claim your precious Winterfell?”

Jon took another step forward, the fury in his eyes matched only by the resolve in his stance. “You talk about fear and power, Ramsay. But look around you. Your men abandoned you. Your banners are torn. You’re alone.”

Ramsay’s smirk flickered, a shadow of doubt crossing his face before it was replaced by defiance. “I don’t need anyone else,” he hissed, his voice dropping to a venomous whisper. “Because I’ll always have Winterfell. And I’ll always have her.”

Jon’s expression darkened, the mention of his sister igniting a fire within him. He raised Longclaw, pointing the blade directly at Ramsay. “You won’t touch her again. You won’t hurt anyone again.”

For a moment, the two men stood frozen, the snow falling softly around them. Then Ramsay lunged, his dagger flashing in the light as he closed the distance.

But Jon was ready.

With a swift, practiced motion, Longclaw met Ramsay’s dagger, the clash of steel ringing out across the courtyard. The force of the blow drove Ramsay back a step, but his grin remained, his movements quick and erratic as he slashed again.

Jon blocked the strike easily, his sword swinging in a wide arc that forced Ramsay to retreat. The smirk on Ramsay’s face began to falter as Jon pressed forward, his strikes deliberate and unrelenting.

“You’re nothing without your men,” Jon growled, his voice carrying over the clash of steel. “Without your tricks. Without your hounds.”

Ramsay’s breath came faster, his movements growing desperate as he tried to fend off Jon’s relentless assault. “And you’re nothing but a bastard,” he spat, his voice trembling with fury.

Jon’s blade caught Ramsay’s dagger, wrenching it from his grasp and sending it clattering to the ground. Before Ramsay could react, Jon’s fist collided with his jaw, sending him sprawling into the snow.

Ramsay scrambled to his knees, his eyes wide with shock as Jon loomed over him, Longclaw poised for the killing blow.

The courtyard was silent, every eye fixed on the two men. Ramsay’s smirk was gone, replaced by the realization of his own defeat.

“Do it,” Ramsay hissed, his voice low and venomous. “Kill me. Show them who you really are.”

Jon hesitated, his grip on Longclaw tightening as he stared down at the man who had taken so much from him. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps, his fury warring with his sense of justice.

Then he lowered the blade, his voice steady. “You don’t deserve a quick death.”

Turning away, he signaled to the men waiting nearby. “Take him,” he commanded, his voice firm. “Put him in the kennels.”

As the soldiers dragged Ramsay away, his laughter echoed across the courtyard, chilling and hollow. “You’ll regret this, Snow,” he called out. “You’ll regret not killing me when you had the chance!”

But Jon didn’t look back.

The halls of Winterfell were quiet now, save for the faint echoes of boots on stone. The stench of battle still lingered in the air, a reminder of the lives lost to reclaim the ancestral seat of House Stark. Jon Snow led the way, his steps deliberate as he moved through the familiar corridors with Sansa close behind him. Their men followed silently, their faces marked with the weariness of war but also the faintest glimmer of triumph.

Jon’s sword hung at his side, his grip tight on the hilt as they approached the solar where the midwives had said she was. His heart pounded with anxiety and unease, the weight of what he might find pressing heavily on his chest. He glanced at Sansa, whose expression was a mixture of worry and determination, her fiery hair stark against the low light of the castle.

As they entered the room, the sight before them made Jon’s breath catch in his throat. There she was—his sister, seated in a large wooden chair near the hearth, a bundle wrapped tightly in her arms. The midwives bustled quietly around her, their hands careful as they cleaned and tidied the room. Despite her exhaustion, there was a fierce protectiveness in the way she held the babe, her head tilted down to shield it.

And then there was Reek.

He lingered near the corner, his hunched figure trembling, his wide eyes darting to Jon and then back to the floor. His clothes hung off his thin frame, and the remnants of the man Jon once knew were buried deep beneath layers of shame and fear. Recognition flickered in Jon’s eyes as he took a sharp breath.

“Theon,” Jon said, his voice low and filled with disbelief.

Reek—no, Theon—flinched at the name, shuffling further into the corner like a beaten dog. His hands twisted nervously in front of him, and he refused to meet Jon’s gaze. “I… I didn’t… I tried to…” His words were disjointed, barely audible.

Jon took a step toward him, his expression hardening, but Sansa placed a hand on his arm. “Jon,” she said softly, her voice steady. “Not now.”

He hesitated, his fists clenching at his sides, before his gaze shifted back to the figure seated by the hearth. The weight of the moment crashed over him, and his anger toward Theon faded into the background as he took a step closer to his sister.

“Y/N,” Jon said, his voice softer now, filled with a mixture of relief and concern.

You looked up slowly, exhaustion etched into every line of your face. But when your eyes met Jon’s, something shifted. The weight you had carried for so long seemed to lift, if only slightly, at the sight of him standing there, alive, whole, and so very much like your father.

“Jon,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

He crossed the room quickly, dropping to one knee beside you. His eyes flickered to the bundle in your arms, and his breath hitched when he realized what it was—a child. “You’re alive,” he said softly, his hand hovering near yours but not quite touching. “You’re… safe.”

Sansa moved closer, her expression a mixture of shock and heartbreak as she took in the sight of you. “Oh, Y/N,” she said, her voice breaking. “What have they done to you?”

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you forced them back, shaking your head slightly. “I survived,” you said quietly. “That’s all that matters.”

Jon’s gaze shifted to the babe in your arms, his brow furrowing. “Is it… his?” he asked hesitantly, his voice laced with anger he couldn’t quite contain.

Your grip on the child tightened, your voice firm despite the quaver in it. “He’s mine,” you said, meeting Jon’s gaze with a fierce protectiveness. “Whatever blood runs through his veins, he’s mine.”

Sansa knelt beside Jon, her hand gently resting on your arm. “We’ll protect you,” she said softly, her voice filled with quiet determination. “We’ll protect both of you.”

Jon nodded, his jaw tightening as he looked back at you. “He won’t hurt you again,” he said firmly. “Ramsay is finished.”

You let out a shaky breath, the weight of their words settling over you like a balm. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, you allowed yourself to believe it might be true.

Reek—Theon—shifted nervously in the corner, drawing Jon’s attention again. His face hardened as he stood, but Sansa’s hand on his arm stopped him once more.

“He helped her,” Sansa said quietly. “In his own way. Let it be.”

Jon hesitated, his eyes burning into Theon’s crumpled figure. Finally, he nodded curtly, turning back to you. “We’ll figure this out,” he said softly. “Together. As a family.”

You nodded, tears slipping down your cheeks as you looked at them—your family, your blood. For the first time in so long, hope flickered in your heart.

Winterfell was home again. And the wolf, though battered and scarred, was still standing.

The cold air bit at your skin as you descended into the dim stone corridors beneath Winterfell, the faint smell of damp earth and animal musk thickening as you approached the kennels. The torches flickered weakly in their sconces. Your footsteps echoed, the sound bouncing off the confined space, but you walked steadily, cradling the strength you had left after a week of painful recovery.

The midwives had protested your decision to leave your chambers, but you silenced them with a single look. This was something you needed to do yourself. Jon had offered to handle it, his rage barely contained whenever Ramsay’s name was mentioned, but this was not his task. Ramsay was your demon to confront.

Reek—or Theon, as Jon and Sansa had begun calling him—followed a few steps behind, his figure hunched as always. He hadn’t spoken much since the battle, but his presence was strangely reassuring. He understood what Ramsay had done, perhaps better than anyone else.

When you reached the iron door of the kennels, two of Jon’s men stood guard. They stiffened at your approach, their eyes flickering with concern. One of them stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

“My lady,” he began cautiously, “are you sure—”

“I’m sure,” you interrupted, your voice firm. “Open the door.”

The guard hesitated but obeyed, the heavy iron door creaking open to reveal the dark, narrow corridor beyond. The sound of snarling and pacing echoed faintly, and the air grew colder as you stepped inside.

At the end of the row of cages sat Ramsay Bolton, shackled and filthy, his once-pristine leather jerkin torn and stained. He was slumped against the stone wall, his pale blue eyes lifting to meet yours as you approached. The grin that curled across his lips was both familiar and chilling.

“Ah, my wife,” he drawled, his voice hoarse but mocking. “Come to visit your lord husband in his moment of need? How touching.”

You stopped just out of reach, your eyes narrowing as you studied him. His face was gaunt, his lips cracked, but the fire in his gaze had not dimmed.

“I’m not your wife,” you said coldly. “Not anymore.”

Ramsay’s grin widened, though it was brittle now, his pale eyes gleaming with something dark. “Oh, but you are. You’ll always be mine, little wolf. No matter what your brother or his Wildling friends think.”

You clenched your fists, your nails biting into your palms. “You’re wrong. You’ve lost everything, Ramsay. Winterfell, the North, your men—everything. And now you’ll answer for what you’ve done.”

His laugh was low and grating, echoing in the confined space. “Answer? To you? What are you going to do, wife? Lecture me? Scold me? You don’t have the stomach for what needs to be done.”

You stepped closer, your voice steady despite the fury burning within you. “I have more stomach for it than you think. And unlike you, I don’t need to hide behind fear or cruelty to make my point.”

Ramsay’s grin faltered, his pale eyes narrowing as he studied you. “You think you’ve won,” he said softly, his voice dripping with venom. “But you’ll never be rid of me. You’ll see me in that child of yours. Every time you look at him, you’ll remember me. And you’ll never forget.”

Your breath caught for a moment, his words hitting their mark. But then you straightened, your voice firm. “You’re wrong again, Ramsay. He’s not yours. He never was. He’s mine.”

His laughter was sharper this time, almost manic. “Oh, little wolf, you’re deluding yourself. But go on. Decide my fate. Show me how merciful the Starks really are.”

You turned to the guard, who had followed you inside and stood silently behind you. “Bring the hounds,” you said quietly.

The guard hesitated, his eyes widening slightly. “My lady—”

“Do it,” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. “Now.”

The man nodded and disappeared, the heavy door creaking shut behind him. Ramsay’s grin returned, though there was a flicker of uncertainty in his gaze now.

“My hounds won’t hurt me,” he said confidently. “They’re loyal. More loyal than any man.”

You didn’t respond, your eyes fixed on him as the minutes stretched on. When the door opened again, the guards led the hounds into the kennel, their low growls filling the air. The beasts were lean and hungry, their eyes gleaming as they caught Ramsay’s scent.

His confidence wavered, his grin faltering as he shifted against the wall. “They won’t hurt me,” he repeated, his voice less certain now. “They know me.”

You stepped back, your voice cold. “They’re starving, Ramsay. You made sure of that.”

For the first time, you saw fear flicker in his eyes. He turned to the hounds, his voice rising. “Down! Sit! Obey me!”

But the animals didn’t listen. They crept closer, their growls deepening as they bared their teeth.

“Stop!” Ramsay shouted, his voice breaking. “No! Stop!”

You stood still, your chest heaving as the hounds lunged. The sounds of snarling and screaming filled the air, and you turned away, your hands trembling as you walked back toward the door.

The guards closed it behind you, muffling the chaos inside. You leaned against the cold stone wall, your breath shaky but steadying. It was over.

Ramsay Bolton was no more. Winterfell was yours again.

And the wolf had finally found justice.

[gracie-eilish]

you can see it with the lights out..🌊✨

an: not officially inspired by taylor’s song. this was just another idea i had already started

The evening air was cool and salty, the kind that makes you want to breathe in deeply just to feel alive. The beach stretched endlessly before you, the waves whispering their ancient secrets as they danced up the shore. But tonight, the beach wasn’t just a beach—it was magic. With every step you took, the sand beneath you glowed blue, lighting up like the universe had spilled its stars onto the shore.

Billie had brought you here tonight, surprising you with the bioluminescent beach because she knew your love for the ocean and your dream of seeing the northern lights. “It’s not the northern lights,” she’d said when you first arrived, “but I thought maybe this could be just as special.”

And it was. God, it was.

You couldn’t stop giggling as you ran along the water’s edge, kicking at the waves and watching them spark into brilliant streaks of blue. Billie stood a few feet back, her arms crossed, a small smile playing on her lips as she watched you. Every now and then, she’d pull out her phone to snap a photo or video, but most of the time, her gaze stayed on you.

“You look like a little kid,” she teased when you twirled around, letting the glowing water lap at your ankles.

“Can you blame me?” You laughed, reaching out for her hand. “Come on, Billie! Look how cool this is!”

She let you pull her into the shallows, laughing when you splashed at her feet. “Okay, okay! I get it! It’s magical!”

“It is magical,” You said, staring down at your feet. The way the water and sand glowed around you made it feel like you were standing in the middle of a dream.

After a while, Billie pulled you back onto the dry sand, wrapping an arm around your waist as you walked to a quieter part of the beach. “Let’s sit for a bit,” she said softly, guiding you down onto the sand.

You settled close together, her arms wrapping around you as you leaned into her chest. The ocean stretched out before you, glittering with faint blue light every time the waves crashed. The sound of the water, the cool breeze, the warmth of Billie’s embrace—it was all so perfect you felt like your heart could burst.

“This is the best date ever,” You murmured, tilting your head to look up at her.

Billie smiled down at you, her eyes soft and full of love. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

For a while, you just sat there, holding each other and whispering sweet nothings. Billie made you giggle with cheesy lines about how you were the light of her life, and you teased her back, calling her a sap. But beneath the teasing, there was a warmth and sincerity that made your chest ache.

Eventually, Billie’s arms tightened around you, and her breathing grew a little uneven. You glanced up, curious, and saw her biting her lip, her brows furrowed in thought.

“Hey, you okay?” You asked, brushing your fingers against her cheek.

She nodded, but her gaze stayed fixed on the ocean. “I’m just… thinking.”

“About what?”

She hesitated, her fingers fidgeting with the hem of her hoodie. “About… us. About how much I love you. About how perfect this is.”

Your heart fluttered, and you reached up to cup her face, “Billie…”

Billie held you close as she watched the mesmerizing ocean. Everything felt perfect—better than perfect. And then she said it.

“Marry me.”

You froze. Your heart stopped. For a second, you thought you had misheard her. “What?” You asked, blinking up at her in surprise.

“Marry me,” she repeated, her voice softer this time but no less intense.

You stared at her, my brows furrowing as you tried to figure out if she was serious. “Are you joking right now?”

Billie let out a nervous laugh, her hand coming up to scratch the back of her neck. “I know it sounds crazy,” she admitted, “and I don’t have the ring on me or anything. But—”

“You have a ring?” You interrupted, your voice hitching as you turned around to completely face her.

Her cheeks turned pink, and she nodded, her lips curving into a small, sheepish smile. “Yeah… I have a ring. It’s back at home. I wasn’t planning on doing this tonight, but—”

“You actually have a ring?” You interrupted again in shock, your voice barely above a whisper.

Billie’s eyes softened before she responded, “Yeah baby… Of course I have a ring.” She hesitated, her eyes searching yours before she continued. “It’s a pink diamond, just like you always said you wanted. It’s surrounded by little sparkly diamonds, too. I’ve had it for a while now, just waiting for the right moment.”

Tears welled up in your eyes as you processed her words, “Of course I have a ring”. You could die right there. She wasn’t joking. She’d thought about this, planned it, and she’d gotten you the exact ring you’d always dreamed of. Your hands flew to cover my mouth as the emotions hit you hard and soft (an: see what i did there🤪)

“Are you serious?” You asked, your voice trembling as you moved closer to her, straddling her hips.

She nodded, her expression softening as she cupped your face in her hands. “I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life. I love you, and I can’t imagine not spending the rest of my life with you. So, will you marry me?”

The tears spilled over as you threw your arms around her, burying your face in her neck. “Yes,” you whispered. Then louder, “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!”

Billie laughed, holding you tightly as you both cried and laughed together. She pulled back just enough to kiss you—soft and slow at first, then again and again, as if she couldn’t get enough.

But as you started to settle back into your embrace, your own breath caught as you realized something. A new wave of nerves and excitement rushed through you as you thought about what you wanted to do next.

“What’s going on?” Billie asked, tilting her head as she studied your face.

You bit your lip, suddenly shy. “Hang on,” you said, reaching for your phone. After a few swipes, you pulled up a Pinterest board you made months ago. “Here,” You said, turning the screen toward her.

She leaned in, confused at first. But as she scrolled through the board, her expression changed. Pictures of sunsets, candles, beaches, and other romantic setups filled the screen. Then, at the bottom, a folder titled ‘her proposal’.

Her face softened, her lips parting as her eyes grew glossy. “You… you were planning to propose to me?” she asked, her voice barely audible.

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I don’t have a ring yet, but I wanted it to be perfect. I’ve been thinking about it for so long, Billie. I just…” You paused, looking into her watery blue eyes. “I just wanted you to feel as loved and special as you make me feel every single day.”

Her breath hitched, and before you could say anything else, she pulled you into a fierce hug. “I can’t believe you,” she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. “I can’t believe how lucky I am to have you.”

You pulled back just slightly, looking into her eyes. “So… I know I don’t have a ring yet, but I don’t want to wait anymore either.”

Billie raised an eyebrow, a gorgeous smile tugging at her lips. “Oh, yeah? You gonna do it right now?”

You giggled and nodded, taking her hands in yours and looking her straight in the eyes. “Billie Eilish Pirate Baird O’Connell,” you said dramatically, “will you marry me?”

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she nodded, her lips trembling with a smile. “Yes,” she whispered. “God, yes.”

You both laughed through your tears, kissing each other like you were the only two people in the world. The waves glowed blue behind you, the stars shining above, and nothing else mattered except for each other and the promises you had just made.

You stayed there on the beach, wrapped up in each other, laughing and kissing and dreaming about the future. It didn’t matter that you didn’t have rings or that it wasn’t some elaborate plan. All that mattered was each other—two people so in love that we couldn’t wait another second to promise each other forever.

✨🌊🫧🩵🥂💍

an: if you could tell by my unintentional location theme, i’m a raging water sign and loathe not living by the beach. anywhosiessss. hope you enjoyed!!💋🩷

[something-wild-calls]

Getting another part out before Christmas, woo! :D

Previous

FIRST

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Cody trotted alongside Jordan, who had a rather chunky brilliant red and orange feathered staffwyrm clinging to him. He met its flame-colored eyes, but couldn't guess what it might be thinking.

They passed through clusters of buildings that nestled in patches of greenery and perched atop small hills. Today was the fifth day since his encounter with Jamie in the woods. He'd completely healed, and not for the first time he found himself enamored by the possibilities that came with magical healing.

It was a pleasant town, with folks they met along the way waving good-naturedly. Most had curious glints in their eyes at the sight of the stranger among them, but none held any hostility.

He had to wonder... how long would that last?

He gently wrapped his arm under the tattered bag draped over his shoulder, feeling comforted by the lump that weighed it down. To take his mind off his worries, he asked, “No Jamie today?”

“She might be around somewhere.” The chief shrugged. “She hangs out at the edge of the valley most of the time. Or with the griffins.”

“Griffins?” Cody glanced at the sky, as if the mention of them would summon some of the large winged beasts. He caught sight of some in the distance, but he couldn't make out any details on them. “Are there a lot around here?”

Jordan nodded. “There's a huge colony living in the northern cliffs of the valley. There's something of a long-held agreement between our town and them—We work together to keep the territory safe.”

The blond boy smiled. “Huh. Neat!” At the same time, a chill ran through him as well. He considered asking on a further thought, but decided it would be better to hold off. The need to ask may not even arise, but if it did, it might be better to be in the Chief's good graces than a stranger among his people.

As they continued along in discussion, the houses and buildings began to thin out, with the paths being edged in more and more wild growth.

Soon the path they walked was alone in the wilderness aside from lampposts to light the way come night. A smaller path split right from the larger main road that led out of town, and Jordan took Cody down this way. The trees and plant life filled the boy with a sense of calm. Birdsong filled the air, and the quacking of ducks sounded, rising in volume as they walked.

~ ~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~ ~

Cody stood in the entry way as the door clicked behind him, uncertain where to go from here.

His host, Frenzy, hung his hat on a coat rack nearby and gave Cody a nod. Without saying anything or changing his expression, he strode into the heart of the house. The blond boy noticed his gait was uneven, and the man now gripped a tall cane in his hand that clacked softly on the floor as it matched its owner's footsteps.

The place was cozy, dotted with dressers, bookshelves, and small trinkets. In the living room, a couple of comfortably padded chairs sat invitingly, a coffee table shared between them. Against a wall was a couch with small tables on each end.

Cody turned to Frenzy. "Do you, uh... does someone else here?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Just me." He beckoned. "I'll show you to your room."

With his bag strap in hands tight and slicked with sweat, he followed the man.

"Here y' are."

Frenzy flicked on the light, and Cody scanned the room. It wasn't terribly big, but it still seemed like a nice place to call his own, at least for the time being. As he stepped in, he let out the breath he'd been holding. "It's nice here, Frenzy."

"I like to be open to company. If needed."

Cody looked toward the older man, who stood in the doorway of his new resting place. His hands wringed the bag's strap anxiously. "You, ah, d-don't seem like the type to like company."

For a moment, Frenzy was silent, and his expression shifted, though Cody still couldn't read it. Then, he shrugged. "No. Not really. But I don't hate it."

The boy hesitated, still unsure about his new situation. "Uh, do you mind if I take a moment to get settled?"

Frenzy nodded again, backing away from the door. "Go right ahead." He paused a moment, and Cody caught a flicker of something in his gaze. "My home is your home now... 'Cept my room. Andy my workshop. Stay outta those. Please."

Cody nodded. "Yes, Sir."

Frenzy gently shut the door. Cody listened as the sound of his steps and the tapping of his cane faded away, and once he was alone, he approached the neatly made bed and sat on it with a sigh. A clock ticked on the wall in the silence, and the boy looked around.

A window caught his attention. He set his bag gently on the bed and walked over to it, fiddling with the latch. He was happy to find it slid open smoothly, and no screen barred it. Leaving it open a considerable amount, he returned to the bed. Before sitting, he leaned over to see what kind of space was underneath it.

Plenty.

Good.

Finally he sat back on the bed next to his bag, and, carefully, he unzipped it. The pink head of Pari peeked out at him, the russet mark across her face beaming a false grin while her pale purple eyes shone anxiously.

Still, they exchanged a smile as Cody gently cupped her head in his hand. He leaned in close to her, glancing at the door.

In a whisper, he said, "Guess we're gonna have to be careful again, Pari." He sighed. "Just until I can find a good time and way to tell him about you..."

And what for?

The mental voice growled, low and hopeless.

Just to be back on the road, traveling endlessly to each town that will let you in only long enough to gather your senses.

Cody laid back onto the bed, his legs hanging where he'd sat them.

He tried to tell off the voice of doubt, but it persisted.

We should just thank Frenzy and Jordan for their willingness to help and move on. There's no point in staying.

Pari hopped onto the boy's chest, gazing down at him with concern.

He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a crouch on top of him, and she nuzzled his chin. A purr rattled in her throat.

At that, Cody couldn't help smiling.

How many people were bold enough to learn that imps could purr?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Introducing a new cast member, ~Frenzy~

Previous

FIRST

[inevitably-johnlocked]

Hiii. It's oddly specific but are there any Johnlock fics out there based on the movie Bodyguard? I feel that there is a potential in there. Thank youu!

Hi Nonny!

Okay, don't hate me but I have NEVER seen The Bodyguard so I don't know the plot aside from the fact that it probably contains a body guard, LOL.

Reading the Wiki about the plot of it, I don't know of any fics PERSONALLY that are similar to it, but you ARE right, it's RIPE for an AU for SURE. I'd love one too, if anyone knows of any!!!

THAT said, in the mean time, doing a tag search of my lists, here are the fics that came up that might be good to scratch that itch with a body / security guard AU:

====

Sanctuary by a_different_equation (E, 15,437 w., 7 Ch. || Medieval AU / Canterbury Tales Fusion || Blacksmith Sherlock, Guard John, Secret Relationship, Dom Sherlock, Sub John, Porn With Plot, Rimming, Blow Jobs, Anal, BAMF Female Characters) – England, 1230: John Watson is an ex-soldier who works as the head of the guards in his hometown. Sherlock Holmes, the local blacksmith, is his secret.

Real Time by Callie4180 (T, 74,935 w., 25 Ch. || 24 Fusion || Creepy Moriarty, Violence, BAMF Mrs Hudson, Suggestions of Torture, Biochemist Sherlock, Bodyguard John) – The world is under the threat of a biological weapon, and a brilliant biochemist needs protection. His own life is a mess, and he doesn't know who he can trust. He's going to have to be at his best every moment if he's going to survive. This is going to be the longest day of John Watson's life.

Northern Light Series by Minxchester (E, 93,412+ w. across 3 works || Series WiP || Security Guard AU || Security Guard John, Rape / Non-Con, Blackmail, Forced Marriage, Captivity, Assorted Pairings, Suicide Attempt, Depression, Non-Con Touching, Eventual Happy Ending) – Recently returned from the war and struggling to adjust back to civilian life, John Watson is given an unexpected opportunity when he's hired as a security guard by Charles Magnussen on the recommendation of his former comrade, Sergeant Murray. Before long, he finds himself assigned the unusual task of serving as personal bodyguard to Magnussen's reclusive husband. But not everything is as it seems in this household--and John gets a lot more than he bargained for looking after Sherlock Holmes.

=====

If you guys have anything more to Nonny's request, PLEASE let us know!! Or even if you have a guard AU to suggest for us too!!

[entitled-fangirl]

Finally! A teaser!

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

"You're a meek thing, aren't you?" Cregan asked as the two walked the courtyard of Winterfell.

In less than 24 hours, they'd be wed. Bonded for life.

She only nodded.

She only ever really nodded or shook her head. 

He hummed as they continued walking. 

Her father had told Cregan of this days before, as if it was a defect that could put a halt to their betrothal plans. Cregan made sure to assure her father that it was not.

After all, she could speak. She just chose not to.

"Winterfell is beautiful in the winter," he began to ramble. "When the snow falls, it covers all of this in its brilliant white. Do you enjoy the snow?"

She considered his question and gave a small nod.

He grinned, "That's my northern girl. Luckily, Winterfell is warm." He noticed the light shiver in her frame. "Perhaps we should go back indoors. Don't want my future bride to freeze before I can place my house cloak upon her shoulders."

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

[johnslittlespoon]

Gale finds John sitting on the steps of the back porch, elbows resting on his knees, head lifted to the sky, ever reminiscent of ���45 when looking north was the only reprieve from chain link and barbed wire.

He shuts the cabin door quietly behind him before he follows John’s gaze, and then he sucks in a sharp breath, hand frozen on the porch railing.

The night sky is alive, rippling in brilliant luminescence, slow waves like sun rays filtering through cracked glass across the vast open space.

“Wow,” Gale whispers, lowering his hand to his side.

John’s eyes glimmer when he turns to look at him, refractions of emerald and indigo and magenta dancing across his irises. It feels like another lifetime that Gale watched similar hues paint his face while they huddled behind brick walls and peeked out at the bombs as they coloured the land– he can hardly reconcile the boys they were three years prior with the men they are now.

“I was gonna come wake you,” John murmurs as he turns his attention back to the light show, scratching at the collar of his shirt. “Just hard to look away, y’know?”

Gale does know, gaze jumping between neon shards and dark, sleep–mussed curls, unsure which he’s more keen to settle his eyes upon. He moves forward instead of deciding, sitting down on the step next to John, inhaling the familiar smokey scent carrying on the breeze from the cigarette that dangles from John’s right hand.

“You ever seen ‘em before?” Gale asks as he stares up at the vibrant patterns, pressing close to John to soothe the night’s chill.

“Never seen anything like it,” John says, quiet, plumes of smoke spilling from his lips, reaching up in a futile effort to join the holographic flares. “You?”

Yes. I've seen you.

“No,” Gale shakes his head, picking a ribbon of maroon to fix his eyes on. “Never thought I’d get the chance to.”

There are a lot of things Gale hadn’t thought he’d get the chance to experience, back when home felt like a universe away, and iron gates felt like a life sentence. Yet he still can’t help but yearn for something else, and though what he aches for should feel small under the atmospheric anomaly, the lights dim in comparison to the radiance of the man at his side.

He thinks the colours are even prettier when he glances to the side to watch them glide across the angular planes of John’s face, chest fuzzy at the look of pure boyish wonder that seems to smooth out the divots and lines and marks made by time.

He wants to tell him everything. Somehow that thought is almost scarier than all else he’s endured.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

not sure if this is/will be anything, but i had to get my feelings out in writing after seeing the northern lights last night. literally cried like a baby while sitting on the top of a mountain alone watching them– it's been my dream since i was a kid, and i never thought i'd see them so young, or at all, really. a part of me feels a little healed and i'm still in awe. <3 then i got to thinking about john and gale buying and fixing up a small cabin together out on the edge of lake michigan, a sanctuary in the forest, a place to hide away from the world after the war ends. healing as friends, but the feelings never go away, and some rare pining gale. a love confession during a once in a lifetime event, etc. perhaps will turn it into a oneshot at some point, but for now here's a little drabble to make up for inactivity. x

[odinsblog]

“How do you enjoy life as the world burns? When the planet is on fire, and the country is falling apart, and the cops shoot another teenager, and half your neighbors are getting evicted or deported, and Bill Maher is still speaking out loud on television, what do you do? I go to the water park with my nephew Miles.

Miles is 12 years old. He is a brilliant, bow-legged troublemaker. I love him despite the fact that he's 12 and still has a rat tail. It's really not that cute anymore, dude. We're not related by blood, but Miles' dad, Kevin, is like a brother to me. So Miles calls me Uncle Josh.

Uncle Josh, when are we going to the Warriors game? Uncle Josh, will you show me how to open that car with a hanger again? Uncle Josh, Uncle Josh, since I'm half Black and half Asian, does that make me Blazian? No, Miles, that makes you Oakland.

It's August, and it's hot, which for the Bay Area, means anything above 67. Today, it's 91. I'm over at Kevin and Miles' place, sitting in no AC, in our tank tops and boxers, watching Key and Peele.

I say, guys, we gotta go somewhere to cool off. Cooler than the movie theater, cooler than the mall, I'm gonna take us to East Bay's water world. Miles' face lights up. But then Kevin says, I don't know you guys. I mean, those water parks, you know, they're so wasteful.

My man Kevin is the worst kind of Bay Area environmentalist. He's that type of dude who will come over your house and use the bathroom, not flush, but instead write a note on your toilet paper telling you how much water he just saved you. That's a true story.

I say, Kevin, it's so hot out here, I could fry an egg on your face, which I will if we don't go to East Bay Water World. Miles says, please dad. I say, please dad.

Kevin says, fine. Go have fun at the park, but take my car. It's a hybrid.

I grab the keys and soon me and Miles are driving through Oakland. We pass by the Trilingual Liquor Store, the farmer's market that accepts food stamps and we make our way through the tunnel and the hills. We emerge on the other side in the valley.

The further we get from the coast, the ground is drier and drier, browner and browner. The only green is the manicured lawns of the suburbs, the golf courses, the empty field of the sprawling county jail. And then we see it and we arrive at our Mecca, our oasis in the California desert, East Bay Water World. And it's even more beautiful than I imagined. There's four wave pools, there's a 50-foot water park, the air smells like chlorine and sunscreen and funnel cake. Delicious.

Miles' mouth is wide, staring at all these things he's never seen before. Carnival games, Dippin Dots, girls in bikinis, Uncle Josh, this place is awesome. I know, Miles. I know.

We go and we jump in the wave pool, we float down the lazy river, we spin through the whitewater rapids until we're totally drenched, grinning ear to ear and surprisingly thirsty. So I go to the funnel cake vendor for something to drink.

Can I get a bottle of water, please? He says, no problem. That'll be $7. $7 for a bottle of water? He looks at the bottle. It says, and he literally read off the bottle, it says this here is bottled and purified up near Lake Tahoe.

This is California water. California water. I buy two bottles and walk back to where Miles is pointing up towards the sky. I follow his gaze and then I see it. There, staring down at us from the tallest point in the park is the biggest water slide I've ever seen. The tallest slide in Northern California, the Annihilator.

The Annihilator is a seven-story, 80-foot freefall drop down all in just under five seconds. It's one of those slides that's so vertical, your back comes off the ride when you go down, so you feel like if you lean over just a little bit, you're done. It's the type of slide that's illegal in 27 states and most of the European Union, but hey, this is California.

I look and see Miles. His mouth is watering in anticipation. We go and get in line.

Now, the worst part of the Annihilator isn't the ride down. That's only five seconds. The worst part is the 30-minute wait in line, standing in the stairs watching and hearing every kid go down the slide, hearing every scream, every shriek, every, oh, sweet baby, Purple Jesus. The That's a direct quote from a nine-year-old. Shout out to Purple Jesus.

Miles is nervous. His hand is clenching the railing. Uncle Josh, is this thing safe?

Before I can answer, I hear a voice shouting from the top of the stairs, Hands up! Put your hands up!

Hands up!

It's the lifeguard, a tall white teenager in red shorts. He's yelling at the girl about to go down the slide. I'm telling you, it's way more fun if you put your hands up.

And the words hit me like a tsunami. It's August, two weeks after Ferguson, after Mike Brown. After those words, hands up became the calling cry for a movement.

In Missouri, people are putting their hands up to protest the police murdering another black boy in America. In California, I'm watching kids put their hands up as they go down a water slide called the Annihilator, and my nephew asks me if it's safe here. It's August in America.

In Detroit, they're shutting off poor people's water. California is suffocating of thirst. Half of my friends are putting buckets of ice over their faces on Facebook. Israel is bombing water treatment plants in Gaza, and in America, we have water parks in the desert. Industrial Almond Farms in the desert, prisons in the desert, my family, me and my nephew right here in the desert looking for anything that could be called an oasis. And Miles asked me if it's safe here.

What am I supposed to tell him?

I don't want to lie to my nephew. I want him to know that yes, some people will always see him as a threat, but I also want him to laugh and play and go get on this crazy ass waterslide.

How do you enjoy life as the world is burning? How do you teach your nephew to hate the park but love the ride? The thing is called the Annihilator. I think it might be trying to tell us something.

And now we're next in line. A girl with blonde pigtails is shaking her head. The lifeguard says, it's okay, you don't have to do it.

She backs away and now Miles is up.

He steps to the edge of the slide, puts his feet in the rushing water.

I can see the brown hills in the distance, Oakland and all its beautiful contradictions waiting on the other side. I wave at Miles, say, you got this. You got this, dude.

And he waves back at me, and when he does, he lets go of the railing. His hand shoots up in the air and the rushing water carries him away. He lets go. He shoots out and disappears over the edge. My nephew!

I rush to the side and look over, and there's Miles at the bottom of the slide, safe and alive and pulling up his bathing suit. He jumps up and runs to get back in line, and the cycle continues. Water, blood, life, death, and maybe rebirth.

I'm still on the top platform of the slide.

I walk to the edge, look down at California, lift my hands, and let go.”

—Mr. Josh Healey