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novaursa · 2 months ago

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Fires That Never Freeze

- Summary: You receive the news about Rhaenys' death at Rook's Rest, before Jace arrives as he secures the Twins.

- Paring: targ!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N, is only daughter of Rhaenyra, has silver hair and violet eyes and is bonded to a dragon. These events happen after The Heir of Ice and Ash. To read all parts in chronological order, or more of my works, visit my blog. The list is pinned to the top.

- Rating: Explicit 18+

- Word count: 5 524

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @21-princess

You cradle your son, Killian, against your chest, his soft breath a soothing rhythm amidst the storm brewing in your heart. His dark hair is thick for one so young, a stark contrast to your own silver strands that cascade down like a river of moonlight, braided intricately yet now trembling at the edges as you shudder with grief. His violet eyes—your eyes—peek up at you in curiosity, innocent to the world that has been drenched in blood and betrayal. You wish you could preserve this innocence forever, shield him from the horrors beyond these stone walls, but you know all too well that the winds of war spare no one.

The letter lies crumpled beside you, the wax seal of the Three-Headed Dragon snapped in two. The words are still fresh, cutting through you like Valyrian steel, sharper than any sword you could ever wield. Your grandmother—brave, indomitable Rhaenys—is gone. The Queen Who Never Was met her end at Rook’s Rest, where she and Meleys faced the combined fury of Vhagar and Sunfyre. The account is almost too monstrous to believe: how Meleys’ head was severed and paraded as a trophy, how Aegon the Usurper was carried away like a broken thing, sealed in a crate to hide his mangled form. They say he is scarcely more than a corpse now, held together only by pride and the twisted whims of fate.

Your tears fall silently, trailing over Killian’s soft cheeks as he looks up at you, gurgling without a care in the world. He knows nothing of what has been lost, what will never be.

Suddenly, you feel Cregan’s presence behind you—warm and steady like the roots of an ancient tree. He kneels by your side, his grey eyes searching yours with concern. His large, calloused hand rests gently on your back, grounding you in the present. “Y/N,” he murmurs, voice soft as the snow falling outside. “I heard. The raven...”

You can’t find the strength to speak, so you only nod. He understands without needing further words; he always has. The Lord of Winterfell was never meant for courtly games or gilded halls, but here in the cold North, his honesty and strength have become your rock amidst all the chaos. Yet even his unwavering strength can’t shield you from this hurt.

“I thought dragons were… unkillable,” Cregan says after a pause, his voice rough with both sorrow and disbelief. “The stuff of legends, creatures older than men, forged in fire. I thought they were eternal.”

You blink away the tears that threaten to blind you and force yourself to meet his gaze. There is no room for illusions, not in this world where even gods bleed. “Anything can be killed, Cregan,” you whisper, voice trembling yet laced with a fierce conviction. “Even the gods. Even kings and Kingmakers alike.” The venom laced in the last words is unmistakable. Ser Criston Cole, the leech in royal armor, the wretched man who enabled this war to take root with his false oaths and blackened soul—how you despise him. The thought of him twisting the fate of nations with his cruelty makes bile rise in your throat

Cregan’s brow furrows as he takes in your words. He knows of your distaste for Cole, for all those who put ambition over loyalty, who would see the world burn if only to rule over the ashes. He moves closer, wrapping a protective arm around you and Killian. “You’re right,” he says quietly, his voice a deep rumble, “but we’re still here, and we’ll fight back for those we’ve lost. For those who remain.”

Killian shifts in your arms, cooing softly, as if sensing the turmoil in your heart. You lean into Cregan’s warmth, letting yourself take solace in the strength he offers. “Rhaenys was always so brave,” you murmur, your voice breaking slightly. “She defied them all her life, never once bending to their will. They feared her because she was a woman who would not be cowed, and now… they parade her death like some kind of victory.”

“They can parade all they like,” Cregan says, his voice turning steely, “but a victory built on treachery and murder will crumble. Aegon’s body may still cling to life, but his cause is already rotting from within. The realm will see it.”

His words, though meant to comfort, bring little ease. The war rages on, and with it, the losses mount like a tolling bell. Your heart aches, both for those who have fallen and for those who must still face what lies ahead. Yet, as you look down at Killian, you feel a flicker of hope amidst the darkness. He is a symbol of all you fight for—a future not bound by the horrors of the past, but shaped by those who endure.

“Thraxata will know,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Cregan, your thoughts turning to your own dragon, the Midnight Fury. “She will mourn with me.”

Cregan tightens his grip around you, his chin resting on the top of your head. “And when the time comes, she’ll fight with you too, alongside us all. This isn’t over, Y/N. We have something they’ll never understand—a love forged in fire and ice, bound by loyalty.”

You close your eyes and let yourself be held, the flicker of strength in your chest rekindling. The tears still fall, but now, with every drop, there is something else too—a growing resolve. Rhaenys’ death will not be in vain. The world will hear the roar of her legacy through you, through your son, and through every soul that refuses to bow to the false kings who sit on thrones built on blood.

For now, you hold your family close, taking what comfort you can in the warmth of Cregan’s embrace, in the small heartbeat thrumming steadily against your chest. The autumn winds howl outside, but here, amidst stone and fur, there is still love, still life. The storm may rage, but you will not break.

Not yet.

The weirwood stands tall and ancient, its pale bark almost glowing in the dim twilight. The blood-red leaves flutter softly in the breeze, a stark contrast against the gray skies overhead. You feel small before it, like a child gazing up at something vast and unfathomable. The face carved into the heart tree’s trunk stares down at you with those deep, knowing eyes, as if it sees not just you, but every thought, every secret tucked away in the recesses of your soul.

You’ve been standing here longer than you intended, lost in the quiet of this sacred place. Yet, beneath the peace, there’s an unease gnawing at you. The chill of autumn clings to your skin, sharper now, more present. It crawls into your bones, but you can’t bring yourself to move. You’re here, but not truly—your thoughts scattered like leaves on the wind.

For a moment, everything sharpens. You feel the press of the cold more keenly now, and your breath curls in the air like faint wisps of smoke. Then, the world begins to shift. The rustle of the leaves grows distant, muffled, until it’s almost drowned out by something else—a whisper that’s barely more than a breath, carried on the wind. You stiffen, your heart quickening. It’s a voice, faint yet clear as the first crack of ice on a frozen lake.

Y/N.

It speaks your name, though you cannot tell whether it’s a man’s voice or a woman’s. It sounds old, ageless even, and it seems to echo within your mind as much as in the air around you. A rush of images floods your vision—flashes of faces, places, events yet to come or perhaps already past. You see fire and blood, wings spreading wide against a burning sky. There’s the glint of steel, a flash of a crown—someone crying out, their voice lost in a roar of flames.

Then, as suddenly as it came, the frenzy halts. You stagger back a step, your surroundings snapping back into focus, the world real again. But the cold clings to you, more than it did before. The weirwood watches you, its eyes holding secrets it will never share. You swallow, trying to steady your breath, your heart pounding loud enough to drown out all else.

“Y/N!” A familiar voice cuts through the fog of your thoughts, pulling you back fully to the present.

You turn, dazed, and see Cregan striding toward you, his expression tense with concern. Behind him is Maester Kennet, his gray robes fluttering as he hurries to keep pace. Cregan’s eyes are locked on you, his brows drawn together, the worry evident in his every movement. “What’s wrong? You’ve been out here too long��it’s freezing.” His tone is gentle, but there’s an edge to it, the underlying fear for your well-being.

You blink, still feeling the lingering echoes of the vision, the remnants of those hurried images flickering in your mind’s eye. “I… I’m fine,” you say, but your voice is shakier than you intend, betraying the truth of your unease.

Cregan stops in front of you, reaching out to cup your cheek with one roughened hand, his thumb brushing against your cold skin. “You don’t look fine, love,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours as if trying to find the cause of whatever has you so shaken. “What happened?”

“I’m not sure,” you admit, closing your eyes briefly as you lean into his touch. “The weirwood… I thought I heard something. Saw something.”

Maester Kennet approaches cautiously, his gaze darting between you and the heart tree. “The Old Gods have their ways of sending messages, Lady Y/N,” he says softly. “The weirwoods are their eyes, their ears. It is not unheard of for them to reach out to those who carry their favor.”

Cregan frowns at that, his grip on you tightening protectively. “She’s been out here too long, alone,” he says, not taking his eyes off you. “Whatever she saw or heard can wait until she’s had some rest.”

But Maester Kennet shakes his head, his face grim as he pulls a folded letter from his robes. “I wouldn’t have interrupted if it weren’t important. A raven came not long ago—from the Twins. Your brother, Jacaerys, has secured passage for his forces. He’s on his way to meet you, Lady Y/N.”

The words bring a sudden, fierce surge of emotion—relief mixed with dread. Jacaerys is alive, fighting as he always promised he would. Yet with every victory comes new dangers, new battles. And the visions, whatever they meant, linger in your mind like a shadow cast over the joy of the news.

Cregan, ever perceptive, sees the conflict in your eyes and places a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “We’ll face whatever comes,” he promises, his voice a low rumble, the kind that always makes you feel like you’re standing on solid ground, even when the world tilts.

You manage a small smile, nodding. “Yes…”

But as you glance back at the weirwood, its face still and expressionless, you can’t shake the feeling that the Old Gods are watching more keenly than ever. The autumn winds whisper secrets you’re not sure you want to hear, and deep in your heart, you sense that whatever lies ahead, the choices you make will ripple far beyond the snow-covered hills of the North.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the tree, allowing Cregan’s steady presence to guide you back toward Winterfell, leaving the whispers of the gods behind—for now.

The winds bite sharper today, swirling through the bare branches of the godswood and over the snow-covered battlements of Winterfell. You stand beside Cregan at the edge of the courtyard, your cloak pulled tight against the chill. Thraxata looms behind you, her obsidian scales gleaming in the pale winter light. The Midnight Fury’s violet eyes are fixed on the skies above, where your brother is soon to arrive. The air hums with anticipation, the kind that makes your heart race and your fingers twitch. Beside you, Cregan rests a hand on the pommel of his sword, his gaze as steady as the stone walls that surround you.

“Are you ready?” Cregan’s voice is low, warm like a hearth fire, grounding you in the present moment.

You nod, though the tension in your chest remains. “I haven’t seen Jacaerys in so long. I only hope he’s as safe as his letter claimed.”

Cregan squeezes your hand, a brief but reassuring gesture. “If he’s anything like you, he’ll be stronger than ever.”

You smile at his words, but the edge of worry still lingers. War changes people, molds them into something else—sometimes into something harder, colder. You’ve seen it already in the eyes of the soldiers who have passed through Winterfell, men whose laughter now rings hollow, whose smiles are mere shadows. What has the war made of your brother?

Before your thoughts can spiral further, the distant roar of a dragon echoes through the sky, accompanied by the deep flap of massive wings. All eyes turn upward, and there—emerging from the rolling clouds—is Vermax. His green and bronze scales shimmer with an ethereal glow against the muted grays of the northern sky, his wings outstretched as he circles lower. Your heart lifts at the sight, despite everything.

Thraxata rumbles low in her throat, a sound that’s half-greeting, half-challenge. She shifts, restless, her powerful tail sweeping across the ground and leaving deep grooves in the snow. You place a calming hand on her side, feeling the heat radiating from her scales, even in the biting cold. “Easy, girl,” you murmur, though a part of you understands her unease. The bond between dragon and rider is one forged in fire and instinct—Thraxata senses your tension as clearly as you do.

Vermax lands with a powerful thud in the courtyard, snow scattering like dust beneath his claws. Jacaerys dismounts swiftly, his dark curls wild from the wind, his face shadowed with exhaustion and resolve. His eyes—dark brown—search the crowd until they find you. Despite the grimness that hangs about him, a grin breaks across his face.

“Y/N!” His voice is hoarse, but filled with unmistakable affection.

You rush forward, closing the distance between you, and throw your arms around him. For a moment, you’re children again, finding comfort in each other amidst the storms that have always threatened to tear your family apart. But the moment is brief, tinged with the weight of all that has passed. When you pull back, you can see the subtle changes in him—the deeper lines etched into his face, the hardened edge in his gaze.

“Brother,” you breathe, cupping his face, your thumb brushing against the scar just above his brow—a mark of a recent battle, no doubt. “You’ve grown into a man of war.”

Jacaerys huffs a quiet laugh, though it lacks the lightness it once held. “It seems the war gives us little choice in what we become.” His gaze flickers over your shoulder, landing on Cregan. “Lord Stark,” he greets formally, though the respect in his tone is genuine. “Your hospitality has been unmatched. It’s a comfort to know my sister has found such a strong ally—and husband.”

Cregan inclines his head, his usual sternness softened slightly by a hint of warmth. “Your family is ours now, Jacaerys. Winterfell stands with you, as do the men of the North. We fight together.”

The words, though simple, carry a promise, one that Jacaerys seems to take solace in. He nods, a flicker of relief crossing his features before his expression grows serious once more. “The Twins have bent the knee. Their armies are ready to march when we give the word. The Riverlands will rally to our cause, though they’ve suffered much at the hands of the greens.”

You clench your fists at your sides, feeling the familiar fire of rage ignite in your belly at the thought of those who serve the usurper, those who’ve turned against your mother, against your family. “We’ll make them pay for every drop of blood spilled,” you vow, your voice cold with determination. “They’ll learn the price of treachery when fire and blood rain upon them.”

Jacaerys’ gaze meets yours, a shared understanding passing between you. “We will, sister,” he says quietly. “But we must be wise in how we strike. Our enemies are many, and some hide in shadows even we haven’t uncovered.”

As he speaks, the men of Winterfell gather closer, eager to hear news from the South. Thraxata moves to stand beside Vermax, her violet eyes fixed on him, a low rumble vibrating through her chest. Vermax, ever the more temperate of the two, remains still, watching her with a calm curiosity. The two dragons are like night and day, one fierce and unpredictable, the other steady and patient—a reflection of the bond shared between their riders.

Maester Kennet steps forward from the crowd, ever the dutiful servant, and bows his head. “My lord, my lady,” he addresses you both, “the men are ready to host your brother and his retinue. Supplies are being gathered for the march south, but it would do you both good to rest and break bread together before the night grows colder.”

Cregan nods, though his gaze remains fixed on Jacaerys. “You’ve traveled far, and winter’s grip grows tighter by the day. We’ll speak of war and plans soon enough. Tonight, we celebrate family.”

Jacaerys glances at you, his eyes softening briefly before he returns his attention to Cregan. “I’d welcome that. It’s been too long since I’ve felt the warmth of kin.” He turns to you once more, taking your hand and squeezing it. “Mother would want us to stand strong, Y/N. For her, for all of us.”

You swallow back the knot in your throat, nodding. “We will, Jace. We will.”

As you walk back toward the Great Hall, arm in arm with your brother and Cregan beside you, the dragons shift close behind ready to take flight, their steps heavy on the snow-covered earth. Above, the first stars begin to pierce the twilight sky, cold and distant. You can still feel the echoes of the weirwood’s whispers, the glimpses of futures yet unwritten. But here, with your family by your side, you draw strength from the bonds that even war cannot break.

The Great Hall of Winterfell is alive with the low murmur of voices and the crackle of hearth fires. The long table is crowded with Stark bannermen, their weathered faces drawn with the seriousness of the discussion. The banners of the North hang proudly on the walls—gray direwolves on fields of white and gray. The smell of pinewood smoke and spiced wine fills the air, mingling with the scent of roasted meats brought out for the evening. It is a scene both warm and solemn, a brief moment of respite before the weight of strategy drags everyone back into the cold reality of war.

You sit beside Cregan at the head of the table, your hand resting on his arm as Jacaerys stands before the gathered lords. He wears his determination like armor, though there is a heaviness in his eyes that no amount of resolve can mask. His voice, strong despite the weariness clinging to him, rings out over the hall.

“Our enemies have grown bolder since my brother’s and grandmother's murders. Aemond has broken the oldest of laws—he’s a kinslayer, and for that, he’s forfeited not only his honor but any right to mercy. The greens think the deaths of Luke and Rhaenys will weaken us, make us retreat into mourning. They’re wrong.” His words are met with murmurs of agreement, grim nods from the assembled bannermen.

Lord Cregan speaks next, his voice deep and measured. “Justice for Prince Lucerys and Princess Rhaenys will be served, Jacaerys, but the North is not free of its own burdens. The men and Houses we pledged to your cause will march with you as promised—greybeards and veterans who have survived more winters than most. But the majority of our forces must remain here, at least until the winds shift and winter’s bite eases.”

A rumble of assent follows Cregan’s words. The greybeards, some of whom are gathered here tonight, nod their heads, weathered faces set in stony determination. These are men who’ve lived through harsh winters, wars, and endless trials. They know the cost of every step taken southward, but they also understand the weight of their oaths.

You lean forward, feeling the cold steel of duty and sorrow twisting within you. “The Wall grows restless,” you add, your voice quieter but cutting through the room. “Reports from our scouts say the wildlings stir, and there are whispers of darker things in the woods. The North cannot abandon its duties here, not entirely, not with winter closing in. We fight on two fronts—one for vengeance, and one to hold back the darkness that always comes with the cold.”

Jacaerys’ jaw tightens, though there’s no anger in his gaze, only acceptance. “I know what I ask of you, of the North. I wouldn’t pull you from your duties lightly. But we’re in desperate need of men who’ve seen true battle—men who won’t falter when the greens come for us again.” He looks around the table, locking eyes with each of the bannermen. “Aemond’s murders of Luke and Rhaenys aren't just an insult to my family, it’s a warning of what’s to come. They’ll strike at us all, one by one, until there’s nothing left to fight for.”

Maester Kennet, seated near the fire, clears his throat, his thin fingers wrapped around a goblet. “A measured approach is wise. The North is vast, and winter makes even the shortest march an ordeal. Splitting our forces to both hold the Wall and reinforce the Riverlands is a sound strategy. But we cannot be reckless. The cold is our greatest enemy—aside from the greens themselves.”

A grizzled voice interrupts, belonging to Lord Harwood Flint. “We’ve sworn our oaths to your mother, Prince Jacaerys, and those oaths stand. The greybeards and I will march south, aye, but only as far as the weather allows. If winter deepens, we’ll be forced to retreat—lest we lose more men to frost than to battle.”

Lord Cregan nods solemnly. “The North keeps its promises, Jace, but our duty here is unbreakable. If winter passes, we’ll ride in full force, dragons and all. Until then, you’ll have what men we can spare, the strongest and the most experienced. The rest must remain to guard our lands and prepare for whatever winter may bring.”

You watch Jacaerys as he absorbs their words, weighing them against the urgency of his mission. It’s a hard truth, but one he’s known in his heart. “I understand,” he finally says, though the strain in his voice is evident. “The North has always held its ground when others falter. Your men’s presence in the Riverlands will tip the scales more than you know. We’ll make every sacrifice count, for all of our sakes.”

A silence falls over the hall, filled only by the crackling of the fires and the occasional clink of cups against wood. It’s a heavy silence, the kind that carries the weight of lives yet to be lost, battles yet to be fought. You feel the tension in your own shoulders, the mix of sorrow and determination that has become all too familiar.

Cregan’s voice breaks the silence, firm and resolute. “Then it’s settled. The North will march with you, Jacaerys, and we’ll hold the line here until the time is right to unleash the full might of Winterfell. The Wall must remain guarded, our lands defended. But rest assured—the North remembers, and we will have vengeance for both Lucerys and Rhaenys.”

Jacaerys meets his gaze with a nod of gratitude, his eyes glistening with something more than just determination—hope, perhaps, or at least the stubborn refusal to let despair take root. “Thank you, Cregan. Thank you all. My mother will hear of your loyalty, and when the time comes, I’ll see that those who’ve wronged us pay with fire and blood.”

You reach out, placing a hand on Jacaerys’ arm, drawing his attention back to you. “We’ll see this through together, Jace,” you say softly, yet with unshakable conviction. “For Luke. For our family.”

His lips press into a tight line, but he nods, and in that moment, you see the boy you once knew, the one who would always protect his siblings, no matter the cost. War has hardened him, yes, but it hasn’t broken his spirit. And for that, you’re grateful.

The meeting ends with agreements made, plans solidified. As the lords begin to rise and drift away, you, Cregan, and Jacaerys remain, sharing a moment of quiet amidst the chaos. Thraxata and Vermax can be heard outside, their low growls a reminder that no matter how heavy the burden, you are not alone in this fight.

You glance at Cregan, who offers you a small, reassuring smile, and then at Jacaerys, whose eyes hold the same fire that burns within you. The North may be bound by its duties to the Wall, but when the time comes, it will roar in unison, and the South will tremble beneath the weight of vengeance and justice.

Until then, you steel yourself for the battles to come, knowing that winter is both your enemy and your greatest ally. The North will remember, and so will the world.

The chambers are dimly lit, the glow of the hearth casting flickering shadows across the stone walls. The scent of pine and smoke lingers in the air, mingling with the faint hint of sage and lavender from the herbs hung above the door. Outside, the cold wind howls, but in here, the warmth is grounding—a cocoon that holds only the two of you.

You stand before the fire, watching the flames dance, lost in the flicker of embers. Thoughts of the day’s discussions linger in your mind, heavy like the weight of armor. You’re still processing the event, the decisions, and the weight of what’s to come. But for now, those thoughts seem distant as you feel Cregan’s presence behind you. His steps are soft as he approaches, yet you can sense the strength in each movement. When he wraps his arms around you from behind, drawing you into his chest, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“Y/N,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice a deep rumble. There’s a tenderness there that you’ve come to cherish—an intimacy that only grows with each passing day. You lean back into him, feeling his warmth seep into your skin, grounding you in this moment, away from the burden of duty and war.

His hands slide over your waist, tracing the curves of your body with a reverence that never fades, no matter how many times he’s touched you this way. “You’re troubled,” he says softly, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. It’s not a question; he knows you too well.

You close your eyes, allowing yourself to melt into his embrace. “I’ve been thinking… about everything. About Jace, the war, what lies ahead. But mostly… about what I felt in the godswood.”

Cregan’s hands still for a moment, his grip tightening just slightly. He turns you gently to face him, his eyes searching yours, concern and affection mingling in his gaze. “You saw something, didn’t you?” he asks quietly.

You nod, reaching up to cup his face, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, roughened by stubble. “I did, but I don’t want to think about it right now,” you whisper, letting your thumb brush over his lips. “Right now, I just want to feel alive. I want to feel us.”

Something shifts in his gaze, the concern giving way to something deeper, more primal. His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, drawing you closer, and when his lips finally meet yours, it’s with a passion that sends a surge of heat through you. The kiss is slow at first, a tender exploration, but it quickly deepens, becoming something more urgent, more consuming.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging slightly as you press closer, your bodies molding together as if trying to erase any distance between you. His hands roam over you, rough and strong, yet every touch is filled with affection. It’s a contrast that you’ve always found intoxicating—the fierce warrior and the gentle lover, both sides of him intertwined in every caress.

Cregan’s mouth trails down your neck, leaving a line of burning kisses along your skin. “Y/N,” he growls against your throat, his voice thick with desire. “You’re mine.”

You shiver at the possessiveness in his tone, the words igniting something deep within you. “Yours,” you breathe, tugging at his tunic, eager to feel the heat of his skin against yours.

Clothes fall away with hurried hands, the cold air biting at your exposed skin for only a moment before the warmth of Cregan’s body presses against you. You pull him with you, leading him to the bed, his eyes never leaving yours as he lays you down then, his weight a comforting pressure above you.

The passion between you ignites like wildfire. His hands grip your hips as he enters you, and you gasp, arching into him as he moves with a rhythm that feels like a dance, one you’ve perfected together over countless nights. Every thrust is filled with a mixture of desire and love, each one drawing you closer to the edge, making the world beyond these walls fade away until there’s only him—only you.

Your hands roam over his back, nails digging in as the pleasure builds, each moan, each whispered word of affection driving you both higher. There’s a desperation in the way you cling to each other, as if the passion is the only thing anchoring you both in a world that threatens to tear everything apart.

“Cregan,” you gasp, his name a prayer on your lips as you reach that peak together, the intensity of the moment overwhelming. He groans your name, his voice rough and breathless as he collapses against you, burying his face in your neck, holding you as if he’ll never let go.

For a long while, neither of you speaks, content to simply breathe together, hearts pounding in unison. The room is warm, the glow of the fire casting soft light over your tangled limbs. Cregan’s hand strokes your hair absently, his fingers combing through the silver strands as you lay nestled against him.

But eventually, the silence gives way to the thoughts that have been haunting you. You shift slightly, turning to look up at him. His eyes are closed, a peaceful expression on his face, but you know he’s awake, lost in his own thoughts.

“Cregan,” you say softly, drawing his attention. His eyes open, meeting yours, and the concern returns as he sees the seriousness in your expression.

“What did you see, love?” he asks, his voice gentle, though the tension in his jaw betrays his worry.

You take a breath, recalling the frenzied images that had flashed before you in the godswood, the voice that had called your name. “It was like a storm in my mind,” you begin, your voice barely above a whisper. “I heard my name—felt something pulling at me. And then… I saw flashes of fire, blood, wings beating against a sky that burned. There was steel, a crown, and screams lost in the roar of flames. It was so vivid, so real, but I couldn’t make sense of it. And then it was gone, as quickly as it came.”

Cregan listens, his brow furrowed as he considers your words. “The Old Gods speak in riddles and symbols,” he says quietly. “I’ve heard tales of their whispers, of visions granted to those who stand before the weirwoods. But they’ve never been clear—they show what might be, not what is certain.”

You nod, but the unease still lingers. “It felt like a warning, Cregan. Like something terrible is coming, something we’re not prepared for.”

He tightens his hold on you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together. You’re not alone in this. The North is with you, I’m with you, and we’ll do everything in our power to protect what we hold dear.”

You close your eyes, letting his words soothe some of the anxiety that gnaws at you. “I know. But there’s so much at stake… and so many unknowns. I can’t shake the feeling that the gods are watching, waiting to see what choices we’ll make.”

“The gods may watch,” Cregan murmurs, his voice a low rumble against your skin, “but it’s our choices that shape the future. Whatever comes, we’ll face it, side by side.”

You find comfort in his certainty, the steady strength he always offers when you need it most. Nestled in his arms, you feel the tension slowly drain from your body, replaced by a sense of peace, however fleeting. For now, the future can wait.

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

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baelarys · 2 months ago

Text

𝕯𝖔𝖍𝖆𝖊𝖗𝖆𝖌𝖔𝖓

Aemond targaryen x Reader ¡Niece! Velaryon

Word count: 5570

Warning: Abuse, kidnapping, insect, knives, bad words.

Dohaeragon means to serve in High Valyrian, nyra is poison and ābrazȳrys is wife

The last memory clinging to your mind was chaos: smoke, screams, and the searing fire consuming everything. The moment you fell from Nyra’s back into the dense forest below was etched into your mind before darkness enveloped you completely.

You awoke with a sharp pain in your head, as though it were being compressed from within, and every bone in your body felt shattered. Gathering all your strength, you managed to open your eyes, greeted by the blinding midday light streaming through the windows. The room seemed strangely familiar, though you knew you were far from your bed in Dragonstone.

The Valyrian steel armor you wore prevented you from enjoying the soft, sumptuous silks that lined the bed beneath you. The desire to rise and run back home burned within you.

The sound of the doors creaking open pulled you from your thoughts. You heard the firm footsteps of several people entering and approaching the bed.

You recognized Grand Maester Orwyle, accompanied by two members of the Kingsguard whom you remembered from when Lucerys was named heir to the Lord of the Tides. But what truly caught your attention was Aemond, who watched you with a barely contained smile.

Instinctively, you reached for the sheath where your dagger used to rest, only to discover with a mix of horror and frustration that it was not there. You tried to rise from the bed, but a sharp pain in your side and forearm immediately stopped you.

Grand Maester Orwyle stepped forward, his intention to help was evident, but with a warning shout, you stopped him.

“Don’t touch me!” you exclaimed, your voice carrying more force than you actually felt. “You’re all traitors.”

The maester halted, his anxious gaze turning toward Aemond for instructions. The prince, however, remained still, watching you with interest as you reclined once more in the same position.

“You’re lucky to be alive,” Aemond began, his voice low and laden with dangerous calm. “We thought the fall had killed you or that perhaps you had been crushed by Nyra, but your dragon protected you well.” He took a step forward, his eyes locked on yours with a cold intensity. “Too bad your grandmother didn’t have the same luck.”

The sting of his comment was like a knife, stabbing your heart with a fury that drove you to action. Without thinking, you lunged at him, attempting to seize Blackfyre, the legendary dagger resting at his waist. But Aemond was quicker. His hand gripped your forearm with unyielding force, applying pressure even through the armor. You felt his grip sink into your flesh, and a sharp pain, like thousands of tiny needles, spread through your arm.

“Ossēninna ao,” you cried out in pain, your voice betraying the intensity of the agony you were experiencing. Aemond let out a low, almost guttural laugh, relishing your suffering with a cruelty only he could express so precisely.

“Kill me?” he whispered, bringing his face closer to yours, his warm breath contrasting with the coldness of his gaze. “You’ll have to do better than that, ābrazȳrys.”

The High Valyrian title, a mix of mockery and possessiveness, further inflamed your anger, but you were trapped, your body weakened by the fall and the pain now emanating from your forearm. Aemond finally released you, pushing you back onto the bed with a contemptuous gesture. Frustration and helplessness swirled within you, a storm threatening to overflow as the prince loomed over you, his shadow completely covering you.

“You’ll have your chance, if you survive long enough,” he murmured before turning to the maester. “Attend to her; we don’t want her dying… yet.”

The maester, visibly disturbed, hesitated, his fear palpable as he looked at you as though you were a wounded animal, capable of biting at any moment. Though rage burned within you, you knew this was not the time to fight. You needed to conserve your strength.

With a trembling sigh, you let your head fall back on the pillow and closed your eyes, trying to isolate yourself from the pain that overwhelmed you. Minutes—or perhaps hours; time blurred in the midst of agony—passed when you heard the maester instruct one of the servants to bring the necessary materials to tend to your wounds.

What followed were the two most painful hours of your life. With every movement, every touch from the maester, it felt as though your flesh was being torn apart. Parts of your armor had fused with your skin, leaving deep burns on your stomach and arm. The maester worked in silence, his face tense as he tried to separate the metal from your flesh without causing more damage than necessary.

“The damage is severe, but not fatal,” he murmured finally, more to himself than to you, as he applied a cold ointment to the burns. “The healing will be slow, but you will survive.”

His tone offered no comfort. You knew Aemond had spared your life for a reason, and that thought was more unsettling than any physical pain you could endure. Yet you forced yourself to remain impassive, allowing the maester to finish his work.

When the maester finally withdrew, leaving you wrapped in clean bandages and in the midst of stifling silence, you opened your eyes to find yourself alone. The room, with its distorted air of familiarity, felt oppressive, like a cage from which you could not escape. Your gaze wandered around the space until it fell upon a woman who, with calculated and discreet movements, was tidying the room. Her posture and the uniform she wore suggested she was one of the queen’s servants.

The woman worked in silence, dusting off your old desk and vanity, gestures that seemed almost ritualistic in their precision. A sense of strangeness washed over you as you watched the servants take control of what had once been a reflection of your own identity. As if struck by an unexpected blow, your attention was drawn to the dress the woman had laid out on the vanity, standing out in the dim light of the room.

The dress, a soft salmon color, was adorned with golden and silver embroidery, but it was the detail on the chest that truly captured your attention: a meticulously woven design depicted a dragon coiled around a smaller one, biting its head with a ferocity that felt as disturbing as it was significant.

“Son of a bitch,” you thought bitterly, blood boiling in your veins. It wasn’t just a garment; it was a message, one that Aemond had personally commissioned, his intention as clear as daylight. There was no hint of nobility or grandeur in the embroidery; it was a symbol of domination, the victory of one dragon over a weaker one.

The servant finished her task in silence and, without a word, exited the room. With the door closing behind her, you once again found yourself alone, contemplating the dress that now seemed a symbol of what you had lost and what you might still reclaim. The battle was not over; it had merely changed its stage, or so you thought.

No one else dared to disturb you for the rest of the day, allowing you to mentally plot your escape. You knew you needed to regain your strength, but once you did, you would slip through the castle’s secret passages, the ones you knew by heart. You could make it to the Flea Bottom or the Blackwater Bay, where you would find a ship or some mercenary willing to take you far from King’s Landing. If the price was right, loyalty would be secondary.

But time was not on your side, and impatience overtook you.

The plan you had conceived was hasty, and in your weakened condition, it did not go as expected. Your opportunity came one morning when the maester returned to change your bandages. The man, confident in your weakness, approached you cautiously but not sufficiently guarded. You seized that moment, your anger fueled by days of suffering, and launched yourself at him, your fingers finding his face and clawing desperately.

The maester's muffled scream echoed in the room as your nails nearly gouged out his eye. Blood ran down his cheek as he staggered back, and you prepared for the next move. But the door burst open, and a young knight of the Kingsguard, newly appointed and still inexperienced, entered the room. Without hesitation, you lunged at him with the same ferocity. Your hands found a dagger hanging from his belt, and in the confusion, you managed to wound him in the arm before the pain in your side weakened you and forced you to retreat.

The knight, though injured, quickly subdued you, using his weight to pin you against the bed while shouting for reinforcements. Trapped and too exhausted to continue the fight, you had no choice but to watch helplessly as they bound you once again, making sure you could not move an inch without being seen.

Since then, the maester no longer dared to approach you. Instead, a septa from the castle, accompanied by several maidservants, took over the task of tending to your wounds. The caution was evident: every movement, every bandage change was carried out with meticulous coordination, ensuring you had no opportunity to attempt another escape. You were watched more closely than ever, surrounded by discreet but constant gazes reminding you of your prisoner status.

Physical pain paled in comparison to the uncertainty gnawing at you. Since the day you attempted to escape, Aemond had not seen fit to appear. Not even the small commotion you caused had managed to attract his attention. That absence, rather than providing relief, only heightened your anxiety. Why was he keeping you here? What did he gain from having you injured and without a dragon, imprisoned in a castle that felt increasingly foreign?

Logic seemed to make no sense. Yes, you were Rhaenyra’s daughter, but your death would not alter the course of the war beyond inflicting pain on your mother. You had no title or lands of your own to claim. You were a seemingly worthless piece on the chessboard Aemond played with such skill. Yet, your presence in that room, watched and isolated, indicated that there was more to it, something you had yet to understand.

The days continued with a monotony that almost became comforting. Each day marked a small advance in your recovery. You could walk more easily now, and the burn on your arm, though still sensitive, was healing well under the bandages. You found some relief in those moments of solitude, when you could get up and move around the room without the watchful eyes of the maidservants or the septa. It was a small act of rebellion, a confirmation that you still retained some control over yourself.

desdain.

“Wine,” he said, lifting a glass that spun slowly between his fingers, the dark liquid reflecting the firelight. His tone was casual, almost disdainful, as if your presence barely required his attention.

You did not move, letting the silence extend, waiting for a signal that perhaps someone else was in the room, a servant who would fulfill his order. But when the silence continued, it became clear that his instruction was directed at you, and only you.

“I don’t like to repeat things twice,” his voice rose, firm, with an underlying warning in each word. The air in the room seemed to grow denser, charged with palpable tension.

You knew you had no choice. Maintaining your pride at this moment could cost you more than just a few words of disdain. So, with controlled and calculated movements, you approached the table where the jug of wine rested. Each step resonated in the silence of the room, amplifying the gravity of the situation. You filled the glass with the same precision you had seen in the court servants, making sure not to spill a single drop.

You approached him with the glass in hand, aware of his gaze fixed on you. You offered the wine with a barely perceptible bow, not looking away from his eyes. He took the glass, his fingers brushing against yours.

“Much better,” he murmured, savoring the wine with the same calm with which he controlled the situation. It was not a compliment, but a recognition of your obedience, of your submission at this moment.

Frustration and resentment boiled within you, but you remained firm. Internally, you cursed Aemond, imagining how you could use the glass jug to get rid of him and escape. However, the desire to stay alive and in control prevented you from acting impulsively.

“Why am I here?” The question slipped from your lips without warning, a reflection of your growing desperation.

Aemond looked at you with a mixture of interest and disdain. He brought the glass to his lips once more before responding, his tone calculated and measured. “After all, we are betrothed,” he said, letting his words slide slowly, almost with disdain. “Only, at the moment, you are fulfilling your duties as a wife.”

His answer was vague, laden with an implication that left little to the imagination. He was not willing to offer a direct explanation, but the message was clear: your presence here was not a coincidence, but part of an obligation you now had to fulfill. The subtext of his statement suggested that your role in his life had not changed, only that circumstances had reconfigured it in a way you had to adapt to the new realities of your situation.

“Ah,” Aemond said with a dry laugh, as if something suddenly struck him as amusing. “Your bastard brother is dead.” The words slid from his lips with a disturbing coldness, as if he were discussing the weather, not a life extinguished.

Your mind, in a whirlwind of emotions, first went to Lucerys, but you quickly realized he was no longer there. Then you thought of Joffrey, but it was upon remembering Jacaerys that horror settled in your chest. How? You did not dare to ask, despite the burning question inside.

“He sank into the sea with his little lizard,” Aemond continued, bringing the glass to his lips again. His tone was casual, as if describing the fate of a fly caught in a trap. “Just like your stepbrother... what was his name? Oh, I remember now, Viserys.”

The words hit like a cold wave, leaving your mind in a state of shock. The knowledge of Jacaerys and Viserys’ deaths, combined with Aemond’s cold indifference, made you feel as though the ground beneath your feet had vanished. The news of the two brothers’ disappearance was like a punch to the jaw, a brutal confirmation of the scale of the war that had devastated your world.

peculiar, as if its purpose was more to soundproof than to decorate. In the center of the room, a small table held a couple of books carefully stacked, alongside a writing quill, an inkpot, and some candles flickering with a wavering flame.

On one side, on the opposite wall, a small opening revealed a secondary room, a kind of private bath. From there, a gentle steam rose lazily, filling the air with the warm aroma of cinnamon and other spices you could not immediately identify. A bathtub filled with water, presumably warm or hot, was in the center of the room, its surface barely disturbed by the faint movement of the steam. The mix of fragrances created an enveloping, almost narcotic atmosphere, promising comfort, though you could not help but feel an increasing sense of alert.

The door opened once more, and the sound of firm footsteps echoed in the room. You did not need to turn to know who had entered; the imposing aura that filled the space was unmistakable. Prince Regent Aemond was there.

for a long time.

You tried to hide the dagger between the long sleeves of your dress, concealing your hand behind your back. Aemond, absorbed in his own preparation, seemed to notice nothing unusual. When you refocused on him, you saw he had removed the patch covering his eye, revealing a beautiful sapphire embedded where his eye would normally be.

You paused for a moment, paralyzed by the unexpected closeness. You had never been in such an intimate situation with anyone, much less with a man in his state of vulnerability. Your eyes involuntarily slid to Aemond’s well-defined abdomen, clearly outlined in the soft candlelight. A flush spread across your cheeks, an involuntary reflection of the shame and discomfort you felt.

Aemond, aware of your reaction, allowed a faint smile to play on his lips. The expression of amusement on his face only exacerbated your discomfort, as if he took pleasure in your evident agitation.

With effort, you regained your composure and approached him, trying to maintain an appearance of innocence and calm. As you drew nearer, the touch of the small sword in your hands gave you a false sense of control.

When you were close enough, with a swift and calculated motion, you placed the edge of Darkfire against Aemond's throat. The cold metal made contact with his skin, and the blade's brush against his epidermis caused him to shiver involuntarily. The pressure of the sword was enough to be a real threat but not to cause immediate harm.

Aemond remained still, his eyes fixed on yours with a mix of surprise and a glint of defiance. The tension in the room became almost palpable, the air charged with an intensity that seemed on the brink of explosion.

"What do you think you're doing?" Aemond asked, his voice tinged with a mixture of curiosity and challenge.

"Don't you feel so superior now?" you retorted, the challenge in your voice stronger than the tremor in your hands.

The blade of Darkfire stayed against his throat, and the slight contact with his skin seemed to make his breathing more measured and controlled.

"Go ahead, do it," Aemond said, moving even closer, pressing the blade more firmly against his skin. "There are guards everywhere; you wouldn’t make it past the entertainment courtyard." His words made you doubt, the weight of reality hitting you hard.

Your mind grew indecisive, your eyes fixed on a point as you tried to decide your next move. A sudden blow to your stomach jolted you back to the stark reality. Aemond seized your neck tightly, his fingers tangling in your hair as he slammed you against the wall.

The impact made your chest and face collide with the cold surface, the chilling sensation exacerbated by the pain. You struggled to free yourself, your hands trying to push away the weight of his body pressing you against the wall. Aemond took the opportunity to spread your legs with his knee, pressing against you with an intensity that made disgust churn in your stomach.

Panic overwhelmed you with a crushing force, and amidst your desperate struggle, you realized tears were beginning to roll down your cheeks uncontrollably. The plea in your voice was unmistakable. "Please, let me go," you begged, your voice breaking with terror and anguish. "I'm sorry… please, just let me go."

Your voice, broken and pleading, was an echo of your desperation. As you cried, you felt increasingly small and vulnerable, like a helpless child trapped in a situation you couldn’t escape.

In the frenzy of the Dance of the Dragons, the realm was plunged into a succession war that fractured families and ravaged lands. The contention for the Iron Throne, between the greens and the blacks, swept along everyone who had once been in its orbit, and you, trapped in an undignified role, observed from a dark corner.

Tragedy reached its peak with the fall of the main protagonists. Your mother, after Aemond's departure to Harrenhal, took control of King’s Landing with fierce determination. However, her victory was short-lived. Death claimed the closest: your mother, Daemon, Joffrey, and Aegon the Kinslayer fell in succession, leaving behind a devastating void. Each loss was another blow to your heart, and the realm seemed to crumble even further.

You hoped Aemond would also succumb to the whirlwind of war, but, as if fate was punishing you further, his life persisted. His rise to the throne was almost inevitable after the fall of his rivals. The exhausted and demoralized realm bowed to his rule.

Consolidated on the Iron Throne, Aemond had achieved his victory through the devastation and suffering he inflicted on the realm. Under his reign, the realm sought a new balance, though the cost had been steep. Initially, you believed that once order was restored, he would eliminate both you and Aegon and make the woman he met in Harrenhal his queen. However, to your surprise, this did not happen.

Instead of ending your life or Aegon's, Aemond opted for an unexpected solution. He chose to keep you under his control, not as a mere prisoner but as an object of his interest. After all, the nature of your engagement to him provided a justification for this decision: the union of the greens and the blacks through a marriage alliance seemed the logical and convenient step. Aemond saw this union as a way to consolidate his power and stabilize his reign, in addition to fulfilling the duty of the alliance that had once been agreed upon.

The ceremony was not conducted with the common rites but with a splendor only dragon blood could bestow.

The last Valyrian wedding you had attended had been your mother’s, an unforgettable ceremony of splendor, but this time the context was different, and although the ritual was the same, the sentiment of the occasion was laden with personal sadness and resistance.

You and Aemond were dressed in ceremonial white and red garments, reflecting Valyrian pride and tradition. Both of you wore your hair braided in the traditional manner. The ceremony took place in a sacred space, adorned with symbols of ancient Valyria, and the air was filled with the aroma of incense.

Aemond took a small dragon glass knife and drew a line on your lower lip. Blood welled up, and with a deliberate motion, he used it to mark a small spot between your eyebrows, symbolizing a sign of union and commitment. Despite the cold metal and the trembling in your hand, you followed the ritual with precision.

Then, you both cut the palms of your hands, allowing the blood to mix. The joined hands were wrapped in a small piece of cloth, which absorbed the crimson liquid that fell into a black cup.

The moment of drinking the blood mixture was an irrevocable act of union.As you drank from the cup, you made a small grimace at the metallic taste and iron of the blood, while Aemond also showed a slight reaction.

The final act of the ceremony was a kiss, which began roughly on his part but was softened by your response.

You pulled away first, feeling a mix of embarrassment and disgust at this type of affection, something entirely new to you. The kiss had awakened conflicting emotions you hadn’t expected. Still, as you withdrew, you noticed a change in Aemond’s gaze, a different nuance you hadn’t seen before. His eyes, usually cold, now seemed to contain a softness that puzzled you. You weren’t sure what it meant, but for a moment, you felt a slight tranquility.

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harrelltut · 1 year ago

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bharv · 5 months ago

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I’m pretty sure I’ve seen @archduke-enver-gortash talk about this before but I’m always surprised at the Gortash fans who don’t know about the level of his experiments through the brains in jars and the stuff you find out about his blackmailing and the experiments for the steel watchers.

It’s like. The cornerstones to me, the layers of horror you can uncover about this man! I always think how it could have felt if you had more lead in, as I kind of think they were planning when they first revealed him. Imagine you think he’s just this charming politician in the city to begin with, perhaps with a more meaty alliance that gave you all kinds of perks and access in the upper city, only to then find out that he is the hand of Bane and a man who experiments on brains, who theorises about an ultimate state where lesser mortals don’t get free will, who kidnaps girls to blackmail their grandmothers, has built a whole mythos of a man of the people while actively playing everybody against each other, a man who tortures and murders his adversaries and enjoys only power.

#gortposting and it will happen again #enver Gortash #I love when people really work with the man he is in those notes #bg3

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bloodstained-ballgowns · 4 months ago

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i just rewatched ‘the woman who fell to earth’ a couple of days ago for the first time since it aired back in 2018 and the more i think about it, the more i like it.

thirteen is the only doctor for whom i feel a tangible, rose-tinted nostalgia. she wasn’t my first doctor, but she was the first doctor i watched live, the first doctor that i spent an actual extended period of time with over the episode rollout. her intro episode has middling parts (as can be expected with most episodes of Who) but there’s also so much good that i really want to highlight.

first of all, there are some really great character dynamics set up here. much more interesting than i remember, tbh. ryan is a guy who loves mechanics but is stuck in a warehouse job he hates, a guy who obviously wants to connect to people, a guy who by the end of the episode has lost both his mother and grandmother in the space of a couple of years and the step-grandfather he didn’t really want is all he has left (minus his absent father). that’s interesting.

yaz has a keen sense of justice and this raw, intense yearning to help people, to do something worthwhile, something more - the way she has chosen to express that is through law enforcement, but it’s not quite giving her the satisfaction she wants. that’s interesting.

graham’s experience with cancer means that he constantly feels like he’s living on borrowed time. meeting grace gave him purpose, gave him family, gave him the will to fight when he fought it was all but over, but now grace is gone. he and ryan aren’t related, but they’re family, and now they’ve got to figure out how to care for each other without the very lynchpin that brought them together. once again with feeling: interesting!

“i’m just a traveller. sometimes i see things that need fixing. i do what i can.” i like that they circle back to the ‘just some guy’ portrayal of the doctor here, both because it’s the one i’m partial to and because it feeds particularly well into the whole ‘the doctor is an unreliable narrator’ aspect, especially in the wake of the increased deification in the moffat era. it's a nice set up, even if it gets completely overhauled circa series 12/13. in fact, having thirteen keep this as a persistent attitude throughout the Timeless Child of it all could have been really effective re: her reticence with her companions and refusal to address or deal with her past.

the scene where thirteen builds her sonic screwdriver might be one of my favourite sequences in nuwho. i love that it’s a hybrid of alien tech and sheffield steel. i also love that they highlight the ‘mad inventor’ side of the doctor here (her teleportation circuit is based around a microwave?) and wish that they had carried it forward more. it would have been the perfect basis for her to bond with ryan over. jodie also pulls off the humour of the episode well, considering the significant shift from moffat dialogue.

i enjoy thirteen's outfit: the vibrancy of it as mirroring her childish excitability, but also as another part of the mask - if i dress all colourful then maybe i can ignore/outrun/masquerade my great capacity for darkness! etc etc. the shopping trip with yaz and ryan is a bit shoe-horned in at the end but it's cute that she finds it in a charity shop. (back in 2018 i bought a t-shirt with a couple of stripes across the chest solely because it remotely resembled the one she wore lol. nerd from a young age, me.) jodie also looks soo hot in capaldi's outfit though so a spin on the traditional suit would also have been appreciated.

some miscellaneous points: i like that she tells Karl off (“you had no right to do that”) right after saving him. i like that she gets it wrong at first and makes it clear that she’s working on the fly. she’s following her instinct, and that instinct is to help people. doctor who has been beautiful before but the cinematography takes such a huge step this era. “it’s been a long time since i bought women’s clothes” i am choosing to believe this is about river thank you and good night.

#if you read all of this you are so brave and also i love you #accidental essay #'potential' is the chibnall era in one word tbh #excuse inaccurate comparisons i do not remember enough about this era and what they carry forward #thirteen #thirteenth doctor #doctor who #the woman who fell to earth #ryan sinclair #yasmin khan #graham o'brien

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mintmatcha · 4 months ago

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Bakugo starts to really reflect one night after having drinks with his coworkers, the shine in your eyes and the gentle smile aimed his way plaguing his mind all night. He can hear Cami in the shower singing to whatever pop rock shit they have on the radio these days, but it does little to interrupt the whirlwind of thoughts and memories clattering about in his mind.

'Look at them,' you had said softly tonight, gesturing to a pair of coworkers in a corner booth. 'They're so stinking cute together. It would be nice to have that myself, y'know?'

No, he doesn't know. He didn't have the most stellar role models in that department, he's hesitantly come to accept. Feeling defeated, Bakugo pulls a worn suitcase from the corner of the bedroom onto the bed, empty and waiting.

'Are you really thinking of going through with marrying Cami?' Uraraka said last year at a holiday party. 'I mean, she's really... intense. And not in a good way.'

An intensity that matched mine, Bakugo thought as he pulled handfuls of clothes from his side of the dresser. Thought that was what we both needed.

'You're engaged to Cami?? Wow, that's... that's great, Kacchan.' Deku couldn't hide his grimace when he told him the news.

You've always been shit at poker faces, nerd. Haphazardly, the suitcase is half full of what he deemed were essentials.

'Bakubabe, your grandmother's ring doesn't look good on her,' Mina had said with eyebrows raised. He'd chosen to ignore the double meaning and had growled out some retort instead. By now, the suitcase is so full that the zipper almost doesn't close all the way. Hefting it onto the floor, it weighs like nothing compared to his head and his heart; Bakugo wheels it to the front door, pointedly not looking at the signs of his life he shared with Cami littered throughout the house.

'Katsuki, I'm saying this as your best friend, but she is not good for you; please think about this! You're always fighting, and she's always making something up to cause nothing but trouble. That's not healthy!' Ei, that sunshine idiot, he thinks while tying his shoes. Maybe I should have listened to him a little more, been a little less stubborn. He's only been this adamant about her. Might've saved me years of my life.

Bakugo straightens out slowly, fishing his keys from his pocket to clench tight. The pain gives him something to focus on for a brief moment, steeling his resolve and his final decision.

"'It's not too late. You could still quit.'" He chuckles mirthlessly to himself. "Looks like I was talking to myself that day too, huh?" One last deep breath. "Whelp, here fucking goes."

The walk out to his car feels like a lifetime, but when he arrives at Deku's place unannounced, he surprisingly feels marginally lighter than his overstuffed suitcase.

It's the worst sleep of his life.

He can hear Izuku and Shouto through the walls, whispering about how long he's going to be on their couch. It's intercut with the incessant buzzing of his phone across the carpet, Cami's calls rolling in over and over again. She read the note he left, the explanation that he needs space, time and silence- but she's refusing to give him any of that. she threatens him and herself and you until his phone dies.

(a charger. the only thing he forgot)

But when he wakes up in the morning, at the ass crack of dawn, a kink in his neck the size of fucking Texas, he feels better than he has in a long while. He uses a couple of the kitchen pans and cooks a simple breakfast: Omelets, with a little bit of cream cheese and a whole lot of butter, the way his grandmother taught him.

#wah you made me emotional

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painted-flag · 3 months ago

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Little Red Riding Hood - Cregan Stark

Part 1 of 2.

Story 2 of Between the Pages: a HOTD x Fairytale Series.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖ series masterlist. main masterlist. .𖥔 ݁ ˖ pairing: cregan stark x f!reader (no use of y/n) .𖥔 ݁ ˖ warnings: a little bit of period-specific misogyny. .𖥔 ݁ ˖ wordcount: 5.7k .𖥔 ݁ ˖ notes: the reason this is split into two parts is that my mac crashed and i lost the full draft (around 10k). i rewrote it, but i promised that it would release on the 29th so despite the fact i have not finished writing the full imagine, i am splitting it into two parts.

The sound of quiet chatter filled the small schoolhouse. It was a stone building, old and worn from the centuries since its construction, one of the oldest buildings in the small town of Wildgate. Young girls sat in a circle, each focusing on the fabric in front of them as they stitched the day away. Their hands gripped their wooden loops and meticulously weaved the needle up and down to create their desired patterns.

The hall was warmed by two hearths on each side that chased away the winter chill. Your clothes aided in keeping warm while you paced around the outside of the circle. Your gaze watched the little girls as they sewed and your heart swelled with pride at the proficiency of your students. It was a rewarding job to work as a teacher for the girls in the town, despite the abysmal pay. Any money counted to the support of your family.

The girls finished their work one by one, earning praise from you which had them giggling and running to go home to their parents and share their work. As each girl left, you began to clean up the room from the day's activities. Once the desks were moved back into their regular position and the chairs in place, you eagerly made leave of the schoolhouse.

You made your way through the bustling town streets. The ground, usually muddy, had frozen over for the winter and patches of piled snow littered the area. People were hastily making their way to their destinations to run from the chill. The deep scarlet cloak you wore had been a gift from your grandmother and provided the perfect reprieve from the icy air. The red contrasted against the snowy surroundings.

Upon turning to another street, you quickly open a wooden door. The heat from the ovens in the bakery had mixed with the smells of fresh bread. You inhale slowly, savouring the scent.

A man came from a backroom and grinned when seeing you, “Ah! Darling, how are you today?” He was a short and plump middle-aged man who never had anything but a smile on his face and rosy cheeks. Every week, he would donate food to the schoolhouse for the children who were from poorer households.

“I am doing alright, James. How have you been?” You put your basket down as he begins to place your regular bread order in it.

“Well, the weather is drab but every day alive is a great day.” He nodded to you and accepted the payment. Once saying your goodbyes, you wandered back outside to the cool streets. Only a few buildings down was your next destination. The familiar sound of metal clanking against steel got louder as you approached.

The area was covered with a roof but open to the elements with a single wall being opened. It was the only blacksmith in the town, which happened to employ the man who had enchanted your fantasies. You watched as Aegon pulled a blade out of a forge and set it against an anvil. He grabbed a heavy hammer and began to pound it down against the glowing steel, over and over. The sound reverberated across the buildings and travelled through your body. He was sweating from work and despite the gentle snowfall, he only wore one set of clothes. The shirt he had on was thin and billowed with the breeze.

Aegon was not your first choice in men. He had only arrived in the village a few years ago and settled down into an apprenticeship. While you could not deny the beauty he held, you had not been enticed at first. You were generally disinterested in most men in the village, especially having known them all since childhood. His uniqueness was what had reeled you in, not the prospect of romance. Though there were no qualms with the way he treated you, the spark you so desperately wished to feel only flickered.

One thing was undeniable, his steady income would protect you and your family. A considerable rarity among the other available men.

Upon seeing you approach, Aegon used large tongs to pick up the blade and dunk it into a nearby vat of water. The sizzle and bubbles from the heat-laden steel rippled across the water. He smiled at you and put the items down. When you made it to the work area, Aegon took and placed your basket down. He gently held your hand and brought it up to lay a small kiss on the knuckles.

You accepted his affection, following like a sheep unaware of the wolf’s lure.

“And how is my lady?” Aegon moved back to organizing some of his tools, lifting them as though they weighed nothing, despite them being heavier than you could imagine. Although he had a lean and built figure, it seemed uncharacteristic with the amount of weight he could lift.

“The girls are doing so well with their stitching progress. I don’t believe there is much else I could teach them.” You spoke and Aegon hummed while he placed a hammer off to the side.

Aegon moved back to you and kissed your cheek, “Well, it is just stitching. There is not much to that work, maybe they could move on to other womanly duties?”

There was a brief moment of bitter taste in your mouth, but you swallowed it down. You reached for your basket on one of the tables and lifted the small cloth that covered the items inside. When you took out a package wrapped in cloth, Aegon watched your movements.

“I got your favourite dinner.” You placed the package into his outstretched hands choosing to ignore his previous comment, “Though, I am still so confused on how you could eat so much.” You laughed at your little joke and Aegon did too, but his gaze still pieced through you.

“I am always hungry,” Aegon’s voice dropped a few octaves and his expression darkened for a moment. It was quickly extinguished and he continued speaking, “Thank you, my love, for bringing this to me. I should get back to work now.”

You nodded at his words and leaned in to kiss the side of his mouth, “I shall leave you to it then.”

Your hands grasped the handle of the basket and picked it up. Giving Aegon a wave goodbye, you started back down the street and hummed idly to yourself. The trek in the falling snow was quiet and pleasant. All of the cottages around you had smoke billowing from their chimneys and glowing windows from candlelight. The sky had darkened fast.

A cottage in the distance caught your eye. The home was not large, but the warmth from your mother and little brother was more than enough to make it feel larger than a castle. You opened the heavy wooden door and rushed in, closing it quickly to keep out the cold. In the open area that consists of the kitchen and living space, your brother was sitting in front of the hearth and your mother was busying herself with dinner.

Upon spotting you by the door, your little brother rushed to greet you. He called out your name and wrapped his arms around your legs with his head burying itself in your stomach. Your arms encircled him and squeezed.

You ruffled his dark locks, “Good to see you too, buddy.” He pulled away from you and started asking countless questions about your day. You laughed at his curiousness and mentioned you would speak over dinner before sending him on his way to wash his hands and prepare the table.

Your mother had moved to the hearth to tend to the cast iron pot simmering with that night's stew. She stirred it around and brought a wooden spoon up to her lips, blew on it, and tasted. She nodded at the taste and decided it was ready. She turned around and saw you standing there and wrapped you in a hug.

“I expect your day went well?” Your mother pulled back and grabbed the pot. She carried it to the table and set it down by the bowls your brother brought out. When you sat down with your brother in the spot beside yours, a piece of parchment was dropped by the bowl that your mother placed.

“My day was fine. What is this?” You held up the parchment.

“A letter from Winterfell’s healer.” Your mother answered. You furrowed your brows. Winterfell was the town over, about a little over a day's ride from here. It was where your grandmother lived. It had been years since you visited last.

You unrolled the parchment and began to read. The more you did, the greater your worry grew. Your grandmother was sick and had been for a while. The healer could not keep watch on her enough while also taking care of others in Winterfell. He asked for a family member to come to the town and watch in on your grandmother for the times he is not there. The healer said he would be waiting at the town gate on the morning of the moon's first quarter to escort whoever showed up to her home.

“That is two days from now.” You spoke to your mother as she swallowed a spoonful of stew, “I will have to go tomorrow at midday.”

“You do not have to.” Your mother interrupted, “I could go.”

“Mother you need to take care of Joffrey.” You interjected. Your mother did not speak for a moment and considered your words. After a few minutes of quiet eating, she acquiesced to your stance and accepted your travel plans.

Dinner was spent with your brother speaking about his day. Both you and your mother occasionally interjected with quips, but the mood from ill news regarding your grandmother hung over the table like a thick smoke cloud. You thought back to all of those moments you had with your grandmother, which became fewer the older you got. Trips to Winterfell became scarce to the point that it had been close to a decade since your last visit.

Cleaning up the kitchen and table was done in silence between you and your mother. Your brother had been dismissed to go to bed early - something he was adamantly against, but listened to nonetheless. You slowly packed the items you would need for the trip over. Getting time off of teaching would be easy, but you were hesitant to leave your family for however many weeks it would be.

Once you were settled in for the night, sleep came quickly.

⋅───⊱༺ ☾ 🐾☽ ༻⊰───⋅

Your black boots made crunches in the snow as you walked through the town. You had swung by the bakery that morning to pick up a couple of sweets and pastries for the road. Your grandmother had always loved raspberry tarts, so you picked out a couple for her. While you may not be able to cure her sickness, at the very least you could brighten her spirits. You were set to begin your journey in just a few hours, but you had one last task to complete.

The same familiar sight of the blacksmith appeared as you made your trek down the street. The sound of metal clanging rang through your head. You saw Aegon working, steady and focused. When you approached closer, he spotted you out of his peripheral. He stopped what he was doing. The smile on his face faded slowly at the neutral expression across yours.

“Are you okay?” Aegon spoke. He moved forward and pulled you closer by your scarlet cloak. One of his hands fiddled with the hood that protected you from the snowfall.

“I have to go,” You began, “My grandmother is sick and it's getting worse.”

Aegon’s face scrunched up in confusion, “Go? Go where?”

“Winterfell.”

For a brief moment, a shadow swept across his face at your answer. His posture went rigid and the hand clasping your hood was pulled back and balled into a fist. You attributed his change of mood to your sudden departure.

“For how long?” He asked.

You reached out to gently squeeze one of his biceps, swiping your thumb up and down in comfort, “A few weeks, possibly a month or two. I leave tonight.” Aegon shrugged free from your hand and stepped back. His arms raised slightly with his psalm facing you. They shook for a moment before lowering.

“So, you’re just going to leave… like that?” Aegon now looked bewildered, with a slight air of offence in his voice.

“My grandmother needs someone from her family to take care of her.”

Aegon began to move his equipment away, “I’m going with you.” The finality in his tone made no room for rebuttal, but you stood your ground.

“I need someone to look after my family here.” After you spoke, Aegon halted his movements and turned back to you. You went up to him and placed your hands on his chest.

“I’m guessing no amount of persuading will work?” He questioned. When you nodded, he accepted your answer. He cupped your face, “Just… stay safe. The people of Winterfell are vipers.”

You rolled your eyes at his overprotectiveness, “I will, Aegon. Just keep my family safe while I’m gone.”

Aegon licked his lips, “I’ll keep your family safe.”

⋅───⊱༺ ☾ 🐾☽ ༻⊰───⋅

The gates of Winterfell looked unfamiliar compared to the faint memories you had of this place. It was morning and the ground was laden with a thick cover of mist that hovered above the packed snow. Early light from the rising sun cast against the snow and sparkled. You breathed in the scent of pine and exhaled, watching as the mist from your mouth evaporated in the air. You wrapped the scarlet cloak around you more to drive away the chill. The horse you had rode had been taken to the stables.

On the inside of the gates, you spotted an old man hunched over. He was dressed in clothes that signalled his position as a healer; neutral grays and a simplistic design of a tunic, trousers, and coat. His hair had turned gray from age and his beard was twisted into a braid that fell down to his chest.

You approached him, “Excuse me, are you Orym?”

“Yes. I assume you are one of the family members?” The old man greeted you politely and shook your hand.

“Her granddaughter. Is she alright?”

“She is as good as she can be, given her condition.” The man responded. Just as you were going to speak, the sound of horse hooves hitting the ground caught your attention. A couple of horses ridden by men passed through the walls. They all dismounted. One of the horses had a wooden carrier that towed the body of a large stag. The man on the horse dropped down with his back to her.

The men all gathered around the stag and clasped the shoulder of the man who, by the positive words being spoken, had taken down the wild beast. From his back, she could see the thick pelts that draped from his broad shoulders. His dark hair was long, falling to his shoulders, with the top half tied up in a knot. The greatsword on his back had to be close to six feet.

He turned around and she saw his face. Strands of his dark hair framed his face, carving out the already sharp jawline he possessed. His brows were even, set over pairs of calculating eyes. The man’s face held a stoic look while his lips were set in a line. You were shocked that such a handsome face could belong to an imposing figure like his. Despite his stately appearance, there was a sense of familiarity there that was comforting. The morning sunlight shone against his figure, almost deifying him.

The man’s gaze found yours and that feeling of calm swayed to a sense of purpose. Like all your life had been waiting for that precise moment.

His eyes were kind and inviting, but also commanding. You were stuck by how off-guard you became. The snow that fell around you, including the world, faded into the background. A sudden pounding feeling hit the back of your head. It was like a part of you, somewhere deep inside, was clawing to be released. It felt as though you knew him already.

Orym shook your arm slightly, “Are you alright?”

You broke your gaze from the man and turned to the healer, “Just fine. Could we go to my grandmother now?”

Orym took your arm and escorted you through the streets of the town. People began to bustle through the streets. All were friendly, exchanging good words with others as they passed. Some stalls opened to sell goods ranging from fish to other oddities. You were slightly angered that you had spent so long away from such a town. This place would have been a wonderful area to grow up in. There was a fair amount of carved wolf imagery in the wood and stone that made up all of the buildings, a running theme throughout Winterfell.

There were summers that you spent here in your youth, but the memories of them had faded with time.

After a few short minutes, you and the healer happened upon a cottage. It was humble but looked homely amongst the snowed backdrop. You had a faint recollection of this place, but since those scattered memories were only marked by summertime, the winter feel of everything was new. Yet, the winter here somehow felt warmer in spite of the biting cold. Three large oak trees surrounded the home, protecting it from the elements.

Orym opened the gate that surrounded the cottage and walked you to the door. He tapped three times on the knocker. He announced you coming before opening the door. Orym bid you a good day before hurrying on to another patient who needed him. When you entered the home, it was apparent that your grandmother lived there. It was neat but decorated immensely with furnishings, quilts, and other odds and ends. The smell of baked goods permeated the air, mixed with hints of dried lilac.

From the door of a room on the far end emerged your grandmother. She was a short and plump woman whose natural energy radiated everywhere she went. While your heart swelled upon seeing her for the first time in many years, you could not help but notice the slight sway in her step and the way her eyes were almost glazed over.

She welcomed you with a great hug, “Oh, darling look how you’ve grown!” For the first time since your arrival, you felt warm and at home with just a simple embrace.

“How are you, grandmother?” You questioned. The woman pulled back to look at you and pinched your cheek lightly.

“I am healthiest than ever. Really, it is just a cold.” She then moved over to her kitchen, but her steps faltered and you caught her and guided her to a seat by the hearth.

You knelt and began to stoke the fire more as it had reduced to burning embers. While you were occupied, your grandmother began to brief you on all her symptoms and how the sickness had progressed, but she seemed to be in denial about how bad it had gotten. Your worry had tripled upon seeing her state.

You took out the raspberry tarts that your grandmother would love. Over the course of a few hours, you two caught up on all the years missed. It was as if no time had passed. You ate the treats and laughed by the fire as the cottage warmed. At some point, you made tea that the both of you nurtured in cups.

There was a sudden knock on the door that broke you out of the story you had been telling. Your grandmother smiled like she knew who was there and called out for them to come in. The door opened, and a large figure fit through the doorway, ducking to get in. The light from the gray day outside hit his back and cast the front in darkness. He closed the door and suddenly you could see it was the same man who you saw just a few hours prior.

“Cregan, how was your hunt?” Your grandmother asked. The man, who you now knew as Cregan, smiled and moved to place a wrapped package on the table next to the kitchen.

“A large stag. I saved you a hindquarters cut.” He responded. You furrowed your brows. The hindquarter was one of the most expensive and you wondered why this man was just giving it away. Your grandmother stood up to go and unwrap the meat and you followed.

Your grandmother looked between you and the man and decided to introduce you, “This is my granddaughter. I told you she was coming to take care of me.”

Cregan then moved to greet you, taking your hand in his and pressing a chaste kiss to your knuckles, “It’s good to see you again after all these years.”

You were confused by his words. There was not a moment you could recall ever meeting a man such as him. Surely, with looks like that, you would remember. Upon seeing your confused expression, Cregan released your hand and looked to your grandmother.

“I am sorry if I misstepped there. It was rude to assume you would remember me, for you were a few years younger.”

It was then that the scratch from the back of your brain was alleviated. The name had sounded familiar, but now that you were closer to him, that familiarity you felt when you saw him for the first time washed away to the faintest of memories. It was flashing still moments in your brain. The tall summer grass, glaring sun, and the images of children running in an open field. The same dark hair bounced on the head of a young child, just a few years your senior, as the two of you chased the other children.

“Cregan?” You spoke, “I think I remember.”

The corners of his mouth turned upwards, “Well, I never was one to make lasting impressions,” He joked.

Your grandmother hit his shoulder gently, “Don’t be so silly, you are a wonderful young man.” You could clearly see that Cregan and your grandmother got along well. He must have been taking care of your grandmother for a long time. It made your heart stutter.

The old lady then yawned, “Could you show my granddaughter around Winterfell? I am awfully tired.” There was a mischievous glint in your grandmother’s eye and you were unsure of her motives.

“It would be my pleasure,” Cregan answered. He turned to you, “If you would like to, of course.”

“It would be good to see all of Winterfell as I plan to stay for a while.” Your reply made the subtle, almost indecipherable smile on Cregan’s face light up a little more. You and Cregan gave goodbyes to your grandmother and put your cloaks on. The scarlet colour was a sharp contrast to the greys and blacks that made up Cregan’s clothing.

Cregan held open the door for you. You gave one last look to your grandmother who sent a wink your way. Your face flushed at figuring out her plan to get the two of you alone. Surely, if you had mentioned seeing Aegon back home, she would not have done this. It also made you question yourself. Why had you not spoken of Aegon when catching up with her? He was a large part of your life, yet did not seem important enough at the time to bring up.

Upon reaching the road, Cregan began to point out important locations. The bakery, library, market, and everything in between. You noticed everyone had kind exchanges with Cregan. They seemed to gravitate towards him.

“The people like you.” You spoke to him.

Cregan glanced at you for a moment while still walking, “Well, I am the lord of Winterfell. My family was given the title by our Queen Rhaenyra’s ancestors. It is a lucky position to be in. I’m grateful to serve these people.” You watched as children ran across a patch of road, all giggling and chasing one another.

“Is Winterfell in need of a teacher?” You asked. Cregan weighed your question for a moment.

“We could always use help with the children around here. Are you a teacher back home?” Cregan spoke.

“Yes. If I am to be here for a while, I should contribute and get money to support my grandmother.” You reasoned. A light dusting of snow began to fall and settled all around. Pieces of snow clung to Cregan’s hair and he shook his head.

“You need not trouble yourself with work. I have taken care of your grandmother for years, I can do the same for you.” He spoke.

Your heart warmed at his words. “That is kind, Cregan, truly. However, I would like to teach.”

“A beautiful woman like you should not trouble herself with work,” Cregan responded. Your brows furrowed at his words, having taken them the wrong way.

“So a woman’s looks dictate whether or not she should work?” You crossed your arms.

Cregan froze while you continued to walk. He was caught off guard by your quip. “That was not my implication. I merely thought that your husband would have made sure you have enough coin for your trip.” You turned around to see him stopped with his hands raised in a surrendering manner.

“I do not have a husband,” Cregan caught up to your pace and let out a hum after your words, “But there is a man I may marry, he is a blacksmith back home. His name is Aegon.”

Your gaze was focused on what was in front of you, but you could still see the hardened gaze of Cregan’s features. His lips turned down to a sharp frown. The name almost seemed to evoke a deep response in him.

“Well, then you must be sure that he will treat you perfectly if you are so faithful in his intentions.” Cregan’s words seemed to hide a double meaning that you struggled to ascertain. His steps fell harder on the snow-covered ground. You began to question the meaning of your relationship with Aegon. Now that you were away from him, it felt like you were washed from the confinement of his presence. A troubling but newfound realization. It was then that a guard turned around the corner and looked relieved to see Cregan.

“Lord Stark! You are needed at the gate.” The guard spoke and then spotted you there as well. He lowered his voice, “Tracks have been spotted.”

Cregan tilted his head in question, “I fail to see how that warrants my attention.”

“My lord, it is uh…” The guard whispered the last bit, “Wolf tracks. Not of our own.” His words made Cregan’s shoulders stiffen. His gloved hands formed hard fists. You were confused about those last words, not of our own. The meaning was lost to you.

Cregan turned to you, “It is best that you get back to your grandmother’s house. I must go handle this.” He moved in the direction of the gate with the guard following. You stood back for a few moments in the falling snow and watched as he walked away. The chill crept up your spine and you decided it was best to go inside.

⋅───⊱༺ ☾ 🐾☽ ༻⊰───⋅

The first week in Winterfell was spent taking care of your grandmother, watching over some of the kids at the school, and spending your free time with Cregan. The children in Winterfell were much more calm in the classroom, but also wicked tricksters outside. However, you managed to gain respect from the kids and are not subjected as a victim to their pranks. That was done rather easily having brought them butter tarts and candied lemons.

Once the children trusted you, the people of Winterfell warmed to your presence as well. They were wary of outsiders, but seeing their children take a liking to you was enough to sway them. You were on your way to do errands. While weaving through the streets you listened in on people talking. Bits and pieces hit your ears.

“Jamie is improving on his reading.”

“There are no good pieces of-”

“The full moon is tonight.”

“Where is Lily?”

You made your way through the street stalls. While on your errands you wondered what Cregan was up to. You had found a good friend in him, despite the fact that your heart would beat faster and your cheeks would burn when you got near him. He had been a friendly companion, having shown you around Winterfell and introduced you to his friends. His friends, while a bunch of rowdy loud-mouthed people, had treated you respectfully.

Cregan continued to check in on your grandmother and bring game from hunts every day. There are moments when you are alone with Cregan, that you find your resolve crumbling. With each passing day, your fancy for Aegon dwindled to the point that he was rarely - if ever - on your mind. It brought you an immense feeling of guilt. Aegon has been nothing but supportive of you and your family. While he did tend to get overprotective - at one point fighting an old childhood friend simply for talking to you - Aegon still showed you passion.

Yet, with Cregan, he introduced a type of stability you had never felt before. There was support given to you, but reassurance and encouragement in your own capability of taking care of yourself. You were not treated as helpless by Cregan, a surprising contrast to the men back home. It was nice to see, but also wildly different than what you were used to. It confused you to see such a difference in culture despite there only being a brief two days of travel between the two places. Cregan only said that it was the way Winterfell functioned.

“We are like a pack here - always looking out for one another.”

It was easy for you to fall in love with Winterfell in just a week. With your grandmother’s improving condition, you wondered how many days you had left in your stay. It was incredibly relieving to have your grandmother up and active more and coughing less, though you wondered if it would be okay to extend your stay.

You spotted one of Cregan’s friends, Ser Dustin, walking in your direction. He was a few years older than Cregan, with a bushy beard and muscled figure. His clothing matched Cregans - dark greys and black with silver embellishments and the familiar wolf head insignia on a patch on his chest. You smiled in greeting. His normal warm smile was replaced with a troubled look on his face.

“Are you alright, Ser Dustin?” You questioned.

“Quite alright. The night is approaching, you should be inside.” He responded.

You pulled your scarlet cloak tighter around your frame, “Have you seen Cregan? I have not seen him today.” Ser Dustin sighed.

“Cregan has been busy with his duties. I’m sure you will see him tomorrow.” His brief dismissal was so out of character. You blinked a few times.

“Okay,” You spoke, “I’ll be going home now.” While you wanted to talk to him more, his earlier comment on the day ending almost sounded like a warning rather than an observation. It sent a deep feeling of uncertainty in your bones. The cold of the weather was not the origin of the chill that slithered up your spine.

You took a few steps back from Ser Dustin before turning and going on your way. When you were out of sight, your hands grabbed the fabric of your skirt and lifted it up so you could run. You sprinted as fast as your clothing could allow you until you reached your grandmother's house. You swung the door open and flung yourself against the door to close it. Your lungs were pushing for any semblance of air. Your grandmother looked up from the table as she was setting down two bowls of stew.

“Is everything alright?” She questioned. You calmed your breathing and shrugged off your scarlet cloak to hang it up on a hook by the door.

“Everything is fine, grandma.” You lied, not wishing to stress her out, “What’s for dinner?”

“Stew.” She responded.

Dinner was spent with your grandmother taking up most of the conversation. You nodded along graciously and occasionally made quick observations, but your mind was elsewhere. The entire day something had felt off. An unfamiliar itch that you could not ascertain. The people of Winterfell seemed more tense than usual, and the countless ornamented wolf heads felt like they were staring through your soul, piercing everything within. You had chalked the feeling up to homesickness, nothing more. Yet, your gut was sounding an alarm.

It is nothing but missing home.

You exchanged goodnights with your grandmother and secluded yourself in your room. The gentle monotony of your night routine lulled your nerves just a bit. You were down to your nightclothes - a thin white shift with silver vine embroidery - when your gaze locked with the small window. Night had come and you could see the full moon rising in the distance. Clouds obscured the moon, but its white light still illuminated Winterfell.

A pounding sensation began to hit the back of your head. You lay down in your bed hoping that some rest would wash it away. Over the period of a few hours, your body tossed and turned as you fell in and out of sleep. You had left your window open just a hair to let in the winter cold, but your body felt like it had been set alight.

It was in that forever torment of heat and restlessness that a shrill shriek cut through the crisp night air; a sounding cry bellowed from the depths of a chest and torn through the vocal cords. Wolf calls echoed the sound and bounced off the walls of buildings until they bounced throughout your skull. When the vibrations hit your ears, the pounding in your head eased.

Another shriek rang out.

_____________

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perfectsunlight · 3 months ago

Text

[13] I HOPE SO

warnings: strained mother/daughter relationship

the soft ambiance of the car drive combined with the lack of sleep from the past few weeks made it easy for ivory to fall asleep. this was the group’s final days off before the new album, and the young idol decided she wanted to go home.

the driver, oblivious to her true destination, had agreed to drop her off a few blocks before what he assumed was her house. jane had always been careful to keep her personal life and idol life separate, not only for safety but also because of her circumstances. she stirred awake as the car slowed down, the driver’s voice gently pulling her from her slumber.

“we’re here, miss kim,” he said softly. the man turned around briefly to see if the idol in the backseat was awake. “do you need anything else?”

she rubbed her eyes and nodded, gathering her belongings. “no, thank you though,” she cleared her throat, her voice still heavy with sleep. she stepped out of the car, taking a moment to stretch and breathe in the familiar air of her neighborhood. the driver gave her a small nod and a smile before driving away, leaving her to make the rest of the journey on foot.

the idol took a deep breath and started walking. the familiar streets brought back a flood of memories. as she walked, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of nostalgia. the houses, the trees, even the cracks in the sidewalk were all the same.

it was comforting in a way that nothing else could be. she loved being home, it was her favorite place to be.

out here, she was still just ivory. not ivory the idol — just ivory, the girl who lived with her grandmother in seocho. the soothing sounds of the rustling leaves in the gentle breeze made her feel at ease. she walked the last few blocks to her grandmother’s house, enjoying the feeling of the familiar pavement under her feet.

as she approached the house, she noticed something that made her stop in her tracks. her grandmother’s car was parked in the driveway. jieun never parked in the driveway. her steps slowed, and she felt a knot of anxiety forming in her stomach.

she knew that could only mean one thing. jennie had parked in the garage.

jane’s heart sank. she hadn’t expected her to be here. she had simply wanted a quiet, peaceful visit with her grandmother. now, her small vacation at home was going to be more stressful than work.

the last thing she needed was the woman who pretended she was a mother, especially now that she was in le sserafim. for a moment, she considered turning around and heading straight back to the company and spending the next four days in the hybe basement, but she knew she couldn’t do that. she took a deep breath and steeled herself before continuing to the front door.

she pushed the gate open and walked up the path, her footsteps heavy with reluctance. when she reached the door, she hesitated for a moment before knocking lightly.

jieun answered the door with a warm smile. “you’re home!” she exclaimed, her eyes crinkling with joy as she enveloped the girl in a tight hug. the comforting scent of lavender and the gentle embrace of her grandmother quickly set her mind at ease, even if it was just for a few moments.

“hi, grandma,” ivory managed, her voice wavering slightly. she forced a smile, trying to mask her discomfort and unease about jennie’s unexpected presence. it was like clockwork really,

as jieun ushered her inside, jane’s gaze wandered through the hallway and into the living room. it was then she saw her — jennie, seated at the dinner table. the sight was like a punch to the gut. jennie looked up from her spot, her expression a mix of surprise and awkwardness.

ivory’s heart raced, and her thoughts swirled. she had hoped to avoid any encounters with jennie, let alone have a meal with her. the tension in the room was palpable, a stark contrast to the warmth and comfort she had hoped to find in her home.

jennie stood up slowly, her movements hesitant. “valentine,” she said, her voice soft but tinged with an edge of nervousness. “you’re home early.” it was true, jane had told her grandmother that she was coming in the evening instead of the afternoon. considering jennie knew about this, that must have meant jieun told her when she was coming home.

either way, why was her mother even here? didn’t she have better things to do than pretend to be a mother?

jane’s throat tightened, and she struggled to maintain her composure. she wanted to turn around and leave, to escape the uncomfortable situation and the painful reminders of the absence of her mother. but her grandmother’s hopeful eyes and the reality of her presence kept her rooted in place.

after all, it was probably jieun who suggested jennie should come. she would do her best to be cordial, for her grandmother’s sake.

“hi,” ivory replied curtly, her tone distant. she tried to avoid eye contact, focusing instead on her grandmother’s reassuring presence. jieun’s smile faltered as she looked between both her granddaughter and her daughter. sensing the tension, she gently guided ivory to a seat at the table. “why don’t you sit down, dear? you must be hungry.”

jane took her place across the table from jennie, her posture rigid as she stared at the array of dishes laid out before her. the warmth of her grandmother’s home-cooked meal was overshadowed by the icy atmosphere that now permeated the room.

the blackpink idol settled back into her own seat, her attempt at normalcy falling flat. she tried to engage in light conversation, her voice too cheerful and slightly strained. “so, how was the drive? was traffic okay?”

ivory muttered a reply, her response lacking enthusiasm. “it was fine.” she picked up her chopsticks, fiddling with them as a distraction. her gaze remained fixed on the food, the delicious aroma doing little to distract her from the awkwardness that filled the room.

jieun attempted to smooth over the tension with gentle conversation, directing her questions towards ivory to take the spotlight off the strained interactions. “how’s eunchae?”

a pair of small cat-like eyes looked up, her expression softening slightly at the mention of her best friend. she always told her grandmother everything, even the things that went on with her friends. “she's great. it’s kinda fun rooming with her, but chaewon says we’re too loud.” jane replied as she took a bite of her rice.

jennie’s heart sank as she observed the slight shift in ivory’s demeanor. it was the first time during dinner that she had seen a genuine reaction from her daughter. she realized how little she actually knew about jane’s life, her interests, or even just her friends.

the realization was like ice in her veins, making jennie once again acutely aware of the void between them.

after dinner, jieun suggested they watch a movie together, hoping it might help bridge the gap. ivory agreed, more for her grandmother's sake than anything else. they settled in the living room, with jane in the middle, jennie on one side, and jieun on the other.

the movie played, a light-hearted comedy that usually would have made ivory laugh. but tonight, she felt the weight of her mother's presence, making it hard to relax. as the movie progressed, the warmth of her home and the exhaustion from her rigorous schedule began to catch up with her. despite her best efforts, her eyelids grew heavy, and she found herself nodding off.

as the movie reached its climax, ivory’s head slowly leaned to the side, finally resting on jennie’s shoulder.

jennie froze for a moment, unsure of what to do. the simple gesture, unintentional as it was, filled her with a bittersweet warmth. carefully, jennie reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch and gently placed it over her daughter’s sleeping form.

she knew she had a long way to go to mend her relationship with her daughter, but this small moment of connection gave her a moment of comfort. jennie leaned back, allowing herself to savor the rare closeness, even if she knew it wouldn’t last more than tonight.

as the credits rolled, the oldest woman got up to turn off the tv, her movements quiet to avoid waking ivory. she looked back at jennie, her eyes soft with understanding. “she loves you, you know,” jieun whispered. “she just needs time.”

jennie nodded, her eyes never leaving jane’s peaceful face. it was amazing how much her daughter reselmed her. this was truly her ivory, her baby girl, both on and off of the stage.

“i hope so, mom. i really hope so.”

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macrolit · 5 months ago

Text

By Elisabeth Egan May 18, 2024

“You’d be shocked by how many books have women chained in basements,” Reese Witherspoon said. “I know it happens in the world. I don’t want to read a book about it.”

Nor does she want to read an academic treatise, or a 700-page novel about a tree.

Sitting in her office in Nashville, occasionally dipping into a box of takeout nachos, Witherspoon talked about what she does like to read — and what she looks for in a selection for Reese’s Book Club, which she referred to in a crisp third person.

“It needs to be optimistic,” Witherspoon said. “It needs to be shareable. Do you close this book and say, ‘I know exactly who I want to give it to?’”

But, first and foremost, she wants books by women, with women at the center of the action who save themselves. “Because that’s what women do,” she said. “No one’s coming to save us.”

Witherspoon, 48, has now been a presence in the book world for a decade. Her productions of novels like “Big Little Lies,” “Little Fires Everywhere” and “The Last Thing He Told Me” are foundations of the binge-watching canon. Her book club picks reliably land on the best-seller list for weeks, months or, in the case of “Where the Crawdads Sing,” years. In 2023, print sales for the club’s selections outpaced those of Oprah’s Book Club and Read With Jenna, according to Circana Bookscan, adding up to 2.3 million copies sold.

So how did an actor who dropped out of college (fine, Stanford) become one of the most influential people in an industry known for being intractable and slightly tweedy?

It started with Witherspoon’s frustration over the film industry’s skimpy representation of women onscreen — especially seasoned, strong, smart, brave, mysterious, complicated and, yes, dangerous women.

“When I was about 34, I stopped reading interesting scripts,” she said.

Witherspoon had already made a name for herself with “Election,” “Legally Blonde” and “Walk the Line.” But, by 2010, Hollywood was in flux: Streaming services were gaining traction. DVDs were following VHS tapes to the land of forgotten technology.

“When there’s a big economic shift in the media business, it’s not the superhero movies or independent films we lose out on,” Witherspoon said. “It’s the middle, which is usually where women live. The family drama. The romantic comedy. So I decided to fund a company to make those kinds of movies.”

In 2012, she started the production company Pacific Standard with Bruna Papandrea. Its first projects were film adaptations of books: “Gone Girl” and “Wild,” which both opened in theaters in 2014.

Growing up in Nashville, Witherspoon knew the value of a library card. She caught the bug early, she said, from her grandmother, Dorothea Draper Witherspoon, who taught first grade and devoured Danielle Steel novels in a “big cozy lounger” while sipping iced tea from a glass “with a little paper towel wrapped around it.”

This attention to detail is a smoke signal of sorts: Witherspoon is a person of words.

When she was in high school, Witherspoon stayed after class to badger her English teacher — Margaret Renkl, now a contributing opinion writer for The New York Times — about books that weren’t part of the curriculum. When Witherspoon first moved to Los Angeles, books helped prepare her for the “chaos” of filmmaking; “The Making of the African Queen” by Katharine Hepburn was a particular favorite.

So it made sense that, as soon as Witherspoon joined Instagram, she started sharing book recommendations. Authors were tickled and readers shopped accordingly. In 2017, Witherspoon made it official: Reese’s Book Club became a part of her new company, Hello Sunshine.

The timing was fortuitous, according to Pamela Dorman, senior vice president and publisher of Pamela Dorman Books/Viking, who edited the club’s inaugural pick, “Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine.” “The book world needed something to help boost sales in a new way,” she said.

Reese’s Book Club was that something: “Eleanor Oliphant” spent 85 weeks on the paperback best-seller list. The club’s second pick, “The Alice Network,” spent nearly four months on the weekly best-seller lists and two months on the audio list. Its third, “The Lying Game,” spent 18 weeks on the weekly lists.

“There’s nothing better than getting that phone call,” added Dorman, who has now edited two more Reese’s Book Club selections.

Kiley Reid’s debut novel, “Such a Fun Age,” got the nod in January 2020. She said, “When I was on book tour, a lot of women would tell me, ‘I haven’t read a book in four years, but I trust Reese.’” Four years later, on tour for her second novel, “Come and Get It,” Reid met women who were reading 100 books a year.

Witherspoon tapped into a sweet spot between literary and commercial fiction, with a few essay collections and memoirs sprinkled in. She turned out to be the literary equivalent of a fit model — a reliable bellwether for readers in search of intelligent, discussion-worthy fare, hold the Proust. She wanted to help narrow down the choices for busy readers, she said, “to bring the book club out of your grandma’s living room and online.”

She added: “The unexpected piece of it all was the economic impact on these authors’ lives.”

One writer became the first person in her family to own a home. “She texted me a picture of the key,” Witherspoon said. “I burst into tears.”

Witherspoon considers a handful of books each month. Submissions from publishers are culled by a small group that includes Sarah Harden, chief executive of Hello Sunshine; Gretchen Schreiber, manager of books (her original title was “bookworm”); and Jon Baker, whose team at Baker Literary Scouting scours the market for promising manuscripts.

Not only is Witherspoon focused on stories by women — “the Bechdel test writ large,” Baker said — but also, “Nothing makes her happier than getting something out in the world that you might not see otherwise.”

When transgender rights were in the headlines in 2018, the club chose “This Is How It Always Is,” Laurie Frankel’s novel about a family grappling with related issues in the petri dish of their own home. “We track the long tail of our book club picks and this one, without fail, continues to sell,” Baker said.

Witherspoon’s early readers look for a balance of voices, backgrounds and experiences. They also pay attention to the calendar. “Everyone knows December and May are the busiest months for women,” Harden said, referring to the mad rush of the holidays and the end of the school year. “You don’t want to read a literary doorstop then. What do you want to read on summer break? What do you want to read in January?”

Occasionally the group chooses a book that isn’t brand-new, as with the club’s April pick, “The Most Fun We Ever Had,” from 2019. When Claire Lombardo learned that her almost-five-year-old novel had been anointed, she thought there had been a mistake; after all, her new book, “Same As it Ever Was,” is coming out next month. “It’s wild,” Lombardo said. “It’s not something that I was expecting.”

Sales of “The Most Fun We Ever Had” increased by 10,000 percent after the announcement, according to Doubleday. Within the first two weeks, 27,000 copies were sold. The book has been optioned by Hello Sunshine.

Witherspoon preferred not to elaborate on a few subjects: competition with other top-shelf book clubs (“We try not to pick the same books”); the lone author who declined to be part of hers (“I have a lot of respect for her clarity”); and the 2025 book she’s already called dibs on (“You can’t imagine that Edith Wharton or Graham Greene didn’t write it”).

But she was eager to set the record straight on two fronts. Her team doesn’t get the rights to every book — “It’s just how the cookie crumbles,” she said — and, Reese’s Book Club doesn’t make money off sales of its picks. Earnings come from brand collaborations and affiliate revenue.

This is true of all celebrity book clubs. An endorsement from one of them is a free shot of publicity, but one might argue that Reese’s Book Club does a bit more for its books and authors than most. Not only does it promote each book from hardcover to paperback, it supports authors in subsequent phases of their careers.

Take Reid, for instance. More than three years after Reese’s Book Club picked her first novel, it hosted a cover reveal for “Come and Get It,” which came out in January. This isn’t the same as a yellow seal on the cover, but it’s still a spotlight with the potential to be seen by the club’s 2.9 million Instagram followers.

“I definitely felt like I was joining a very large community,” Reid said.

“Alum” writers tend to stay connected with one another via social media, swapping woot woots and advice. They’re also invited to participate in Hello Sunshine events and Lit Up, a mentorship program for underrepresented writers. Participants get editing and coaching from Reese’s Book Club authors, plus a marketing commitment from the club when their manuscripts are submitted to agents and editors.

“I describe publishing and where we sit in terms of being on a river,” Schreiber said. “We’re downstream; we’re looking at what they’re picking. Lit Up gave us the ability to look upstream and say, ‘We’d like to make a change here.’”

The first Lit Up-incubated novel, “Time and Time Again” by Chatham Greenfield, is coming out from Bloomsbury YA in July. Five more fellows have announced the sales of their books.

As Reese’s Book Club approaches a milestone — the 100th pick, to be announced in September — it continues to adapt to changes in the market. Print sales for club selections peaked at five million in 2020, and they’ve softened since then, according to Circana Bookscan. In 2021, Candle Media, a Blackstone-backed media company, bought Hello Sunshine for $900 million. Witherspoon is a member of Candle Media’s board. She is currently co-producing a “Legally Blonde” prequel series for Amazon Prime Video.

This month, Reese’s Book Club will unveil an exclusive audio partnership with Apple, allowing readers to find all the picks in one place on the Apple Books app. “I want people to stop saying, ‘I didn’t really read it, I just listened,’” Witherspoon said. “Stop that. If you listened, you read it. There’s no right way to absorb a book.”

She feels that Hollywood has changed over the years: “Consumers are more discerning about wanting to hear stories that are generated by a woman.”

Even as she’s looking forward, Witherspoon remembers her grandmother, the one who set her on this path.

“Somebody came up to me at the gym the other day and he said” — here she put on a gentle Southern drawl — “‘I’m going to tell you something I bet you didn’t hear today.’ And he goes, ‘Your grandma taught me how to read.’”

Another smoke signal, and a reminder of what lives on.

#reese witherspoon #reese's book club #reading #literary #club #book #new york times #elisabeth egan #article

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