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mariasont · 8 days ago

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House Rules - A.H

summary: bimbo!asssitant!reader hasn't been answering her phone all day, hotch needs her to clarify something about a case report, or at least that's what he tells himself when he shows up at her house

masterlist

pairings: aaron hotchner x bimbo!assistant!reader

warnings: reader wearing some skimpy pjs, pre-relationship pining, hotch trying to act like he's not madly in love with reader

wc: 3.3k

Hotch wasn't sure why he'd expected your house to be normal. He chalked up his misjudgment on the haze of old injuries, the kind of logic that gets muddled when you've bled out on too many occasions. Because standing on your porch, staring at the pale pink door with a glittering Home Sweet Home sign dangling from the handle, he realized how spectacularly wrong he'd been.

It suited you, he realized. He could almost picture you hanging it there, humming to yourself and adjusting it three times before deciding it was just right.

It wasn't a social call. At least, that's what Hotch told himself repeatedly, as though the words might drown out the irrational knot of worry in his stomach. You hadn't answered your phone all day, and that was strange for you. It was your day off, yes, but normally you were over-communicative to a fault, texting emojis when a simple yes would have sufficed, or leaving voicemail messages that somehow turned into tangents about your neighbor's cat, your favorite polish color, or the iced coffee you'd spilled that morning.

But today? Nothing. No texts. No calls. Nothing.

His rational mind told him you were fine. Phones die, phones get left behind, people turn them off to take a break. But when it came to you, the rational part of him always seemed to lose ground to the side of him he didn't care to admit existed—the side that careful just a little bit more than he should have.

He knocked.

After a second, he heard the unmistakable sound of your voice yelling a muffled coming!

The door opened, and there you stood, wearing something that could only be called pajamas by the loosest of definitions—shorts that left far too much skin exposed and a matching top that hugged your chest like it was afraid to let go. Your hair was loose and slightly messy, framing your face, and your bare feet peeked out from under the door.

"Oh!" You froze and looked at him like he had fallen from the sky. "Hotch! What are you doing here?"

Hotch cleared his throat and he tried, tried, to keep his eyes glued to your face. It was harder than it should have been—his brain wasn't helping, already memorizing every detail of your appearance that he knew he shouldn't have noticed.

"Do you always answer the door like this?"

"Like what?"

"Dressed like..." He hesitated, jaw clenching as he searched his vocabulary for a word that wouldn't sound entirely inappropriate. "Dressing like that. Without knowing who is on the other side."

"Hotch," you said, smiling slightly. "I could tell it wasn't a stranger."

"How?" he asked flatly, raising a brow. "Because if you tell me it was a feeling, I'm going to be very disappointed in you."

"So what are you doing here?"

You ignored him, smiling innocently as though he hadn't spoken at all.

He almost started to lecture you—about answering doors, about caution, about everything—but the words died before they reached his tongue. You were fine. Perfectly fine. Not injured, not in danger, not lying in a hospital bed or worse—just standing there, unharmed, while he tried to shake off the residual tension of imaging all of the worst-case scenarios he'd been wrestling with the past hour.

"You weren't answering your phone." His voice came out sharper than he meant, but he didn't correct it.

You stared at him before letting out an incredulous laugh. "Okay, but like... that's usually not cause for a wellness check."

"It's unusual for you."

His own voice sounded defensive in his ears, and he winced inwardly.

Your lips shot upwards as if you had discovered his game, leaning on the door frame with your arms crossed. "Aw, were you worried about me, bossman?"

His response didn't come as quickly as it usually did, his eyes scanning your face like he was trying to decipher something. "I needed to confirm something about the case report."

"Sure, you did." You tilted your head, smile widening as you let the words linger. "Well, since you're already here, might as well come in. I'd hate for you to leave empty-handed."

Hotch hesitated. The professional part of him—the one that lived and breathed protocol—told him to stay outside, finish his excuse, and leave. Normally, he wouldn't have thought twice about saying yes to an invitation like this. He'd done it for Morgan, for Emily, even Spencer without a second thought. But this wasn't them. This was you. But then you gave him that look— raised eyebrows, half a grin, daring him to prove you wrong—and against better judgment, he stepped inside.

The inside of your house was... well, it was you.

It wasn't messy, but it wasn't neat either. It was softer than he expected. Fluffy throw blankets over the couch with heart shaped pillows. On the coffee table, a collection of framed photos—pictures of you with friends, family, and even what looked to be an embarrassing prom photo.

"So?" You moved across the room, draping yourself onto the arm of the couch like a cat in the sun, one leg swinging lazily. "What's the big emergency, Hotchner?"

"I told you," he replied, squinting his eyes at you as if that would somehow change your attitude. It wouldn't. He knew from experience. "The case report. You stapled the wrong attachment to it. I need to know where the correct file is."

"Uh-huh," you said, squinting your own eyes back as if to mock him. "And this couldn't just wait until the morning? You sure you didn't just miss me?"

His brow furrowed. "Why would I--"

You were on your feet in an instant, wagging a finger at him like he'd crossed a sacred line. "Don't you dare finish that sentence, Hotchner!"

He blinked, staring at you like you'd just started reciting Shakespeare for no reason.

"You'll hurt my feelings," you said matter-of-factly. "And then I'll have no choice to pout. You'll feel guilty, you always do. And to make it up to me, you'll bring coffee tomorrow. So honestly, let's just skip all that and pretend you never wanted to finish that sentence."

He exhaled through his nose. "I was going to say, why would I miss you when I see you nearly every day?"

"Good." The smile was back on your face in a way that, annoyingly, made him feel better. "Because it's my day off, and you're forbidden from being mean to me on my day off."

"Are you implying I'm mean to you on your regular days?"

You tapped your chin as if seriously considering it. "Not mean, exactly... maybe a little grumpy sometimes."

Hotch huffed. "I'm grumpy with you?"

"Sometimes," you said with a shrug. "But it's okay. I like all your sides—even the grumpy one."

"I'm not grumpy with you," he replied, shaking his head. "If anything, I'm nicer to you than I should be."

"You big softie."

Hotch felt his lips twitch, and he hated how much effort it took to keep from smiling. He was not a soft person. He wasn't the type to let people get under his skin, and yet here you were managing to do it with a single sentence. Worse, he didn't exactly dislike it. In fact, it felt... oddly welcome.

It was different from how you were at work—though, in fairness, you weren't exactly buttoned-up in the office, either.

"Did you make those?" He glanced briefly at the tray of cookies in the kitchen.

Your face lit up and you practically bounded over to the counter, grabbing the tray and holding it up like a trophy. "Yep! Chocolate chip. Want one?"

Hotch hesitated for a second, then followed you into the kitchen, his gaze sweeping over the space despite himself. He didn't mean to do it—it wasn't intentional—but the part of him trained to notice every detail, every inconsistency, was already at work. Old habits die hard, or something like that.

The kitchen suited you. Soft pastel hues and floral details everywhere. Pink pots and pans hung along the wall, a lace-trimmed over mitt dangling from a hook shaped like a star. Fresh flowers—peonies or roses—he wasn't sure, sat in a vase on the counter.

He shook his head, trying—and failing—to shut off that instinct to analyze. But it was almost automatic, his mind piecing things together, like the organization of the baking tools and the open cookbook, pages slightly smudged.

"Are you just gonna stand there, or are you gonna grab one?"

He looked at you, then at the cookies, and finally took one with a small nod of thanks. "You bake often?"

He didn't really need to ask—you felt far too comfortable in this space for the answer to be anything but yes.

"Oh, all the time," you said, turning to put the tray back down. "It's, like, my stress reliever. Plus, it makes the house smell amazing. Not that I'm, like, stressed or anything--just saying. It's a hobby. A cute hobby."

He bit into the cookie, ignoring the sweetness for a second as he glanced around again. The pink gingham tablecloth on the island, the mugs arranged by color.

"Anything else you need? Or can I get back to my cookies and reality TV?"

He glanced toward the TV, where some kind of dramatic argument was unfolding on screen, and then back to you. "You should charge your phone."

"Yes, Daddy," you said, before going stiff. "No! I didn’t mean—like—not that Daddy. Just… regular Dad."

His body went rigid, his jaw tightening as he forced himself not to react, shoving the thought out of his mind before it could take hold.

"Right," he said finally, voice rougher than usual. "Charge your phone."

Hotch stepped toward the door, his hand already reaching for the handle when your voice stopped him.

"No, Hotch's don't leave!" you said, your voice dipping into a whine that should've been annoying. "I'm bored!"

Keep word—should.

He turned back, brows lifted. "Bored?"

"Yes, bored," you said, flopping back onto the couch with a dramatic sigh. "I've already watched two hours of reality TV, ate like, five cookies, and had an entire conversation with myself while I folded laundry. And now you're here, and I haven't had company in forever, and you're just gonna leave me all alone?"

“Forever,” he repeated dryly. “So the 24 hours since I saw you at work?”

"That doesn't count. Work doesn't count as, like, real social interaction. It's work."

He gave you a look—one of those deadpan, unreadable stares that was meant to shut down further argument. That obviously didn't work.

"You're really going to leave me all alone? In my time of need? I thought you cared about me, Hotch."

"You're not in your time of need."

"Emotionally, I am," you said, crossing your arms and leaning back like you’d just made the world’s most convincing argument. "Please, Aaron? Just hang out with me for a little bit. One show. It'll make my whole day."

The way you said his name—Aaron—hit him in a way that felt decidedly too intimate, too casual, too... something. He clenched his jaw briefly, trying to shake off the sensation as he shot you another look.

"Since when do you call me that?"

"Since now," you replied with a shrug, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It suits you."

His brows furrowed. "It's my name."

"Exactly," you said, leaning forward. "We're not at work. You came into my house. It's all casual here. You're Aaron now. Just go with it."

“I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works,” he replied, though his voice lacked conviction.

"It does now," you said, patting the couch beside you. "So, Aaron, are you gonna sit down? Just ten minutes."

With a reluctant sigh, he lowered himself onto the couch, his posture still stiff.

"Wow," you said, scooting so close that your thigh pressed against his. "I didn't think that was actually going to work."

You leaned across the coffee table to grab a blanket, shorts riding up with the motion. Hotch's eyes darted away immediately, landing on the far corner of the room as though it held something deeply fascinating.

His hand clenched into a fist on his thigh, nails pressing into his palm. His knuckles whitened slightly as he tried to force his thoughts back into neutral territory, focusing on his breathing instead of the shape of your ass.

By the time you turned back, oblivious, and tossed the blanket over both of you, he'd managed to school his face into its usual unreadable expression—though he couldn't quite fix the pressure building in his chest.

"So," you began, holding up the remote, "what's it gonna be? Reality TV? A baking show? Or, oh, those ones where they renovate houses, but everything goes horribly wrong."

"You pick." He shifted, trying to put even an inch more space between you, but you didn't seem to notice, too preoccupied with tucking the blanket around you both.

"Okay, but don't blame me if you get hooked. I'm just saying, this stuff is addictive."

He leaned back shaking his, but his focus never really landed on the TV. Instead, it stayed on you—laughing at the wrong moments, gasping dramatically at plot twists, and making snarky commentary under your breath.

"You know," you said suddenly, glancing over at him with a sly smile, "you're kind of cute when you're pretending to relax."

"Do you ever stop talking?" he asked, though the lack of bite in his tone made it sound almost too fond.

"Nope," you said cheerfully, pulling the blanket tighter around you. “Consider it part of the package.”

Hotch didn't respond, his attention shifting back to the screen—or at least, that's what he told himself. But as the minutes stretched into fifteen, then twenty, he realized he wasn't in any hurry to leave.

You fell asleep thirty minutes later.

Hotch wasn't surprised. Between the pile of blankets, you'd wrapped yourself in and the way you'd curled up on the couch like it was your safe haven, it was a miracle you'd lasted that long. He'd noticed your eyelids drooping about five minutes earlier, your commentary fading into soft hums of acknowledgment as you sank deeper into the cushions.

The room was quiet now except for the sound of the TV. He shifted in his seat, glancing over at you. You were entirely still, your breathing slow. Your hair had fallen across your face, and the blanket had slipped off your shoulder, leaving your tank top askew.

It was weird, seeing you like this. You, who were always moving and talking and saying things he never really knew how to respond to. Now you looked so soft, completely oblivious to how much space you were taking up in his head.

He told himself to leave. Just slip out, lock the door, and let you sleep. That would’ve been the smart thing. The right thing. But he didn’t. Maybe it was the thought of you waking up, groggy and alone, wondering where he’d gone. Or maybe it was the realization that you were still his responsibility, even outside of work.

He leaned forward reluctantly, one hand brushing the blanket back over your shoulder. He told himself it was just a gentlemanly gesture, the kind anyone would do, but the second his fingers grazed you, he froze.

You murmured something under your breath, unintelligible really, your head shifting as you face turned toward him. He snatched his hand back like he'd touched something scalding.

"Come on," he muttered under his breath. He slid one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, lifting you easily.

Your head fell against his shoulder the second he straightened. He swallowed. Your bedroom. Where was it? He glanced down the hall. Left or right? The door slightly ajar felt like the most obvious choice, and sure enough, when he nudged it open with his foot, he found himself standing right where he anticipated.

Pinks, florals, lace-trimmed, well, everything. The bed was covered in more pillows than he could count in every possible shade of pastel. It smelled like you—roses and vanilla, with something sweeter lingering underneath, like sugar from a bakery.

But then his eyes snagged on the rack of nightgowns against the far wall, like it wasn't about to cause an existential crisis.

Lace. Sheer. Satin.

He shouldn't be looking at them. He knew he shouldn't be looking at them, and yet... he couldn't stop. The imagine of you wearing one slipped into his mind before he could stop it. That was a problem—he could see you in them, and now he had to wrestle with that mental image while pretending to be a gentleman.

He bit down on the inside of his check, hard enough to sting, and forced himself to look back at the bed. This wasn’t the time—or the place—for thoughts like that. Hell, there wasn’t ever a time for them.

He eased you onto the mattress, his hands far softer than he thought himself capable of. He straightened, watching as you instinctively curled into the covers, your hair fanning across the pillow like some picture-perfect cliché.

Then you stirred, eyes fluttering open just enough to meet his.

"Hotch?" you murmured, your voice thick with sleep.

"It's okay," he said softly. "Go back to sleep."

You blinked slowly, gaze still hazy. "You're still here?"

"I didn't want to leave you on the couch. You looked too uncomfortable."

Your lips curved into a small, sleepy smile as you sank back into the pillows. "That's... sweet. I didn't think you did stuff like that."

He huffed softly, shaking his head. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me."

Your smile widened lazily, your half-lidded eyes sparkling with amusement. "Mysterious and chivalrous. You’re gonna ruin my whole perception of you.”

"Sleep," he said firmly, though there was no real heat behind the command.

Your gaze shifted past him, landing on the rack against the wall.

"Did you see those?" you asked. He hesitated—too long for it to go unnoticed—and your grin turned sly. "You did see them, didn't you?"

"They're hard to miss," he admitted, his voice carefully neutral.

"Bet you weren't expecting that, huh?" you teased, leaning your head against the pillow. “So? Thoughts?”

"I think," he said evenly, "you ask too many questions when you’re supposed to be sleeping.”

You laughed softly, the sound trailing off like a dream. “You’re dodging, Aaron. I didn’t know you could dodge.”

He sighed, stepping back as though the distance might save him. "You're good at this."

"Good at what?"

"Pushing buttons," he replied. “You’re a natural.”

"And yet, you're still here."

He didn't have the words for that. Because you were right, and he didn't know what to do about that.

Your eyes fluttered closed, your body slackening into the bed, and he thought you were asleep.

Then you spoke again, quieter this time, as if testing the words before committing to them. “Why’d you really come here?”

He stilled. "I told you. You weren't answering your phone. The case report."

The explanation felt flimsy, even to him, and he hated how obvious it sounded.

"That's not it," you whispered, your eyes still closed. "You could've just waited until tomorrow. You didn't have to check on me. But you did."

Hotch didn’t move, his breath catching as he studied you. Your face, relaxed and peaceful, gave no indication whether you knew what kind of mess you were making of him in that moment.

“It’s okay,” you mumbled, the faintest hint of a smile brushing your lips. "I think I like it when you worry about me. Feels nice."

You didn’t say anything else, your breathing softening as sleep took over again.

Hotch stayed where he was, rooted to the spot. Your words replayed like a deadly loop in his head.

He finally tore his gaze away, stepping back and slipping out of the room with careful movements. He closed the door behind him as softly as he could, but even then, the sound felt too loud.

For a second, he lingered in the hallway, staring at door like it might offer him some form of an answer. He'd drawn a line with you a thousand times in his head, a boundary he vowed not to cross. And yet, like you said, he was still here, standing in your home.

He shook his head and turned toward the front door. He wouldn't cross the line—but gods help him, staying on the right side of it felt harder every time.

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ninetailedfoxmanchi · 5 months ago

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The Northern Winds

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Reader

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

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

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

Words: 18k

MASTERLIST

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"As my lord commands."

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The box?” inquired Lord Stark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N nodded to herself, “Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Forgive my prying, my lord, but—”

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

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

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

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

Y/N listened patiently, nodding to herself.

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

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

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

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

Y/N nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a knock on the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” blurted Lady Y/N. “When?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

PART 2

#house of the dragon #cregan stark #house stark #hotd cregan #cregan x reader #cregan fanfiction #cregan x you #the wolf of the north #house of the dragon fanfic #winterfell #game of thrones #got #hotd

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mygnolia · 8 months ago

Text

three laws of motion, and the three ways i love you | sjy

synopsis -› the only person jake has to thank for you and him getting together is isaac newton, and the stupid apple that fell on his head.

pair -› sim jaeyun/jake x reader | genre -› fluff fluff fluff | trope -› friends to lovers, roommates to lovers

wc -› 4.8k

cw -› god the pining oh the pining oh you are oblivious.. how to lose a guy in 10 days minor spoilers!

a/n -› oopsie!! i fear jake in glasses has me in a trance. HES SOOO simpy

law one: any object that is put in motion will stay in motion until another force has acted on it. also dubbed as inertia!

jake does not know jealousy until he finds out the upcoming plan to check out the new ice cream shop together is canceled, all because kim sunoo is ‘cute,’ and you want to repay him for helping you in your communications class. he could have done the same thing! maybe he wouldn’t have been alone on the last saturday of this month if he reached out. he’s never been alone on this day. to be fair, you’ve done this only a handful of times, the limit reaching the number of fingers he has on one hand, but still! jake scowls and curses whoever kim sunoo is for stealing you away from him, even if sunoo has the brightest smile and the caring attentiveness jake wishes he himself had.

jake mopes on the couch, rewatching ‘friends’ until you come back, with a small smile gracing your oh-so-pretty face. he immediately springs up, helping you with your coat and asking where you’ve been, even if he knows.

“i was with sunoo.” you respond simply. He drills you with questions, laced with concern but hidden with a curiosity that could only stem from his feelings for you. “we went out to eat something small, and had some ice cream, that’s all. I was fine, don’t even worry- he drove me home and waited until i texted him anyway.” jake feels his role by your side becoming smaller, and he takes a slow breath, hoping that with his exhale goes the negative feelings he has about being competition.

“we were supposed to watch how to lose a man in ten days.” he complains, and you laugh, his voice sounding dejected. you shove him towards your bedroom, telling him that there’s still time to watch one of your favorite films of all time.

“but you’re tired.” he takes a step closer, examining the way your eyes lose energy as the day goes on as an eventual sign of your dwindling social battery.

“doesn’t mean I don’t want to watch with you.” you retort, opening your bedroom door and setting up the movie on your laptop. his eyes shine with worry as he carefully watches how you move. the way your feet drag, how you slowly thumb through a set of pajamas, and the look you give when you need to change.

but if jake is anything, he is weak- and to spend more time with you, his darling girl, is his kryptonite.

you both slip under the sheets, and it’s something he convinces himself is normal when you first started becoming roommates. when you were first told about how your friend knew someone who’d be a perfect roommate, you weren’t expecting jake, but he assured you that jake has always been an angel, and if anything happens, for you to give him a call or text immediately. it was never necessary, and your friend was right, jake proved to be a perfect roommate as time went on.

albeit, maybe a little too perfect, because with the way you’re resting on his shoulder and with the gentle way he combs through your hair, you wonder if it’s all in typical roommate fashion. you fall asleep before you can wonder if the way he pulls you closer, shutting off the lights and shutting your laptop is all in the guide to be a good roommate, or if he’s doing these things because he’s reading a different guide;

the guide to making the roommate- the same one you’ve had a crush on- your girlfriend.

you wake up to your laptop shut on your table, and the knot in your neck helps you realize you fell asleep in the wrong position. when you come out of the bathroom, you see jake buttering toast and cutting up the strawberries you begged him to buy at the market a week ago. you both hope that no mold has grown on them.

“how did you sleep?” he asks, plopping a strawberry in his mouth. you shrug, still trying to stretch out the tight feeling in your muscles.

“here,” he motions, a piece of toast between his lips as he walks up behind you. you know how attentive jake is to the little things, and the gentle way he presses at the junction of your shoulder blade and neck only proves your beliefs further. you always have appreciated him for the silent way he cares, and now, more than ever. the crunch of his toast as he momentarily pauses makes you laugh, turning around as he also smiles as he eats. you reach up, wiping the crumbs from his lips, and his eyes follow the movement without fail. he’s not sure how you two were so close, and how the white winter sun makes you look so angelic, but he doesn’t move out of place until you’re out of sight, thanking him for the slice of toast as you leave to get ready for the day.

he thinks that things have been the same for both of you, but suddenly, something changes his course, and his heart thumps in his ears, as if it’s possible that he’s fallen for you more.

the second time you have to rain check is finals- and he gets it, truly. your psychology class isn’t going to pass itself, and yet, his heart sinks like an anchor at sea when you pout and show him the 89 term quizlet you’re forced to study for the upcoming week.

“I really wish i could-“ you promise, genuine remorse in your gaze (and yes, jake’s forgiven you immediately). “I tried to study last night at the library to make sure we could finish queen of tears, but god, i feel like i know nothing.” jake understands with a silent nod, and does his best to put your feelings first. “after my final, i’ll be off- plus, you have your calculus final tomorrow morning anyways, right?” internally, jakes eyes turn into hearts, melting at the way you remember.

“multivariable calculus, yes, at 10.” he sighs, dreading the imminent test but confident in his ability to pass. he sighs, scrolling through his calendar despite there being no assignments due.

“if i help you out, can we watch after your final?” you swivel from your chair to face him lounging on your bed. he’s in a white t-shirt and jeans, an obvious outside outfit on your sheets. you glare at him, but don’t say anything.

still, the proposition interests you. “how are you even going to help me out?”

“i took this class last year, remember?”

right. “why would you even want to? psych’s like- not your cup of tea at all.”

jake responds without thinking, “i don’t mind it if it means we can spend time together.”

you both freeze, and the comfortable conversation stills. you spin back around, picking at the corner of your paper, nervously trying to find a deeper meaning in his words. “okay.” you mumble, and jake doesn’t take your change in disposition to heart, more worries over how you’ll perceive him if he’s too clingy.

“and,” he adds, standing up from your bed. “i want to see what happens. we need to finish the drama- the episode came out three days ago, and i think if i keep seeing edits, i’m going to say ‘fuck it’ and watch it myself.”

without turning around, you snort. “yeah, yeah. you would never watch an episode without me there.”

and you’re right, painfully so. jake closes your door, burying his face in his hands in embarrassment.

the next day, he keeps his promise, dragging you to his room to find a scraggly pile of handwritten psych assignments you’re confused as to why he even has. when you voice your concerns for his paper hoarding, he shrugs, retorting how it helps you regardless.

you lean against his blue pillows, crossing your legs as he sits back in his chair and asks you questions.

he reads off another question, pausing before letting you know it’s incorrect. “mmm, not really.” he tells you, glancing up. he leans over, pointing to the part in the textbook he’s been using as studying material, and you hear the tiredness in his voice with how low he speaks. jake is gentle; the way he looks at you understanding the text is no different, and his heart thuds painfully against his ribcage. he continues, no matter how much he wants to go to sleep, and by the time he’s finished explaining everything you’ve missed (which wasn’t even much) you both cheer to realize you’ve finished slide 89/89. you jump up from his bed, wrinkling his bedsheets as you envelope him in a tight hold.

“thank you.” you tell him sincerely, arms looped around his neck as jake is quick to hug you back. you feel his head rest on your shoulder, and your heart warms with adoration.

“of course, ____.”

you pause, thinking about whether or not you should still continue with your plans. “you’re tired.” you state the obvious. “and I don’t want to watch something if you need to go sleep.”

he rolls his eyes, motioning to you to scoot over so he can join you. “we always do this on a saturday so we can sleep in on sunday.” he comments, getting his laptop. you shake your head.

“it’s different, jake. this time, you’re tired and I don’t want to wake you up to make you brush your teeth or whatever.” he hears the playful lilt in your voice, and scoffs.

“you just don’t want to watch with me anymore!” he accuses, cracking a smile as he shoves you.

with widened eyes, you shake your head, teasing him about how he jumps to conclusions so quickly. “i would never, jake.” you meet his gaze with sincerity. “i love to spend time with you. always.”

if things stay in motion like this, without any rain checks or ice cream dates, jake thinks he likes this course of inertia much better- just you and him.

law two: force = mass x acceleration

to simply put it, jake sleeping in your bed will suffocate you sooner or later. despite being very smart, jake doesn’t realize that muscles means added mass, and the more he works out, the higher the chances of you dying from the incapability to breathe.

it starts with jake asking if he can sleep beside you, since the heater never reaches his room despite said room being a grand nine feet away from yours. you highly doubt his excuse, but you choose not to find out if it really is the cold abyss your roommate swears it is. he also tells you that he likes your light blue sheets with daisies on it, which is something that seems pretty plausible, and you’re swayed by his earnest compliments. when you asked why, a question spoken into the dark of your room, jake immediately responded by telling you that the holidays are the perfect time to grab a buddy and spread the holiday cheer. with a shove at his shoulder, he defends himself, saying that he wakes up earlier than you, so you wouldn’t have to even worry about seeing him in the morning.

that last part was true, jake was always extremely efficient with his time, and it meant you were sometimes waking up to a pan dropping in the kitchen during his kitchen ventures. but today? he seemed to be the opposite.

when the sun shines high in the sky, with your clock reading a time past 10am, you finally wake up. trying to brush the hair out of your face, you really start to pay attention to the way his breath fans your shoulder blade, and how almost half of his body weight was on top of yours. you were both people who enjoyed skinship, and your friendship was solid enough where you knew you weren’t uncomfortable, but it was the surprise of ending up entangled with someone who, last night, refused to get closer out of personal space.

“jake.” you call, tapping his shoulder. you can barely move, shuffling around as you watch him shuffle around under the sheets, his hands wandering to pull you closer. “jake!”

you don’t get much time to really admire him like his. his hair, all messy, had been undoubtedly better the more it grows out, and you’ve seen him put it in a ponytail- a new style that maybe you liked more than you’d like to admit. his bangs rest on the planes of his cheekbones, and you suck in a breath at how effortlessly angelic he looks in the morning sun.

truth be told, it brings you comfort to know how he subconsciously trusts you to scoot closer and eventually cling to you in his sleep.

jake’s eyes flutter open, and he slowly blinks without registering how close you are. you make eye contact, and your lazy stare flutters to closed eyes as you get comfortable on your pillow. yes, jake makes it a little hard to breathe, but in the end, it’s not that bad.

“i thought you said you wake up early.” you comment. jake swats at your face lightly, and a giggle escapes as you fight his hand. “it’s the holidays.” he says, a poor excuse as to why he hasn’t gotten up. he looks at you again, taking in your mock annoyance and smiling. “let me hold you, yeah?” he mumbles absentmindedly, still half consumed by the morning lethargy.

your heart skips a little, and you feel the heat rising to your cheeks as you try not to let jake’s sleepy comments get to you. he doesn’t mean it, you tell yourself, but his sleepy words are sober thoughts, and you try not to think about the deeper meaning. jake has the brightest smiles and the kindest of hearts, so much so that it makes his hugs warm and his comfort like a cozy embrace. and you really really try not to think about what he’s saying, because jake cares for all of his friends, so much so that his words are always filled to the brim with love. and despite knowing all of this, despite knowing that jake is one of the best wonderful people you know, you can’t help but think about if it were romantic, if you two barely crossed the boundary to be just a little more. plus, you’re basically there. it’s in the way no boy comes up to you, not because you’re not wanted, but because everyone assumes that the boy with the australian accent and arm around your shoulder is the love of your life; and everyone says you look at him that way. it’s in the way he texts you to come back to the apartment because it’s empty without you, or the way he’s currently falling back asleep on your shoulder, his arm secured around your waist. and you refuse to believe that it’s anything more than friendship. you’re almost positive he feels the same, but still, somewhere inside of your heart yearns for it not to be true.

your rapidly beating heart accelerates, and if you two weren’t friends, it’d be like you were forced to fall in love with jake.

before you leave for the holidays, you promise jake one more movie, as a make-up for the few days you two weren’t able to properly finish your movie nights. finally, it’s time to watch ‘how to lose a guy in ten days.’

“it’s not even a christmas special.” jake says as you type in the pirated site. you roll your eyes, elbowing the nearest part of him.

“it doesn’t have to be a christmas movie. you can’t even name a good christmas rom-com!”

he racks his brain, truly trying to find a movie that lives up to the expectations of one of the best rom-coms to exist. “fine. i guess we can watch this movie then.” and he pulls the blanket up in retaliation. you turn to him with a scowl, but he pretends not to notice.

when the movie starts playing, you make an effort to snatch his phone away, leaving it on your bedside as his attention diverts to the illuminated screen. “you’re going to love it.” you say offhandedly, watching how kate hudson and matthew mcconaughey immerse themselves in their roles.

you turn to jake, making sure he’s thoroughly paying attention.

“what?” he grins, his arm wrapping around you to rest on your waist. “I’m watching, don’t worry.”

you click the space bar. “tell me what happens, then.” you raise an eyebrow, waiting to hear his perfect retelling of the film so far.

“well, her fake therapist friend tells them to go meet his family, and everyone loves her off the get go. They play that card game and everyone helps her cheat, but she finds out that he’s never taken a girl home before. thinking about it, they were definitely in love with each other from the start. like, the way he looks at her in that entire movie! trust me, they’re in love.”

“oh,” you turn, a teasing smile on your features. “and you’re a love expert?”

jake suddenly losing focus on the movie, looking at the way you wait for his answer. he’s breathless, licking his lips nervously as he sends you a quick nod. “i know what it looks like to be in love.” he responds plainly when he returns his attention to the screen, his hand around your waist suddenly feeling clammy.

you hum, glancing over to your right again. “and what does that look like?”

the way I look at you. he thinks. instead, he shrugs. “like they hold the world in their hands.”

your eyes sparkle, interested in his answer but too invested in the film to press further.

“cliche.” and you’re awfully aware of the hand that rests against the fabric of your shirt, left to wonder if this is what it means to be in love.

when the finale finishes and the screen fades to black, you let the end credits roll to tell him about your thoughts. sentences that start with “to be honest” followed with something strongly worded, and sentences praising certain scenes reach his ears as he listens quietly. your gaze never leaves the screen as you collect your thoughts, and your head never leaves his shoulder. when your roommate doesn’t add on, you look up at him, and from the shift, jake turns to make eye contact with you. “what?” he says softly.

“you didn’t say anything.” you almost whisper. the enchanting glow of the laptop screen makes his small chuckle just a little bit more attractive, and for yet another time, you glance at his lips, hoping he doesn’t notice.

“i answered you earlier.” he whines, rubbing his eye.

“doesn’t count.” he cracks a smile at your bickering, and sighs.

“i agree with everything you have to say, princess. always have.” your stomach stirs, butterflies rustling around as you make it obvious how much you’ve been staring at his lips. “what’s wrong, angel?” he plays oblivious as he shifts so you two are facing each other. your eyes are drooped, the sleep making you slip into new and equally as dangerous territory. the corner of his lip pulls into a charming smile, and you feel your heartstrings tug so badly with the rapid of your rushing heart. you glance back at him, meeting his warm gaze before shifting a little closer.

and maybe jake’s hand immediately tightens at your waist, and maybe his eyes flutter shut as his other hand cups your jaw. and maybe, as the cliche song plays over a rolling list of names in the background, you kiss your best friend- the feeling leaving your heart jumping and your ears hot. your hands reach up, your thumb tracing his cheek as he pulls you closer. you pull back, eyes shining with content and so many unspoken feelings, and he looks at you, full of love. and you realize that this is what he means- that andie anderson and ben barry may have just been acting, but the smile he gives you is anything but.

you giggle, pulling him back to kiss him just once more- or maybe twice, and you’re selfish in the way you hold him, wanting of him all to yourself.

and maybe, just maybe, jake sim likes you back.

law three: every action has an equal opposite reaction.

yes, every action has an equal and opposite reaction; so it hangs as an unspoken truth in the sky that jake likes you as much as you do- but you never took physics, and you leave the apartment early the next morning. it’s saturday, yes, and all of your finals were done, but you usually always stay for just a bit longer, relishing in the winter air before detangling yourself with college and finally heading back home. the university holds an ice skating event for free around this time anyways, and in the few years that you two have been roommates, you’ve dragged him along with you. you were nothing like his somewhat skilled friends, but jake still reveled in your smiles and shaky yelps every time you were off balance.

off-balance. that’s how things were.

you haven’t responded to his texts, and he’s stuck pacing around the kitchen wondering what he could’ve done wrong. you leave every text unanswered, and a voicemail for every call.

nonetheless, jake tries again- desperate.

“hi-“ you say, in a breathless fleeting manner. “i’m busy-“

“no ___, you can’t just kiss me-“ the line ends, and you feel your heart beat fast again, like how it does every time you think about that december night.

on the other line, jake lets out another sigh, his heart twisting with worry. it’s an ugly and unexplainable feeling truly, how he’s worried you’ve toyed with his heart, but how if you kissed him again, it would soothe any wrinkles in his timeline- and that all his feelings would go back to being in love, and he’d be okay with it. jake would rewrite the stars, hanging the moon in the sky and undoing everything if it meant going back to then, with his palm pressed against your skin, his lips on yours, and his heart nestled within your hands, bound to whatever fate you would give him. and you know this about him, you know that jake would run around the world to find love from you, and you couldn’t treat him like that. there was no way you and jake were to work out, and while you’ve convinced yourself of this, jake on the other hand is desperate to read between the lines, finding himself going insane the more he lays there in the early AM thinking about what all of this means. he wishes he could redo it- so he could experience it just once more, and so he could understand where it went wrong. jake refuses to let you go- at least, not yet.

despite your efforts to avoid him for the week of christmas and new years, you felt your heart break the longer you left his message unopened, and responded with a sincere ‘happy holidays. stay warm, jake.’ he opens up the text, his heart still doing that weird thing where it uncomfortably beats, with excitement and disappointment all in the same vein.

and it’s like that for winter break- confused or at least until you come back a week early. you had plans on keeping a small tree in your apartment to add to the holiday spirit even after the holidays, and the box for the tree plus the ornaments had already been stowed away in your room. there’s no way he’s here- he lives hours from campus, and without any new year plans, you’re sure you’ll have the place to yourself.

you don’t check his location, too consumed to make the drive back to even notice his room has minuscule sound coming from it. the door stays shut, and without any gaps to really see any light, you don’t pay any mind in checking if there’s a sudden intruder.

the christmas tree slowly gets put together, and you sit with yourself as a show plays on the TV, quiet. it’s as if to not disturb the ambience, and you feel the cinnamon and cold settle within your bones when you throw out some of the plastic packaging.

“you’re here.”

the cold from your quick excursion, added with the sudden confrontation makes your blood run cold, unable to tear your gaze from the blinking LEDs on the fake evergreen tree you’ve put up.

“yeah, i guess so.” you say, unable to really conjure anything else up. you refuse to look him in the eye, afraid you’ll be faced with indisputable anger, resentment, and the confusion, the same feelings you had when at your own home. you’re afraid that the way you hate yourself for leaving so abruptly, and to ruin such a good thing, is the reason why jake suddenly doesn’t want you back anymore. that- because of your inability to accept that you love someone who’s so out of your league, you’ve let a good thing fizzle out.

there’s no cold in the apartment- the heater already being set to a cozy temperature, and yet the goosebumps on your skin prove otherwise. it’s biting, chilly almost, the way you both stand there, unsure of what to say.

it’s uncomfortable, and the silence leaves a hopeless feeling in your chest; one that screams that you two truly weren’t as meant to be as you thought.

“why?” he breathes.

“why..why what?”

“why’d you leave after all that happened?”

your eyes widen, scrambling your brain to find a lie to give before you give up, opting to simply tell the truth. you’ve hurt him once by leaving, an action that you truly have no excuse for. it’s winter, you lie to yourself. you rehearse in your head to tell him that you missed your family, and couldn’t wait to go home. it’s all lies, and jake’s no more than a polygraph test in human form. you couldn’t live with yourself if you lost him over a lie.

plus, you couldn’t lie to him- not after all the hurt.

“jake-“ you say hurriedly. “you’re everything, you’re perfect, you deserve more than me. you deserve more to a girlfriend than a roommate who rushes to pay rent, someone who doesn’t leave curling irons on in the bathroom, a girlfriend who doesn’t phone you at night because she doesn’t have anyone else. you don’t need someone to rely on you the way i just do-“

“maybe loving you is the worst decision anyone could ever make. maybe, yeah, i don’t deserve you walking out, avoiding me for two weeks, missing my messages, calls, or notes. maybe i could do better.” he starts, and you feel your heart sinking, knowing that it’d be for the better if it wasn’t you, but wishing so desperately that it could be. “maybe that’s the case, but i’m never going to be happy if i keep looking for better. I don’t hate you because you almost burned down the building, or if you stressed out about rent, and all of these other things that i can’t even remember we talked about.” jake lets out a dry chuckle, trying to remember anything bad about you, but falling short. “the point is, ____, that you can’t make that decision for me. what’s the point in trying to find more when all i’ve ever wanted is you?”

his eyes scan your expression, desperate for an answer as the quiet prolongs. the fresh tears that make way to your eyes springs him into action, and he’s quick to use his long sleeve to pat away your tears. “shh, don’t cry, angel. it’s okay, i understand.” his words replace the icy feeling in your body, and replaces it slowly with the hope that things really are as okay as he says they are. you nod, hugging him as apologies and explanations fall from your lips.

“i still have feelings for you.” he promises, and his words envelop you in comfort and solace. it teeters between like and love, unable to have ever gotten as close as couples do, but also knowing it’s so much more than a small crush on a roommate. there’s nothing temporary about how he rests his head on top of yours, holding you close as you ramble.

“just don’t do anything of the sort again.” he asks, looking at you with adoration. “please.”

your heart breaks a little, and you make a promise to never treat him the way you did, feeling foolish and horrible for what you had done. “i promise.” you nod. and give him a tight hug.

and things are in balance once again. if every reaction had an equal and opposite reaction, it means that you and jake sim have fallen for each other with equal amounts of force, and wouldn’t have it any other way.

WE FINISHEDDDD CHATTTTTTTTTTT YERP YERP YERP WHO CHEERED!! first real enha fic in AGES god save us all.

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