#cregan stark x cerwyn!oc

[harley-kwinn]

— Winter‘s Storm: Chapter I

pairing: cregan stark x fem!cerwyn!reader (oc)

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), mentions of blood, short description of a death person, lots of heartbreak/grief, loosely hinting at a friendship/love triangle, mentions of being in love with another woman’s husband, grammar (english isn’t my first language)

word count: 2,844

taglist: @cregan-starks @gotranting @deltamoon666

•••

Late summer snow fell quietly on the still green lands of the North, slowly wrapping it in its white cloak. The increasingly harsh winds heralded the approaching winter. The quiet crunch of the frozen grass giving way under the heavy hooves of the black stallion shattered the silence of the dusk day. The castle towers of Winterfell loomed on the horizon. Its rider pulled the grey cloak further around her body and spurred the animal on. Half a day's march already lay behind steed and rider.

Their arrival was already expected as the Lord of Winterfell sat patiently outside the gates on his own steed, his black cloak attached to his broad shoulders. His deep grey eyes mirrored the soon approaching storms winter would bring. The corners of his mouth twitched barely noticeably at the sight of his expected guest. His otherwise grim expression seemed to soften, a sight the northern lands had not seen for a long time. The black steed slowed down at the sight of him. "You live dangerously, Lord Stark. Without the protection of your loyal bannermen, all alone at the gates of your castle. I could have planned an ambush and within moments —", his guest carefully ran a finger along her neck before a cheeky smile spread across her narrow lips. "You wouldn't dare, Lady Cerwyn.", he pointed to the long sword sitting on his broad back, "You'd be dead in the blink of an eye." Her almond eyes narrowed as she softly tilted her head, "Don't underestimate me."

He did not return her smile and dismounted from his steed without a word. The animal snorted softly as he let one of his calloused hands glide almost lovingly over the light brown coat. Turning his gaze back to the black stallion, he took a few step forwards and grabbed the reins made of leather close to its head before allowing the horse to sniffle his hand. After a short moment, the animal lowered its head and let him pet its mane. "I would never underestimate you.", he spoke, his voice hoarse and low, before he offered a hand and helped her to dismount. The man was now towering over her. His hand, which had been on the leather reins only mere moments before, softly gripped her shoulder and he lowered his head so their foreheads were touching. Dark strands of hair fell across his face. A gesture he had already cultivated in their childhood. "It is good to see you, Wylla.", Cregan spoke softly. A gloved hand cupped his roughened cheek, "It is good to see you, too, old friend." She took in his familiar scent of pine needles, dirt, firewood and a hint of wild berries mixed with his sweat. Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand and cleared her throat. He released his own from her shoulder and straightened up before taking the horses by the reins and leading them through the open gates inside the castle. Wylla caught up to him and grabbed the fabric of her light grey dress to keep pace with her friend. "Feed and water the horses.", Cregan barked at the stable boy as he pushed the reins into his hands. The boy nodded in fright and quickly retreated to care for the horses. She sent an apologetic glance at the poor boy before hurrying after Cregan through the courtyard again who already set a heavy foot to disappear inside the brick Great Hall. "Can I not visit her first?"

Her request made him stop in his tracks. Wylla noticed how his hands formed to fists and his body tensed up. A short, dark glance towards her made her almost regret her question. "Supper is already awaiting us." His scowl would have intimidated her but she knew his grumpy moods were due to the occasion of the day. Her own heart grew heavy at the thought. She didn't want to imagine how he must have felt since the death of his wife. "Please.", the girl begged him.  A sigh left his lips before he gave in. "Then at last let me accompany you." Cregan stalked past her and she followed him to the crypts. It was a dark place, lit only by torches. The place was stuffy and cold. It was the first time Wylla had entered this place after her funeral. A cold shiver ran down her spine and the powerlessness that had almost driven her out of the mind a year ago threatened to take hold of her again. She clasped the cloak around her shoulders and pulled it further around her slender body. Tears took her vision and the deeper they went into the crypt, the more short of breath she became. An icy hand wrapped around her heart and squeezed until it hurt. She wanted to scream in agony. One of her hands found the safety of the wall to her right as they reached the grave of their childhood friend. Cregan's gaze was blank as he stared at the statue that was the spitting image of his wife. Neither of them said a word. The image of Arra laying in her own pool of blood, her teal eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling and the cries of small Rickon born mere minutes before, still haunted her to this day. "I am so sorry.", she whispered almost inaudible. It was a tragedy what had occurred to her.

He did not answer anything in return, but kept staring at his late wife's face carved in stone. Quiet sobs shook Wylla's frame as hot tears burned her from the cold winds reddened cheeks. A hand pressed to her mouth to silence the sobbing yet she miserably failed to. Cregan pulled her silently into his embrace, one hand soothingly resting on her back. She clung helplessly to him and pressed her face into the hard leather of his chest-plate. His scent along with the leather filled her nostrils. Several minutes of a comforting silence passed before her tears had dried up. The girl reluctantly broke away from him and looked at the statue. "I miss her every single day of my being.", the Lord of Winterfell cut the silence quietly. She did not take her eyes off the woman that had turned to stone. "As do I." Silence filled the air between them.

Half an hour later they decided to leave the crypts into the chilly night air and returned to the Great Hall to dine the prepared food. The hot fire in the hearth lighted up the Hall and fought off the chill inside her bones. Their cloaks were brought to their chambers by the servants when they had arrived. Fresh vegetables and potatoes along with venison was served. Wylla thanked the servants for the dished food before she loaded her plate and took a bite of each as a cup of clay filled with rich ale was placed in front of her. "It tastes heavenly.", her eyelids fluttered as the taste coated her tongue. Little Rickon was sat next to his father as a maid was unsuccessfully trying to feed him yet the small boy declined the vegetables served to him. Cregan watched him out of the corner of his eyes and decided he's had enough before picking the boy up and putting him on his lap. "He's grown so much.", Wylla spoke softly as she watched the boy. His dark hair and storm-grey eyes resembled his father yet his snub nose and full lips resembled his mother, a perfect mix of both of them. "Unfortunately he has inherited the boisterous thick skull of the Starks.", his father jested as he unsuccessfully tried to bring a slice of potato to Rickon's mouth. The boy knocked the fork away and tried to wiggle out of his father grip before he began to wail. One of the maidens quickly hurried to grab him but Cregan waved her off . "He has to eat before bed."

Wylla put her fork down and pushed the chair she was sat on across the wooden floor with a loud scrape before she stood up and rounded the table. She knelt down and bent slowly towards Rickon. "You have to eat or else you will never be as strong as your father.", his big eyes watched her as she softly spoke to him. "One day you will be Lord of Winterfell and all of the lands in the North will be yours. But if you won't eat, you'll never become big and strong.", she jested quietly before she began tickling him. The boy squealed and giggled before stretching towards her and Cregan let him climb into his friend's arms. Her rosy lips pressed a kiss to his temple before she arose and carried him towards her chair on the other end of the table to take a seat again. "Now eat, Rickon. If you behave yourself, I'll read you a tale before you go to bed.", she promised him and shortly glanced at Cregan, silently asking for his approval. A short nod of his was enough and she glanced back to the boy sitting on her lap. She carefully brought the fork to the child's mouth, who looked at her with wide grey eyes before reluctantly opening his mouth. Quickly shoving the vegetables inside, she told him to close his mouth and chew. The boy obeyed and swallowed the food down his throat. Quickly opening his mouth again, Wylla was just about to spear a piece of meat on her fork as he slid restlessly back and forth on her lap. She quickly shoved another bite down his throat feeding him until he fully refused the food. "Are you fed?", her voice was soft and sweet. Rickon nodded and buried his head in her chest. She put an arm around him and gently brushed over his side. The sight of the little human snuggled up to her warmed her heart. She hurried to finish eating and then pulled the boy up onto her shoulder to carry him to bed. "Do you mind if I put him to sleep?" Cregan nodded shortly before he arose from his chair and planted a kiss on his son's dark hair. "Good night, boy. Sleep tight." The child reached out to him sleepily before letting his hand hang loosely again. "Do not fall asleep next to him. We have still have a lot to discuss.", Cregan's breath brushed her ear as he leaned in not to startle to boy in her arms. His sudden closeness caused her body goose bumps. She nodded shortly and left the room with Rickon's handmaiden.

While the handmaiden, Gilly, prepared the boy for bed, Wylla laid down on the furs on the bed with a book in hand about the mythology of 'The Children of the Forest'. She opened the book and looked at the drawings. Children with disproportionately large and expressively like green eyes and a pale gray-green skin with apparent rough to wrinkly texture, similar in appearance to plants. The tale was already read to her when she had been a child until she could read it herself. Rickon was placed next to her, covered into the furs and she moved over to him so he could see the drawings. Gilly lit the firewood in the hearth to keep the chamber warm before she left them alone inside. Wylla opened the first page and began reading to him, showing him the drawing as he pointed to it from time to time. After a while, the boy fell asleep cuddled up to her. She watched him for a short moment before she closed the book, planted a soft kiss on the crown of his head and tried to detach herself from the boy as gently as possible. The book was placed back on the shelf on the wall next to the wooden door before she left him in his peaceful slumber.

Cregan was already awaiting her in the Great Hall as she joined him an hour later. She shot him an apologetic glance before she took a seat next to him on the wooden table and took a sip of the ale she had not touched earlier. "Apologies, Rickon wanted to know everything about 'The Children in the Forest'." A deep chuckle rumbled in Cregan's chest and took a long sip of his cup of ale. "Wasn't that our favorite story when we were children?" She smiled gently and placed the cup of clay in front of her. "Yes, of course." A comfortable silence filled the room before she set to speak again. "What was it you wanted to discuss earlier?" The man next to her sighed heavily and sternly furrowed his thick brows. She noted he had taken off his leather chest protection and had rolled up his tunic sleeves to his elbows. His muscles were drawn visible underneath the thin fabric and she had to press her legs together in order to ignore the aching throb under her garments to concentrate on their conversation. She quickly took another sip of the ale to hide her heated cheeks.

"My council urges me to remarry. Yesterday, a raven from King's Landing has arrived reporting of the death of King Viserys I. and the usurpation of the throne through his firstborn son, Aegon II. The rightful heir, his daughter Rhaenyra, is said to be residing on Dragonstone. There is talk of war. Without securing my bloodline and position as Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell my council fears that the lords of smaller vassal houses sworn to House Stark will turn against me and peace will be destroyed.", he paused shortly to take another sip of ale, "Besides, the harvest of this summer must be taken, winter's coming."

She swallowed thickly, fright began spreading through her. "The King is dead? Why did the Hightowers put an usurpator on the throne when your father and nearly all lords of Westerosi noble houses have sworn their loyalty to his heir Rhaenyra?" Cregan sighed deeply as he locked eyes with her for a moment. His stormy grey met her deep brown-black. "They must have been planning it for a long time. The King was already ill during my father's time as Warden of the North." She turned her gaze back to the cup of clay in her narrow hands so as not to drown in the depths of his grey. "Arra is dead for barely a year and they're already forcing you to remarry." His features darkened at the mention of her name. His heart had only begun healing itself when it was already supposed to belong to his next bride. Wylla watched him out of the corner of her eyes, the warm light of the fire dancing across his handsome features. It was improper of her to desire the husband of another woman; regardless of the woman dead or alive, loyal friend or hated enemy. Yet she had been secretly in love with him since he had reached manhood seven years ago at the age of four and ten.

"I have mourned long enough. I must make my decision wisely. This marriage must be chosen political strategically.", his voice firm and yet broken. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "You should probably discuss such matters with my brother. I am in no position to —". He interrupted her rather harsh. "You are to help me to lead the lords of our vassal houses back onto the right path. Bind them to us again by offering them gifts and my hand in marriage to their daughters. Find me a suitable bride while my council and I plan the defence of the North." Wylla had to digest his words firstly. He would obviously never consider her as a bride. Confusion and embarrassment spread through her. She was ashamed to ever have formed the thought he would ever see her as anything more than the little girl she used to be. "Cregan, I am not sure if I am the best choice for this. I am not part of your council and —". Once again the man interrupted her, this time a little softer as he cupped her narrow hand with his own big, almost massive, hand and stared at her with an intensity she wasn't sure she would be able to withstand. "You are, who knows me best." Her eyes flickered between his before she pushed his calloused hand away in anger and arose from her chair. "I am not your fool riding across the north to pick the next best woman to warm your bed while you and your stupid council plan the war.", she spat angrily before she turned to leave him. Just as her hand touched the wood of the large door leading to the courtyard, he arose from his chair. "I need you as an ally." Anger made her tremble yet she didn't turn to face him. "Acknowledge me then as an ally." With that she pushed the door open and left into the icy embrace of the night.

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part viii)

a/n: today on a special angst-fluff episode, war is here. Claere faces off with Sylas and Cregan is pissed as fuck.

"The North remembers," they said, but in the face of dragonfire, memories of ash smouldered in secret.

The saying haunted Cregan Stark’s mind as he stared up at the approaching stone walls of Winterfell, each one steeped in history, in blood, in the scars of northern pride. The wildlings had brought ruin here before, flames that had charred whole villages and left deep wounds in the land and its people.

Now, with Sylas the Grim’s ruthless host threatening their borders, the North knew what it faced—a familiar terror comes to life in a new skin. And yet, this time, that terror was woven with something the North found even harder to bear: Claere. Their frustration with her burned as deep as their fear of Sylas. She was a tempest, one with a dragon’s shadow, and the tempest had now come home.

The ride back from Castle Cerwyn had been tense, Cregan keeping his jaw clenched as Claere remained distant, her silence like a wall. Her eyes held that distant, unreadable look he recognized all too well—the look that told him she was utterly unreachable elsewhere. And when the raven had come, when they’d learned the wildlings had already torn through Queensgate and were now barreling toward Winterfell, Claere’s decision was swift and absolute. She had urged her dragon, Luna, and flown on ahead, faster than any horse could travel, her need for solitude all too clear.

Back home, Winterfell was in turmoil. Word of Sylas’s raiders had spread quickly, stirring panic and outrage among the smallfolk and the highborn alike. Fear clung to the stone walls, and every murmur seemed to echo with the name of the wildling king who rode south of the Wall, the one who dared invoke a queen’s name—a southern majesty who bore a northern title, one that Winterfell was not wholly at ease with. But Cregan had no time for doubt or hesitation. His vassals, his bannermen—they would follow his lead or face his wrath.

In the great hall, the mood was dark and simmering, like a storm straining at its bounds. It has been this way ever since Claere had stepped foot into his home.

Lord Bolton, face sharp as a flint, crossed his arms and let his displeasure be known. “We’re to fight her war now, are we, my lord? Our sons and daughters—our lives spent to drive back the blood she’s drawn? What loyalty do we owe to a Targaryen?”

Cregan’s eyes darkened, his fists tight by his side, but he remained composed. “Our loyalty is to the North. This enemy does not care who reigns here; only Winterfell falls. And you will address Lady Stark with respect.”

Lord Ryswell, his brow heavy with disdain, shook his head. “But it is the White Dread's wings that drew their eye. This Sylas did not come for Winterfell—he came for her. Let her face him with her beast; let her burn them herself. Must we spill our blood to clean up her folly?”

Cregan’s hands trembled, his patience thinning like a frayed cord.

“If you would run when danger calls at our gates, then perhaps you belong south of the Neck, Lord Ryswell,” he spat, stepping toward him with a fury that made the air crackle. “Do not forget who leads here. You’re bound by the oath to fight for the North, and if you turn your back on that now, I will have your head before the wildlings can take it.”

Ryswell tensed, glancing around as other lords shifted uncomfortably. But he did not back down. “This is your queen’s doing, Lord Stark. She must carry the burden she’s brought upon us, and not cower behind our banners while Winterfell suffers.”

With a flash of uncontained rage, Cregan seized Ryswell by the collar, his grip vice-tight, fingers digging into the thick fabric as he hauled the lord off balance. The impact against the stone wall was brutal, echoing in the quiet tension of the hall, and Ryswell’s startled breath hitched, his eyes widening.

Cregan leaned in, his face mere inches from Ryswell’s, voice low and simmering with menace as he hissed, “If you question my wife's allegiance to the North, then you best prepare to prove yours. She has done more for my people than your risen banners.”

Lord Bolton dared to govern order over the Stark court. "My lord, please—"

“Let me make one thing clear." His voice reverberated louder. "I will fight for her, and the North will fight for her—whether you bend or break.”

He released Ryswell, who stumbled back with a dark glare, but Cregan paid no more heed. He swept his gaze over the others, a steely finality in his eyes.

“We stand together, or our realm falls.”

Unbeknownst to them, Claere lingered in the archway of the hall, a palm against the cool stone as if bracing herself against a tidal wave. She had known the risks, known the delicate line she walked when she ventured past the Wall. And yet, in the depths of her mind, she had believed the danger would end there—with her. That it would be her own fate to face, her choice to defend, and her consequence to bear. She had never thought it would ripple out, consuming not only Winterfell but every corner of the North in the threat of savage war. Now, with Sylas the Grim bearing down on them, the cost was spreading like poison through a wound, infecting all she held dear, casting a shadow over the very halls that had given her sanctuary.

The impact of her actions goaded her, as though Winterfell itself whispered its disappointment. She felt her stomach churn as Cregan's voice rang out, his fury cracking against stone and iron like thunder, defiant, desperate to protect her.

“And I will not allow any man here to see that happen.”

But she could feel the resentment in the lords' voices, their scorn a silent sentence upon her. Their words seemed to cut deeper than any northern frost, digging into her heart until the shame became unbearable.

Without a word, she turned away from the door, her footsteps echoing hollowly as she walked into the dim solitude of the hall.

Claere moved through the towering gates of Winterfell as if stepping out from a world she could no longer right. The northern wind tore at her cloak, pulling stray strands of silver hair across her face, but her gaze was steady, her jaw set with silent resolve.

Just beyond the walls, Luna lay blanketed in a thin dusting of fresh snow, her pearly scales glinting beneath as she shook herself free, the icy fragments scattering around her like stardust. Claere approached, running her hand along the dragon’s warm, rumbling hide, fingers tracing the edges of Luna's scales.

"Eman naejot addemmagon se odre," she said to herself and her dragon. I have to pay the price. Only me.

Luna’s golden eyes narrowed as if the dragon understood more than the simple cadence of her words, the fire at the heart of those depths a spark of both promise and warning. The dragon let out a low, vibrating hum, pressing her enormous head down toward Claere in something almost like tenderness. Claere, hands splayed on Luna’s snout, whispered into the space between them, her voice scarcely above a breath.

“Iksan zūgagon, Luna," she admitted in a whisper. "Kessa ao dohaeragon nyke?” I am scared, Luna. Will you help me?

The response was a fierce snort of smoke as if Luna were granting her blessing and all her reassurance. It was not enough.

Dutifully, Claere climbed the ropes of the saddle and mounted her steed, her knees pressing tight against Luna’s warm scales, and then, with a shout that cut the still air—“Soves, Luna!”—they took to the skies. Fly, Luna!

The winds sliced against her, battering her with an unyielding chill as they soared. She had forgone her riding leathers in the haste of her choice, the coarse wind whipping at her skirts and cloak, cutting against her skin. But the discomfort was a faraway thing and such was the spontaneity of dragonblood. She flew fast, intent, her mind ablaze with thoughts of everything she had left behind and what lay ahead. Her vision sharpened as she scanned the frozen lands below, hunting for signs of the enemy’s encampment.

And finally, there—sprawling like some savage scar against the land—a camp of tattered tents and ash-dusted fires spread in defiance of the snow.

The wildlings’ camp was a raw display of grit and disorder, tents lashed together with hide and bone, rings of fire smouldering where warriors gathered in restless clusters. The sight of her shadow looming overhead sent them into frantic motion; men and women darted for weapons, cries ringing out as they readied for the worst. But Claere had no intention of launching fire or fury from above. She descended steadily, bringing Luna’s menacing form to the ground with a long, deafening roar that sent nearby men staggering.

Two wildlings rushed forward, their faces painted in streaks of ash, axes drawn, arrows already nocked in their bows. They moved with lethal purpose, but Claere was unfazed, her gaze like tempered steel.

“I must speak to the one who calls himself Sylas the Grim,” she called, her voice emphatic, tenacious.

She could feel the wild energy of Luna at her back, a silent reminder of the fire she could unleash with a mere command. Her heart hammered in the pause, yet her expression held no threat, no violence. Instead, her intentions were more profound—steeped in duty and sacrifice, fueled by a desperate love that outweighed all her fears. She was not here to rain death but to offer herself to the one who wanted her, the one who had torn peace from her hands.

“Tell him the Dragon Queen in the North is here.”

X

Claere stepped into the dim tent, the heavy fabric rustling behind her as it closed, sealing her within a space that reeked of sweat, smoke, and damp fur. Her eyes adjusted to the flickering torchlight, revealing a figure looming at the centre—a man so solid and coarse that he seemed an extension of the savage north itself.

Sylas the Grim. He was far taller than Cregan, broad-shouldered and massive, his age betrayed by streaks of grey in his wild mane of red hair. He wore pelts and leathers, smeared with the earth and blood of countless battles and raids, and every inch of him seemed sharpened by a life spent enduring the elements and taking what he desired.

Two guards, as fierce as hounds, lingered on either side of him, but with a single dismissive flick of his wrist, they shuffled out.

"I want her to myself," he said to them.

Sylas’s mouth twisted into a grin that split his face into his bushy beard, yellowed teeth gleaming. His eyes traced her form with a gluttonous curiosity like she were some rare prey he’d finally snared after a long, arduous hunt. Claere moved further into the tent, her posture poised, her gaze inscrutable, her calm an unsettling contrast to the predatory air he exuded.

She dipped into a curtsey, uncertain how a man like this might wish to be addressed. “My lord, allow me a proper introduction. I am Claere Stark, Lady of Winterfell.”

He let out a bark of laughter, coarse and unrestrained. “My lord? Am I your lord? I'll be King Sylas soon enough.” His eyes roamed over her, lingering at her shoulders, then her face, savouring every inch. “You’re too little for a queen. Just a baby. How old are you?”

A faint chill settled into her voice. “Six and ten, my lord. My mother is still the queen.”

Sylas’s smile widened, a feral gleam lighting his eyes. “And you will be someday. You're already a woman.”

The words hung between them, fraught with the ominous weight of his intent. Claere’s pulse quickened beneath her skin, but she remained as marble, knowing his hunger for power, for something beyond the life he’d known, radiated from every gesture. Her dragon, her birthright, the North—these were the spoils he craved. He leaned forward, his massive figure closing in, an aura of raw ferocity emanating.

Sylas's lips twisted into a grin that dripped with satisfaction as he stepped closer, his broad frame casting a shadow that swallowed the light around them. He folded his arms, leaning back with a smug, wolfish glint in his eye.

“Did you fly all this way for me?”

“I did, my lord.” Her voice was measured, smooth—a tempered blade he hadn’t yet managed to dull.

“Oh, I like it when you call me that,” he mused, his eyes glinting with perverse pleasure. “Makes me feel like a god.” He let the words roll over her, savouring each one, circling her like a predator with fresh meat. “So,” he continued, his voice lilting with mock surprise, “you’ve come to beg for mercy, then? The little queen, down on her knees? Not to kill the Stark boy?”

Claere lifted her chin, her expression as serene and cold as winter’s first frost. “You wanted me,” she said, her words quiet, unyielding. “Now you have me.”

A ripple of something feral passed through him, his grin widening into a leer, his pride feeding on her defiance.

“I don't plan on letting go. Now tell me, does the North know it bends to me through you?” His gaze roamed over her, possessive, as if she were no more than a prize he had finally claimed. “I wonder, does the wolf know that his doe strayed into the wild?”

“If you require words,” she replied, “then speak them plainly. But do not think to bait me.”

Sylas let out a bark of laughter, filling the tent with his raw, unrestrained mirth.

“Words, little queen?” he sneered. “No, I’ve got no need for words. Only the strength to take what’s mine.” He took another step toward her, his gaze alight with victory, his looming presence attempting to smother the quiet resolve in her eyes.

"Winterfell,” he paused, his gaze hardening, “the Iron Throne. And with you by my side, the North will rule the South.”

She saw it now, the intent beneath his words, as clear as day: he wanted her claim, her blood, her dragon—and through her, dominion over the entire realm. He sought the legitimacy of her claim, so unlike the Free Folk who lived outside the law. She felt the desire in his gaze sharpen, like a wolf that had tasted blood. Claere remained unbowed, every inch of her regal bearing intact, meeting his eyes with a steady defiance that amused him.

“You're a pretty girl. None are like you past the Wall—shiny things are rare in the white woods,” he mused, lifting a calloused hand to touch the edge of her lip with his thumb. His skin was rough, the gesture slow and deliberate, a feigned intimacy that carried a threat.

“I've heard about your kind. Nasty cunts, you lot. Kings with dragons for cocks. Queens that piss fire. Brother-fuckers. What were you doing out there in the snow, hm?”

His thumb lingered, the weight of it pressing against her lip, but her eyes were deadened, as though she were looking through him rather than at him. His proximity, his words—none of it shook her. She saw him for what he was, a man intent on conquest, and she would not give him the pleasure of rattling her.

“Only what’s trivial to your eyes, my lord,” she answered with measured calm, her gaze unwavering.

“Aye, maybe so,” he grunted, though the words fell bitterly from his mouth. His gaze hardened, refusing to be bested by her poise. “But you were still stupid enough to catch my eye.” His words held the bitterness of a hunter who’d finally cornered the game he’d long sought.

In truth, Sylas had spotted her months before, that slip of silver moving through the snow, a ravishing figure set apart from the northern world. He saw his chance then—a dragon rider alone, his path to dominance over more than just a scattered wildling host. He could claim the North through her, and if fate allowed, the world beyond it.

Finally, he moved his hand away and stood back, his grin widening. “But why’d you come to me? These are my lands now. You could’ve burned all my men from up there with that dragon and saved yourself the trouble.”

Claere gave a small, almost careless smile, the tilt of her head catching the dim candlelight in the tent. “You wanted me, didn’t you?” she replied, her voice smooth, level.

Sylas let out a scoff, though the amusement didn’t reach his eyes. “Came for a good fuck with a king?”

Claere blinked. “I've got that settled, my lord.”

“Ooh. No, no, that’s not it. I see it in those weird fuckin' eyes.” He bent to her eye level, the smell of woodsmoke and something sharper coming off him in waves.

“You came to kill me,” he said.

“Hmm.” Claere’s lips curved slightly, her smile a barely there promise, tinged with dark certainty. “Fortunately for you, it isn't my hands that bring your death.”

The smile faded from his face, leaving a flare of anger there, a crack in his façade. His eyes narrowed, and before she could move, his hand shot out and twisted in her thick braids, pulling her head back roughly, his face inches from hers. Claere stubbornly smothered a cry of pain in her throat.

“You think that wolf of yours is going to protect you, huh?”

Claere only sighed, her calm as impervious as ever, even as her hair tugged sharply. Her eyes, blank as winter’s endless fields, never left his face, every ounce of his threat barely a breeze against her. And just as he opened his mouth to press further, a shadow passed over the tent, the sound of heavy breathing growing closer—a thunderous exhale, deep as the earth.

“I was born with a guardian.” Claere countered softly. “My dragon is here. The wolf is a blessing.”

Sylas’s fingers twitched against her scalp, but his grip was weaker now, a flicker of doubt creeping into his predatory stare as Luna’s shadow shifted just beyond the tent walls, her breath a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the earth beneath them.

Claere’s eyes glinted with quiet defiance as she met his gaze, her lips barely moving as she murmured, “I could say the word.” Her voice was silk over steel. “Let her burn us both here, finish this battle before it ever begins. But my husband waits for me—and he’s ready to repay in kind.”

Sylas’s face twisted, a low growl rumbling in his chest. “You think I'm scared of that boy? I killed his Night's Watch commander. I killed all those crows. I rode through the Wall for you, little queen, I don't care if he's shitting bricks when I put my axe in his head.”

“Strange,” she replied smoothly, “that you would bring all these men to capture a single girl before you march on King's Landing.” Her gaze drifted over him, cool and measuring. “Or is that all you can manage, my lord? Three thousand strong, and not a one with the grit to face the boy who stands in your way?”

He sneered, tightening his grip on her hair, another now closed around her neck, yet something in his posture had faltered, his shoulders stiffening. “I don’t need to fight him to take what’s mine.”

“Then why not march to Winterfell yourself?” Her smile was taunting, almost pitying, like a spark dancing in the shadows. “Do you fear he’ll be waiting for you at the gates? Do you fear he'll cleave your head before you can cross him?”

Sylas’s jaw clenched, his dark eyes blazing with something close to fury.

"I've seen Cregan Stark fight," she went on. "He doesn’t tire, doesn’t yield. Your three thousand could be thirty thousand, and it would make no difference. You cannot break him, he is winter itself."

His grip on her hair tightened. “Careful, girl. You’re not as untouchable as you think.”

“But I am,” Claere replied, unruffled, leaning in until her voice was a whisper only he could hear. “You know it as well as I do. Your strength lies in numbers, yet here you are—grappling with a girl and a shadow.” She leaned back, bored now. “Go home, Sylas, if you value the lives of your men. They didn’t come here to die for your pride.”

Sylas’s sneer softened, a slight uncertainty that only strengthened her resolve. He might have come to conquer, but at that moment, it was clear who held the true power in the tent.

A sudden blink released him of hesitation. His fingers roughly released Claere’s hair with a grudging smirk, as though her words had somehow shifted the game in his mind. He let her step back, looking her up and down as if appraising a newfound bounty. A flicker of excitement gleamed in his eyes—a dark eagerness that reeked of arrogance.

“Go on, then,” Sylas drawled, waving her away with a lazy flick of his hand. “Run back to your wolf and tell him I’m coming. No more raiding, no more warnings. I'll take his head his doe and the entire North at Winterfell’s gates myself.”

Claere held his gaze as she stepped back, unruffled, allowing a cool smile to curve her lips. She brushed her hands down her silver curls, arranging them around her shoulders patiently.

“Tell him yourself. I’m certain he’d love to hear it from you. My husband loves a good fight, you see.”

Sylas laughed, a booming, feral sound. “Oh, I will. I’ll bring him to his knees, make him watch while I put a prince in your belly. You’ll forget that Stark soon enough, little queen, or he'll just go deaf from hearing you scream.”

His smile was wide, boastful, but behind it lingered the faintest hint of unease—a silent recognition of the words she’d left with him, like whispers of ice drifting through the heat of his fury.

“Primitive talk from a primitive man. You’d better bring all of your legions, then,” she replied, her voice soft, but her words as pointed as any blade. “You’ll need them.”

“Little silver-haired bitch,” Sylas indistinctly growled under his breath, as if speaking aloud would bring forth the White Dread's fiery ire.

And with that, she politely inclined her head and turned, stepping out into the icy winds with her chin held high, leaving Sylas in the shadow of her dragon’s looming presence, casting him in darkness.

X

Cregan sat hunched over a sprawling table strewn with hastily drawn maps, half-finished sketches of battle formations, and advice from every corner of his bannermen. Some had urged caution, wary of the wildlings’ numbers and the risk to their forces. Others, bold and battle-worn, advocated for a bold strike north, encouraging him to meet Sylas with all the fire and fury of Winterfell’s strength. Yet for all their words, Cregan found himself constantly drifting back to one thought—to ride north alone, with Ice at his back, and hack down the wildling scourge himself.

The capriciousness of his decision kept him so absorbed he didn’t hear the door open or her soft steps on the stone floor. It wasn’t until she brushed past him, a warm hand resting on his shoulder, that he looked up, startled. All the exhaustion in his eyes fled, a reaction to whenever she graced him with her presence. He sat up straighter, eager to have her close.

Claere. She wore a faint smile, so casual, so beautiful, like she hadn’t spent the last days keeping to herself, hiding in plain sight, avoiding him like winter's fever. Before he could speak, she leaned in and kissed the arc of his cheek.

"Husband," she greeted quietly.

He stilled, pleasantly confused, but found himself responding instinctively, returning her kiss with a soft press of his lips to her temple. She stood beside him, hands clasped behind her back, violet eyes inspecting his plans, her experience an unspoken mystery. A hurricane in the guise of a summer breeze.

Then, he noticed it—a faint, unfamiliar scent. His brow furrowed as he sniffed the air again.

“What is that?”

She held his gaze, placid as ever. “Dragon. I was riding Luna,” she answered, her tone simple, almost childlike. Her eyes sparkled with innocent mischief, but the smell lingered, feral and sharp, more like wild meat than dragon flight.

He looked closer, and that’s when he saw it—a sickly green, darkening bruise hidden under the veil of her silver hair, two thumb-sized marks pressed just below her hairline. He stood up, anxiety overwhelming in a second, reaching toward her, but she sidestepped him smoothly, her gaze sliding to the floor.

“I fell,” she murmured, her voice light as air.

He let out an incredulous laugh, reaching for her chin to tilt her face toward him. “Here I thought you despised lies.”

Claere’s cool, unflinching gaze remained fixed on the floor for a long, unbearable second before she lifted it, unbothered by his anxieties.

"I flew to the wildling camps on the undern. To meet with Sylas the Grim.”

For a heartbeat, there was only stunned silence.

Cregan's hand dropped from her chin, falling to his side as if struck. Finally, when her situation registered, the words came, heated and fierce.

“You what?” Cregan’s voice was low, simmering. He rubbed at his eyes, sighing out, before he pointed to her bruise. "He did that then?"

She nodded. "I pushed him too far. My mistake."

“Are you mad?" he hissed.

She swallowed hard, stroking at the numbing bruise on her neck, and said nothing.

He flouted her concerning remark. "I defended you to my council—to men who would sooner see you gone than risk their lives for you! I’ve called all my banners, raised every able sword in the North—for you—and you thought it wise to stake your life before that wildling scum?”

He looked at her, half-expecting her to flinch under his fury. But she only watched him back, observant, enduring as stone, her lips pressed thin. Her calm only ignited him further.

“I spent hours preparing our defences, convincing them to stand with you, while you—” he clenched his fists—“while you went and met with the very man who could've struck you down with his bare hands. Alone!”

The crack came swift and sharp—a fire flaring to life behind her violet gaze, a flash of defiance as fierce as the flame inside her.

“I don't care, Cregan. I wanted to do the same for you.” she snapped, her silver tongue lashing. “I want to defend you. To protect you, before Sylas. For you.”

A tremor silenced the room. It was the rarest thing, her rage—rare, and somehow more daunting than his. It stole his breath and wiped the words clean off his tongue.

Cregan stared, thunderstruck, a storm gathering behind his eyes. Her words seemed to settle into him only slowly, like a wound too deep to notice at first. Claere’s fingers twitched at her sides, her lips pressed tightly together as if she were struggling to hold back her own words. She looked away, jaw set with a resolve that didn’t quite hide the tension beneath.

He exhaled harshly, dragging a hand through his hair. “Claere…” he began, voice rough with something caught between anger and hurt, “Do you even realize how careless this was, love?”

Her words came out painful. "It's all my fault."

His expression shifted, his initial anger tempered by an ache in his gaze as her admission, bare and raw, settled over the room like the aftermath of a storm.

“It’s my fault,” she echoed, her voice breaking just a little. She didn’t look at him, didn’t dare meet his eyes as the shame tightened in her throat. “I did this. They are right.”

Cregan felt his own frustration melt, a tide pulling away to reveal the harshness of his own words. He moved closer, his arms reaching out but stopping short, hovering as if afraid she’d slip through his fingers.

"Sweetling. Claere," he said, his voice a mere plea. "There's no use in laying blame, especially on you. You know I would raze half these men myself before I let them tear you down."

She shook her head, her hands clenching at her sides. “I've been an impediment for too long. We both know it. I expected things would change with time. Yet I'm playing at something I never will be...” She trailed off, and a heavy silence settled between them, her own helplessness almost unbearable.

Like hell, he would let her forget her worth for a piece of piss.

He reached for her, fingertips tracing the edge of her cheek before coming to rest under her chin, tilting her face toward him with evident resolve.

“The North will fight, but not out of fear or obligation. Because of you,” he declared to her, his voice rough with feeling. “You are of Winterfell now, Claere. And for that, we will fight.”

For a moment, her gaze flickered with uncertainty, her lips pressed tight, yet he held her there in his arms, grounding her with his assurance.

Gently, he brought her into a kiss, his lips brushing hers with a tenderness that spoke of comfort and promise alike. His hands cradled her face, his fingers threading softly through her hair as if each touch could smooth away the weight she carried. The kiss was slow, unhurried, he tasted the salt of her worry and the steel of her will, sensing the guardedness that lingered beneath her quietude. Yet his touch was firm, anchoring, a proof that there was nowhere safer, no one more ready to bear her burdens with her.

When he drew back, he lingered close, his forehead resting gently against hers, his eyes flashed with something like awe, and a low chuckle escaped him.

“You must tell me, how in the gods’ names did you manage to meet Sylas and walk away with but a bruise?”

Claere shrugged with quiet, unassuming grace, her gaze sliding past him as though recalling an idle, inconsequential memory. “I spoke with him, that’s all. Said what needed saying.”

He continued to prod. “That is all?”

“Yes. I simply suggested that if he truly wanted our kingdom, then why he hadn’t contested the King in the North himself instead of raiding innocent villages .” Her eyes met his with a calm intensity. “It seemed only fair.”

He let out a surprised laugh, brows lifting, “Fair? You took his mind off his prize and sent him marching for my gates, thinking he had something to prove?”

She simply pursed her lips, cool and composed, as if she hadn’t, with a few words, diverted the entire course of Sylas’s plan. “A bit of truth and a bit of pride can go a long way with a man like him. I thought you’d understand that.”

Her eyes flashed, calm yet watchful, and beneath her delicate, almost passive demeanour, there was a quiet ferocity that struck him. She had always worn her strength in the subtlest of ways, but in this moment, he saw her for what she truly was—a fierce, unyielding force wrapped in silks and cool smiles.

The words hit their mark—a subtle, artful dig, he had somehow overlooked.

“Why would I understand that?” Cregan’s voice was thick with mock offence, though a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Claere only arched a brow, sidestepping him with an elegance that was more of a dare than a retreat. “Oh, you’ve always had a certain… charm,” she replied, her tone deceptively light. “Men like you, like him—always so confident of their own strength. Pride blinds.”

“Pride blinds, is it? Huh, c'mere, girl. You dare speak to your lord that way?” he challenged, feigning a warning as he lunged forward, catching her around the waist. He lifted her clean off the floor with a mischievous groan, her soft laughter lilting as he spun her in a playful circle.

“Cregan!” Her laughter slipped out in breaths, both startled and, at last, easy, though her hands settled in half-protest against his shoulders. When he set her down, her cheeks were lightly flushed, her smile lingering. It was as if some sense of normality, away from the chaos, had come back into their lives.

“Guess it’s true then,” he murmured, his lips close to her ear. He urged a line of kisses from her ear to her throat, nuzzling his nose into the soft arch of her neck.

She slid her hands up to his neck, scraping her fingers lightly into the hair at his nape. "And you’re just stubborn enough to prove it.”

“I thought I’d married a princess with a pet dragon,” he teased, nuzzling into the soft curve of her neck, “but it seems I’ve got myself a queen with the cunning of a shadowcat.”

She raised a brow, almost daring him to press further. “And does that surprise you, my lord?”

His laughter boomed out, genuine and unrestrained, as he spun her again in a wide circle. "Not one damned bit."

X

Cregan stood tense in the night, sleep far from him, his silhouette sharp against the faint light filtering in from the slivered moon. The night air was thick with chilling doom, yet inside their chamber, Claere lay curled in quiet repose, her face softened by the kind of peacefulness that had eluded her during the day. It was almost bizarre, the way she could sleep so soundly amid the tension that hung over Winterfell. But perhaps, he thought, this chaos was the very place where she found her solace.

His gaze wandered to the heavy shadows beyond the walls, tracing the dark line of the woods against the horizon. The forests seemed to breathe with a life of their own, brimming with anticipation. He felt it ploughing on his chest, a premonition building like a slow storm.

Then it came—the steady, unmistakable drumming of many hooves and, seconds later, the crackling glow of fiery beacons lighting the night. The panic was quick, the sentries efficient, but somehow, Cregan had known. It was as though he’d been waiting for it all along.

He reached for Ice, his grip steady on the ancient sword’s hilt, and started toward the door. His stride displayed his finality, purposeful toward the death that came for him.

Sylas was here sooner than he’d expected, but in a way, the sooner, the better.

The crunch of hurried footsteps sounded from the corridor, and a guard approached, his face pale under the torchlight. “Lord Stark! Sylas the Grim… he’s come alone, my lord. Just rode up and called for you. What are your orders?”

Cregan’s eyes narrowed. The arrogance—or the conviction—it took to ride unguarded to Winterfell’s gates spoke of Sylas’s brutality and audacity, a message he knew all too well from his Free Folk brothers.

But then, a thought struck, clear as the northern wind. That meant Claere’s plan had worked—her brilliant, precarious little gamble had actually lured him here.

“Alone,” he murmured, almost to himself, and a fierce grin ghosted across his face. His clever Claere had managed to provoke the beast to come alone, his defences abandoned. Sylas had foolishly fallen for it.

With a calm that belied his steely resolve, Cregan replied to the guard, “Open the gates. If he came for a reckoning, then I’ll meet him myself.”

He felt the chill in his blood turn to iron as he stepped into the night.

X

thank you for reading! I'm so sad to be nearing the end :(

question for my loveliest people: who do you imagine as Sylas the Grim? I imagine someone with the same features (but nowhere as close in character) as Tormund Giantsbane.

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @lv7867 , @piper570 , @danikasthings , @acsc8 , @justdazzling ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[harley-kwinn]

— Winter’s Storm

summary:

129 AC. King Viserys I. is dead.

The Warden of the North is still in the throes of grief a year after the death of his beloved wife. The seven kingdoms are in discord following the coronation of the usurper Aegon II., and war threatens to break out across the land. A war that will claim hundreds of thousands of lives.

As winter approaches, the wolf must make a decision. In light of the brewing war, his council forces him to remarry in order to strengthen the Starks' position and succession in the North.

The wolf threatens to lose his clear vision. The closer the war gets, the louder the doubts about Cregan's power become.

Vassal houses once sworn to House Stark turn away and Cregan must reunite the North to face the real threats.

How good that his long-time and most loyal friend can keep the peace within him. Will she also manage to warm his heart again?

pairing: cregan stark x cerwyn!reader (OC)

warnings: nsfw (18+; minors dni), hotd/got typical sexism, bad language, grammar (english is not my first language), chapter dependent warnings

author’s note: cregan stark got me in a chokehold sorry not sorry 🫠

trying myself for a series for the first time so i’m wondering if anyone is even interested in reading it?? i’ll gladly add you to the taglist 🖤

the story will loosely follow the plot of f&b as i haven’t read the books yet? so everything i write is based on the show and/or a wiki of ice and fire. a few things will be changed and/or added to support the story line.

the first part is still in works but as soon as I’ve finished it i’ll gladly upload it :)))