#house Stark

[kitnjon]

Insp.

[novaursa]

Winter's Eve

- Summary: A short story for Christmas Eve.

- Paring: velaryon!reader/Cregan Stark

- Note: The reader is Rhaenyra's daughter.

- Rating: Mild 13+

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @daeryna @melsunshine @21-princess

- A/N: I'm wishing you all warm and happy Christmas Eve. Be kind to yourself. ❤️

The snow fell thick and silent outside the towering walls of Winterfell, blanketing the world in a hushed stillness that seemed sacred. The air smelled of evergreen and pine resin, mingling with the faint, rich scent of roasted venison wafting through the stone halls. It was Winter’s Eve, the North’s cherished celebration of hearth and kinship, a day to honor the gods for surviving the long night and welcoming the promise of lengthening days.

Candles glowed warmly in every nook of the Great Hall, their light shimmering off the polished swords hung as decorations along the walls. Evergreen boughs and red winterberries adorned the long wooden tables, filling the air with a faint, crisp fragrance. The hall was alive with laughter and song, the kind of revelry that made the cold beyond the walls seem a distant memory.

You stood near the hearth, the massive blaze casting your silver hair in a warm golden glow. Your gown, a deep blood red edged with silver embroidery, stood out amidst the furs and wools of the Northern lords and their families. At your side, Rickon, your stepson, and your eldest daughter, Lyanna, giggled as they shared a slice of honeycake. Your youngest son, Rhaegar, was bundled in your arms, nestled against your chest. His tiny hand reached up to clutch at the strands of your hair, cooing softly.

Cregan entered the hall, a commanding figure even among the gathered lords. His dark hair was windswept, and a light dusting of snow melted on his heavy black cloak. His presence always seemed to fill the room, his deep voice carrying as he greeted his bannermen, clapping hands on shoulders and exchanging hearty laughter.

“Y/N,” he called out as he approached, his grey eyes softening when they found you. “You’ve made the hall shine brighter than the stars themselves.”

“And you’ve brought the winter in with you,” you teased gently, noting the snowflakes still clinging to his beard. “Come here before the children think a bear has wandered in.”

Rickon laughed at that, reaching for his father, who hoisted the boy up onto his shoulder effortlessly. “A bear, is it? Perhaps you should be wary of this bear stealing your mother away.”

Rickon giggled, shaking his head. “Mother would never leave us!”

“Smart boy,” Cregan murmured, ruffling his son’s dark curls before setting him down again.

The merriment paused briefly as Lord Harwyn Manderly, a stout man with a booming laugh, entered the hall carrying a large bundle of fur. He set it down carefully at the edge of the fire, and the bundle shifted, revealing the unmistakable forms of direwolf pups. The room fell into an awed hush.

“Winter’s blessings, Lord Stark,” Manderly said, bowing slightly. “I thought it fitting to bring gifts for your children—a pack for the pack, as it were.”

The pups, four of them, were small but already carried the proud features of their species: thick, shaggy coats, sharp eyes, and strong paws. One was silver-grey, like freshly fallen snow; another was black as night. A third was mottled white and grey, while the fourth was a soft brown, almost tawny.

Rickon was the first to approach, his face alight with wonder. “Are they truly for us?” he asked, glancing at Cregan.

“Aye,” Cregan said, his voice warm with approval. “The North remembers its own. A wolf for each of you.”

You knelt beside Rickon, helping him approach the pups. The black one padded forward and sniffed Rickon’s outstretched hand before nuzzling into it. The boy’s face lit up with joy. “This one’s mine!” he declared, holding the pup carefully.

Lyanna hesitated before stepping closer, her small fingers gripping your gown. You encouraged her gently. “Go on, sweetling. They’re meant to be yours.”

The silver-grey pup seemed to sense her shyness and padded over, wagging its tail. Lyanna giggled as it licked her hand, her bright eyes wide with delight. “I’ll name her Frost,” she whispered, hugging the pup to her chest.

Even little Rhaegar was not left out. Cregan held the mottled pup up for him to see, and the baby cooed, reaching out to touch its soft fur. “He likes you already,” you said softly, marveling at how the wolf seemed to settle instantly in Cregan’s arms, as if knowing it belonged to the smallest Stark.

The brown pup, meanwhile, padded up to you, its head cocked as if studying you. Cregan chuckled. “Seems you have a wolf of your own, my love.”

You reached down to scratch behind its ears, smiling as it leaned into your touch. “Then we’ll call her Ember,” you said. “A wolf to match the fire in our hall.”

The celebration continued late into the night, with the wolves curling at the feet of their new masters and the children’s laughter echoing through the hall. Cregan pulled you close as the night deepened, the warmth of his presence as steady as the roaring fire.

“This,” he said quietly, his voice filled with reverence, “is what Winterfell was always meant to be—a home, filled with life and love.”

You leaned into him, watching your children and their wolves play in the firelight. “And it always will be,” you replied, your voice soft but certain, “as long as we’re together.”

The warmth of the previous night’s celebration still lingered, faint strains of music and laughter echoing in the air as a few lords and ladies, who had stayed the night, stirred slowly in their chambers. Fires crackled in the hearths, and the scent of bread baking in the kitchens mingled with the crisp winter air.

You stirred awake to the sound of muffled giggles and the unmistakable pitter-patter of small feet on the stone floor. It took only a moment to realize that the source of the giggles was your children. Rolling over, you found Cregan still beside you, his arm draped protectively over your waist, his breathing steady and deep in sleep. Smiling softly, you disentangled yourself from him and slipped out of bed, wrapping a fur-lined robe around yourself to shield against the morning chill.

The giggles grew louder as you stepped into the corridor, and you followed them to the courtyard, where Lyanna and Rickon were already bundled in their cloaks, dragging their new direwolf pups along on makeshift leashes fashioned from ribbon. Rhaegar toddled after them, clutching a toy carved from weirwood, while the brown direwolf pup, Ember, kept a watchful eye on him.

The sight brought a smile to your face, but the moment of quiet admiration was short-lived as you noticed what—or rather who—they were approaching.

In the far corner of the courtyard, nestled in the snow, lay your dragon, Balelyx. His massive, silver-scaled form shimmered faintly in the morning light, his great wings tucked tightly against his body to conserve warmth. Wisps of smoke curled from his nostrils as he slept, the ground around him melted into dark slush from the heat of his presence.

“Lyanna Stark!” you called out, striding quickly toward them. Your voice carried a note of warning, and the children froze mid-step, turning to look at you with wide, guilty eyes. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Rickon, always the boldest, spoke up first. “We just wanted to see if the wolves liked dragons.”

“Dragons and wolves don’t always mix well,” you said, softening your tone as you knelt beside them. “Balelyx is still half-asleep, but if you startled him...”

“He wouldn’t hurt us!” Lyanna interrupted, clutching her silver direwolf pup protectively. “He’s your dragon, Mama. He’d know we’re family.”

Your heart softened at her innocent trust, but you still shook your head. “Balelyx is a dragon, my love. He’s not like the wolves. He follows his instincts first and foremost. Come, step back.”

The children reluctantly obeyed, though Rickon glanced longingly at Balelyx’s massive tail, which twitched faintly even in sleep. “Can’t we just sit near him?” he asked. “We promise to be quiet.”

Before you could answer, a deep rumble echoed through the courtyard as Balelyx opened one great, molten eye, focusing immediately on the children. The dragon lifted his head slightly, a plume of smoke curling from his nostrils. For a moment, the children held their breath, but Balelyx only huffed softly, his tail curling protectively around his body as if acknowledging their presence but not perceiving them as a threat.

“See?” Rickon whispered triumphantly. “He likes us.”

You sighed, reaching out to stroke Balelyx’s scaled neck, murmuring softly in High Valyrian. The dragon relaxed under your touch, and you turned to the children. “You may sit nearby, but no loud noises, no sudden movements. And if he so much as growls, you’ll come straight to me. Understood?”

They nodded eagerly, settling onto the snow-covered ground with their pups, who sniffed at the dragon curiously but kept their distance. Balelyx watched them lazily for a moment before lowering his head back onto his forelegs, his eyes half-closing.

The scene might have remained peaceful if not for the arrival of Lord Harwyn Manderly, still dressed in his fine green doublet from the night before. His booming laugh shattered the stillness of the courtyard as he approached, accompanied by a few other Northern lords who had stayed the night.

“Well, well,” Manderly said, clapping his gloved hands together. “It seems the little wolves are braver than most grown men, sitting so near to such a beast.”

“Lord Manderly,” you said, rising to greet him with a polite smile, “Balelyx is no beast. He’s a dragon of Valyria and far smarter than he appears.”

“Smarter, perhaps, but still dangerous,” Manderly countered, though his tone was light. He turned to Cregan, who had appeared in the courtyard as well, his dark hair still tousled from sleep. “What say you, Stark? Shall we make this a Northern tradition—dragons in the snow?”

Cregan chuckled, crossing his arms as he surveyed the scene. “I think it’s enough that the children have wolves, Harwyn. Let’s not tempt fate by encouraging them to bond with fire as well.”

The lords laughed, their voices carrying across the courtyard, and you couldn’t help but smile at the warmth and camaraderie that lingered even after the festivities. Cregan approached you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders as he gazed down at the children.

“They’ve inherited your boldness,” he murmured, his voice tinged with pride.

“And your stubbornness,” you replied, leaning into him. “We’ll have our hands full with these three.”

“Aye,” he agreed, his tone warm. “But there’s no joy greater than this.”

The morning passed in a blend of lingering celebration and quiet moments like these, the North’s stoic strength softened by the warmth of family and kinship. Winterfell, in all its cold and grandeur, had never felt more alive.

[duxbelisarius]

If we just use a barebones reading of the show's ending, it's the Stark-looking starks who end up departing the North while the Tully-looking Starks usher in the new age for Westeros and the North. If there's anything to their appearances beyond the established character points, it could be that George's plan for the end is to have the 'New Starks' usher in a 'new order,' assuming that their appearances really go THAT deep story-wise

Do any of y’all asoiaf homies think there could be some significance to the Stark kids’ appearance?

My brain does not currently have the capacity to explain what I mean exactly but I’m talking in the sense that the majority of the kids look like Tullys not Starks, notably it’s said that Arya and Jon look most like Starks and it just made me wonder whether that somehow foreshadows their failures- in the sense that the rest cannot truly uphold Stark values and therefore ultimately fail? Idk if I’m just pulling shit from thin air and this may not make much sense but I just think that fact might somehow imply that they’ll be the ones to uphold Stark values in the send and ultimately succeed in their endeavours.

Ofc I understand I’m ultimately damning Sansa, Bran and Rickon in this but I wouldn’t put it past GRRM to plan that far ahead and use some kind of magical heritage-related symbolism like that… and ofc nobody is safe in asoiaf so there’s that too.

[silverspotted]

veils of sorrow —

a timeless embrace

rhaenyra the cruel 2.02

helaena targaryen and alicent hightower

le jour des morts, “all saints’ day”; 1859

william-adolphe bouguereau

[vintosik]

Sweet boys

[silverwingxox]

born to marry him, forced to read fanfics about him

[laurellerual]

Day 4: House Stark

Arya, the lone wolf, still lived, but the wolves of the pack had been taken and slain and skinned.

[prettydeeryess]

RIP Robb Stark, you would've loved to see a stark army crossing the twins 😔😔😔

[sluttysnowangel666]

His Second Wife - cregan stark x reader (request)

summary: two years following the death of cregan’s first wife, he accepts an undesired marriage proposal to rhaenyra targaryen’s daughter. rhaenyra’s daughter, who had loved cregan the moment she first met him as a young girl, immediately loves and accepts cregan’s first child as her own. yet it is still not enough for cregan to find his own love for his new wife.

cw: mean cregan😓, widow!cregan, targ!reader, loss of virginity(reader), rhaenyra’s daughter, angst to fluff, unrequited love, sex, happy ending

do yall notice i always post a long ass story usually around midnight or later ( i’m unwell)also this is long af soz it was a detailed request and I wanted it to be to a T. this is SOO long. i prolly should have done two parts… oh well @lillithsalvatore hope you enjoy it love ❤️

“How do you feel, my love?” Your mother asked, placing a warm and comforting hand on yours.

You sighed. “Nervous.”

She gave you that warm and sweet smile of hers. “I know. I hope you know this choice was not easy for me to make, as I know this was a hard task for me to place upon you.”

“I know, mother.” You say with forgiveness, giving her hand a squeeze.

“Had it been any other lord I would have surely declined but… Starks are the most honorable among men. I know your union will be blessed by the gods.”

You give her a smile, blindly trusting her words. You had met him once, and you knew he was kind. In fact, he had left a paw shaped imprint on your heart. You thought to yourself no union could be more suitable. You knew he had married once before out of a prior marital alliance, but the marriage had been short lived, lasting only a year before his first wife died in her birthing chambers.

It took more than four moons before you arrived at Winterfell, as if every power in the world was set on preventing it. You were not a superstitious person, so you simply thought all the bad things that happened prior to your marriage was coincidence.

Each time you went to leave, something prevented you. Your mother miscarried your baby sister, Lucerys was killed by Aemond, Daemon went silent at Harrenhall, Rhaena ran away and was lost in the eyrie before revealing she claimed Sheep-stealer.

You arrived in the dead of winter, and the journey had not been kind to you. You got a chill on the way up, causing you to stop at an inn for a few nights, you had came across raiders who killed one of the many men escorting you, and your clothes were ill suited for the weather.

You did eventually arrive at Winterfell thankfully, all in one piece.

You stepped out of the carriage cautiously, eyeing the snowy landscape surrounding you. It went as far as the eye could see. You held your hand out, letting the thick snowflakes fall and melt in your hand.

“My princess.” You turn to see Cregan, walking towards you. He bows, forcing a politeness. “Winterfell is yours.”

You bow in return, “No need for such formalities, Lord Stark. This is your home, and I am honored to have you welcome me here.”

He nods, choosing to say nothing else to you.

“Please show the princess to her chambers.” He says to one of the servants, then immediately turning on his heels to leave. Your jaw falls slightly, surprised at his curt demeanor.

You compose yourself, trying to hide the slight hurt in your features before making your way to your private chambers.

You bathed immediately, welcoming the hot water against your skin. No water could be hot enough for your dragon blood, but what they had drawn up for you would do nicely.

Your wedding was a week after your arrival, the lord having given you time to settle in. You had not seen him much during that week so you chose not to bother him, assuming he was busy with duties.

When you walked down that snowy path to the red weirwood, Cregan stole a glance at you. You looked beautiful, and he felt horribly guilty for thinking it. He felt like what he was doing was betraying her.

You said your vows, swearing your love before the old gods. You smiled at Cregan and he gave you a forced one in return. Guilt wracked his whole body. He felt guilty for you, knowing he wouldn’t be able to give you a union where you were loved, he felt guilty for liking your smile, he felt guilty for forgetting hers.

There was a feast following the ceremony, nothing large due to the pains of winter, but it didn’t bother you. The small gathering felt intimate, compared to southern weddings where lords and ladies travelled from all over the realm to witness it.

It was here you met Cregan’s son, Rickon.

“Hi, little one.” You said. He was only two, a fat little babe who looked just like Cregan.

“Rickon, this is my new wife.” Cregan said. The way he worded it made you twitch, it had sounded so strained. He didn’t even use your name. You told the boy the name he could call you, but he said nothing as he hid behind his father’s leg.

“I apologize.” Cregan said, his voice showing no sign that he actually was sorry.

“It is alright, my lord. He is just a babe. He and I will have time to get to know each other.” You said. Cregan tensed up, suddenly remembering again this union was forever.

“Excuse me, princess.” He said, turning and walking away with Rickon. Your heart sunk a bit. You could start to sense it now, Cregan was not in the slightest invested in your union together. You felt lost, out of place suddenly.

You sat back down at the high table, overwhelmed with nervousness. You bit at your nails and the skin around them, biting until they bled. You missed your mother dearly. Being here, in this room among strangers who didn’t care much for southerners to begin with, made you feel small.

You had sat there for an hour or two, not moving or eating once, save for your cuticles.

Cregan came to you, not noticing your nervous state. If he had noticed, he chose to ignore it. “I’ve put Rickon down… Would you please accompany me to my chambers?”

You looked at him, the nail bed of your thumb resting between your teeth. You nodded, standing and staring at the hall one last time. You locked eyes with a man, who noticed you both about to take your leave.

“Is it time for the bedding ceremony, Lord Stark?” The man asked, erupting a few cheers from the men mostly.

“No!” Cregan nearly barked the order. “There will be no bedding ceremony.”

The men in the crowd shuffled awkwardly at his outburst but accepted.

“Princess.” Cregan said, walking away and not waiting to see if you were following.

You did anyway, struggling to keep up with his quick pace. You had the sense he wanted this to be over with quickly.

He held the door as you both entered his chambers. You took in your surroundings. It was a clean and large kept room with a lit hearth and a large bed. A thought passed your mind, even though you tried to push it down.

Did he share these chambers with her?

Cregan began to take off his armor and furs, again not watching to see if you did the same, only assuming you were. If you weren’t, he didn’t care.

“Um, could you help, my lord?” You asked, referring to the laces of your white wedding dress.

He sighed, walking over to you as you turned your back to him. Your eyes welled with tears, but you tried to hide it.

His hands were gentle with the laces, not tugging at them as you expected him to. He obviously had experience doing this before.

He grew emotional as he undid your dress, but he hid it well. It was a weird sense of deja vu. Your hair looked like hers from the back and he felt like he was back at his first wedding.

You pushed the dress off, revealing the sheer linen soft dress underneath. He hadn’t moved from behind you, trying to maintain his composure. You walked away from him, lying on the bed and biting your nails again.

He finished disrobing besides his briefs, and you stole a glance at his back. It was huge, muscular and scarred.

He walked over to the bed, getting between your legs and pushing up your shift.

“Is this alright with you, princess?” He asks. “We need not consummate this if you are not ready.”

For the first time it seemed like he kinda cared about how you felt. His hand still had a hold of your shift, which was resting on your pelvic bone.

You nodded, “Is it alright with you, Lord Stark?”

He nodded, pushing your shift up the rest of the way to reveal your chest. He wanted to fall on his sword for the way he kept stealing glances at your breasts.

He pushed his briefs down, and you choked on your breath at the reveal of his length.

“Oh, gods.” You mumbled under your breath.

He rubbed himself against your slit, and your heart stilled for a minute. The feeling was foreign and intense.

He gently grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand away from your mouth. You hadn’t even realized you were still doing it, it was starting to become like breathing. A natural, unintentional habit.

Your hands fell to his biceps to steady yourself. You looked at him, but he did not meet your gaze. He instead bowed his head, watching himself enter inside you.

You dug your nails into his arm, gasping in shock. He gently shushed you, telling you it was okay.

“Please, please.” You said, not knowing what you were even pleading for.

“What?” He asked gently, his voice low and almost mimicking of your whining. It sent a shiver up your spine.

He was slow and gentle with you, not in it for any pleasure himself.

You touched his chest and his hair and his arms, and while he didn’t stop you he made no effort to touch you himself. His hands rested beside your head, holding up his weight.

Your hands found his arms again and you moaned softly, feeling your peak building in your stomach. You closed your eyes and pressed your forehead to his head, moaning as you spilled onto him. He closed his eyes as he felt it, and guilt wracked him again.

He gently pulled out of you and stood up, immediately dressing himself into his nightwear. You pushed your shift back down and pulled the linen covers over you, immediately going back to biting your nails at his reaction.

He laid beside you, not facing you and not saying anything.

You said nothing, but it hadn’t gone unnoticed how he intentionally avoided spilling himself into you.

———

It had been 3 months since your arrival to Winterfell, and you had adjusted as well as you could given the circumstances.

You did not often see your lord husband, but you were used to it. He spent a lot of his free time in the crypt where she was. It hurt, but you gave him his peace and he appreciated that you didn’t hover.

“Mummy!”

“Sh, sh, love.” You say as Rickon runs into your chambers.

Cregan did not like when Rickon called you his mother. He’d gotten upset with you a few times over it, and you assured him you would correct Rickon when it happened.

“Mummy.” He repeated. You giggled. pulling him into your lap. You shook your head and tapped his nose, saying, “Nooo. Not mummy.”

“Mummy.” He laughed, and you ran your fingers through his thick brown curls.

“What ever will we do with this mop on your head, my son?”

“He is not your son.” You turned to see Cregan standing in the door way. “And his hair is fine.”

“Apologies, my lord.” You said, curtly. He ignored your attitude.

“Come, Rickon.” He said, beckoning his son.

“No, mummy.” Rickon whined, holding you.

“Go see papa.” You told him, and with your blessing Rickon ran to Cregan.

Cregan gave you a cold stare as he left, and you returned the favor.

You were growing ever so agitated with your husband. He had welcomed you into Winterfell, but not his heart. The only time you both had shared a bed was the night of your wedding, to which Cregan had made sure not to give you an heir.

You had no one. Rickon had you, Cregan had you even if he did not want you, yet you were alone here in Winterfell.

You decided to write to your mother on Dragonstone, requesting for Jacaerys to pick you up on dragon back so you could visit your family and hopefully receive advice. You had left your dragon, Silverwing, at home. You did not want to disrespect the already hesitant northern people, and you did not want Silverwing to be cold or hungry.

That night when you were brushing your hair before bed, there was a knock on your door.

“Come in.” You looked in the mirror and saw Cregan’s half sister, Sara, enter.

“Hi, Sara.” You said. She came up behind you, taking the brush from your hand and slowly combing it through your hair. You two had formed a unique bond, given you were both considered outcasts in Winterfell. You were a southerner, she was a bastard. They were two sides of the same coin here in Winterfell.

“I heard what happened today.” She said, and you hummed mindlessly. “My brother can be a bastard.”

You smiled at her in the mirror. “Is that so?”

She nods. “I wish I knew what to do, Sara.”

“We northerners love hard, princess. We are unwaveringly loyal. The wound of losing Aly is still fresh in my brother’s heart. Give him time. He knows you love Rickon, and that scares him. I don’t know why.”

“Was Aly pretty?” You ask.

“You have a southern beauty we do not see often in the North. Aly was not a beautiful woman, but she was a fierce fighter. That is how history will remember her. She was born fighting, and she died fighting. I know you are a fierce fighter as well, princess. You are the blood of the dragon. Do not let the grief my brother holds make you feel small.” She kisses the back of your head. “Throw a fucking book at his head if he acts like that again.”

You laugh, her joke comforting you. She turns and leaves you alone, your head clouded with thoughts of Aly.

You heard back from Jacaerys within a few days that he would arrive shortly to bring you home. You had not yet told Cregan, as you knew he wouldn’t care anyway.

A few days following the letter from the raven, it was Sara’s name day. Cregan had decided to celebrate with a feast, one bigger than your wedding.

You all sat at the high table, your husband and sister in law drinking heavily. Although Cregan was a big man, the amount of ale he consumed that night seemed enough to kill a horse.

“My princess.” A servant rested her hand on your shoulder. You and Cregan both turned to look at her, and she grew nervous, not expecting Cregan to pay any attention or perhaps she would not have asked the princess the request. “Rickon has had a nightmare and wants no comfort of the maids. He is requesting you by name specifically, princess.”

You turn to look at Cregan for his approval. He gives a quick nod, which you hadn’t expected. Perhaps he only obliged since Rickon had requested you by your name, rather than requesting his “mother.”

You walked with the maid to his chambers, opening the door.

“Mummy.” He said through sniffles. You turned to face the maid.

“I thought he requested me by my name.” You said.

“That is your name, princess… to him.” The maid closed the door.

You turn to face Rickon with a gentle sigh. “You know papa doesn’t like that word.”

“Mummy.” He just says again. You walk to his bed, fitting yourself in to lay with him. He cuddles into your chest, and you play with his hair to help him sleep.

“Say it okay.” He says.

“Hm? What do you mean, child?” You ask.

“She say it okay to call you mummy.”

“Who?”

“Mummy did.”

“No, you have to call me my name, sweet boy.”

“Not you, mummy. My other mummy said it okay.”

“You confuse me, Rickon.”

“Mummy says ignore papa.” You chuckle softly.

“Sleep now, my love.” You say, and he slowly falls asleep while you hum him a soft song.

You rise, tucking him in and giving his head a kiss.

You open his door to return to the feast, and Cregan is there waiting.

You gasp, covering your mouth quickly to not wake Rickon.

“Gods, you scared me!” You whisper/yell at him. He says nothing, his eyes in a glossy and drunken haze.

You close the door, nearly standing chest to chest with him.

“I heard you sing to him.” He says softly. “Where did you learn that song?”

“He taught me it.” You say, as you go to step past him when he stops you.

“Cregan?” You say confused, turning to look up at him.

He takes your cheeks in your hands and slams his lips on yours. You freeze for a second in shock, before immediately returning the kiss. He presses you against the door, and you moan into him as you quickly grow wet with Cregan’s sudden change of behavior.

He moves to press gentle kisses on your neck, biting softly here and there. His fingers dig into your hips, grinding himself into you. You moan softly, trying not to cause too much noise against the door.

“Not here.” You moan. He avoids your eyes, taking your hand and pulling you further down the hall to his chambers. It was only your second time in his room. He lifted you into his strong arms, wrapping your legs around his waist and pressing you against the wall.

You both hadn’t even undressed, but you loved the thrill. Your husband finally wanted you after three long grueling months. He pushed your dress up to your waist as you unlaced his breeches.

He took you there against the wall of his chambers, fucking you so sweetly, fucking you in a way that would surely produce an heir.

Your moans filled the halls, and the servants began to spread word that the lord had finally moved on from his first wife.

He carried you to the bed, placing you along the edge as he stood, fucking you with sloppy and drunken thrusts.

You moaned his name, both of you drawing so close to your peak as your hands rested against his stomach. He leaned closed to you as hand moved beside your head to hold his weight, and the other moved under your lower back to lift you slightly off the bed and pull you more into him. The angle sent you over the edge, crying and moaning his name.

Your moans pushed him over, but his next words made you sick.

“Fuck, Alysanne.” He groaned, burying his head in your neck and spilling his seed into you.

You gasped, not even sure you heard him right.

He kissed your neck a few times and then rolled off you, not noticing the look on your face.

You laid there unmoving, still in your dress which was now damp with sweat, and your thighs now sticky with Cregan.

He fell asleep the second his head hit his pillow, still in his clothes.

You choked back a sob, moving your hand to your mouth so he wouldn’t waken. In reality, you could’ve started screaming and he wouldn’t have woke, or even shuffled.

You exited his chambers, trying not to be sick on the way to yours.

“My sister!” Sara drunkenly yelled as she seen you in the hallway. She took notice of your disheveled dress and hair. “Oh my gods, did you and Cregan just…?”

You ignored her, but she noticed the tears on your face. “Wait, sister what is wrong? What happened?”

You slammed the door in her face, throwing yourself into your pillow and screaming.

—

“Mother would be furious if she knew you were sleeping this well past sunrise.”

You groaned, lifting your head from the pillow to find the voice in the room.

“Jacaerys?” You said, when your eyes landed on him.

“I take it the feast for Sara Snow was a success.” He says, making fun of you. Your hair was sticking to your face, wet with a mixture of tears and drool.

“I guess you could say that.” You said, wiping your hair to the side.

“You’re disgusting.” He says.

“Gods, five minutes you’ve been here and you already frustrate me! Get out!” You say, both of you immediately teasing and arguing like you had never left home.

You push him out of your room.

“Don’t touch me, wench!” He whines, smacking your arms.

“Piss off! Go harass the bloody Lord of Winterfell.”

“I’d rather harass the Lady.” You push him out of your doors, turning and pressing your back to slide down the wall.

You hear him knock again and you rise to your feet, angry. “Jace, I said-“

You don’t finish your sentence, since as you open the door it’s Sara.

“I wanna talk about last night.”

“I don’t.” You say, going to close the door on her before she pushes it back open.

“What happened?” She asks, angry. She closes the door behind her and follows you to the bed. You sit on the edge and rest your elbows on your thighs, burying your face in your hands.

“Did my brother hurt you?” She asks, worried.

“No, no.”

She rests on her knees in front of you, placing her hands on your knees. “Tell me what happened.”

You sigh, trying to hold back your tears, but you cannot. “We had sex.”

“Isn’t that good? What went wrong?”

“He called me Alysanne.” You sob out.

“Oh, no.” She says, moving to sit beside you and wrap her arms around you.

“I cannot stay here no longer, Sara. I am being haunted by Alysanne. I find letters she wrote to Cregan, her clothes, her weapons. Rickon thinks I am her and Cregan wishes I was.”

“I am sorry, princess.” She says, sadly. “I thought I knew my brother better than that… Perhaps, if you talk to him about these past few months things can be different. Just give it a try, yes? You have your brother here now. You can leave if things do not work and the marriage can be annulled.”

You did not even wish to think of that possibility. It would be so shameful for both of your houses. You would do everything in your power to make it work.

You cleaned yourself up and went to Cregan’s chambers, knowing he would be hungover.

And you were right.

You entered his room without knocking, finding him in a bath with a warm rag over his eyes. Three times now you’ve been in his chambers.

“You can set it on the table.” He says, not moving the rag.

“What?”

“Oh.” He says, his voice changing in tone. “I thought you were the maid.”

You say nothing, unsure of where to even begin.

“Can whatever you’ve barged into my chambers for wait until I am done.” He asks, only the question is more of a statement.

“No.” You say, angry. You walk over to him and pull the rag off his eyes. He squints at the brightness, then gagging on the air as if he might be sick. “We’re going to talk, Cregan. We’ve been married for months and I don’t think we’ve ever truly had a conversation once. It is all I am asking. You could at least give me that. You’ve given me the cold shoulder for three months, and I’m tired of it. I’ve helped raise your son, I’ve loved you and I’ve cared for you even when you didn’t want it. You owe this to me.”

He sighs, defeated. “You are right in that, my princess. I apologize. We can talk later, alright?”

“No, Cregan. We will talk now.”

“You wouldn’t rather talk when I am of a clear headspace?”

“No. Now.” You say. He sighs again.

“Say your piece.”

The words left your mind the second he said that. You had this conversation in your head many times before, but now it was here and you could not handle the heat of the moment.

He raised his eyebrow at you, as if you were dumb.

“Oh, do not do that. I thought you Starks were supposed to be the most honorable among men. This whole marriage I have been treated with everything but. You are a disrespectful man, Stark. I am truly sorry about Alysanne-“

“Do not speak to me about my wife, ever!” He yells, pointing at you.

“I am your wife!” You cry out. “You chose me, whether you were ready for another marriage or not! I left my home, my family, my dragon to be with you! If I cannot have your love, is it too much to ask for your fucking respect?!”

He goes quiet for a few moments, “You have always had my respect, princess… and I know I have erred in the way I’ve treated you these past moons. But this marriage is just a duty. Nothing more, nothing less. This marriage is not out of love… so do not expect me to love you back.”

You laugh, dryly. “You called me Alysanne last night… Do you remember that? No… I suppose you were too drunk. You never would have touched or cared for me like that sober.”

He says nothing, but his hands grip the side of the tub and his face is contorted with anger. You rise, hiding any sort of emotion on your face.

“The dead don’t need lovers. Only the living.” You said. He threw his rag at the door as you walked out, not even granting him a second glance.

The memories of last night flooded back to him, and he rested his face in his hands, crying at his behavior. He had let down Aly, his son, and you.

He did care about you, he did love you in his own way. He just didn’t know how to show it. He didn’t want to show it. If he had shown it, he only would have betrayed Aly even more.

You went down to the crypt, somewhere you had never gone before. You had no reason originally, no people to mourn.

You stood in front of her plot, staring at the statue of her. She had been a skinny girl, with long dark hair and ‘plain’ features. You thought she was a beauty in her own way. You saw why Cregan loved her.

You cried. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help him.”

Your hand touched her statue, then you stood and left the crypt.

You said goodbye to Rickon, Sara, and then you left with your brother on dragon back, ready to be home with your true family.

———

“You’re a fucking fool, brother.”

“You think I don’t know that? Gods.” Cregan rested his head in his hands. He had sent every raven in Winterfell to Dragonstone, yet not one had responded in the weeks since you’d left.

“We’ll be lucky if the bloody queen doesn’t declare war on us for you scorning her daughter.”

“I am trying here, Sara! I’ve sent my ravens, I’ve sent men to retrieve her. There is nothing more I can do!”

Sara slammed her hands on the table. “Go and get her your bloody self, Cregan. The trip to Dragonstone will give you plenty of time for reflection.”

Sara turned to leave, and Cregan knew it was his only option of getting you back here. He would go and get you and make things right. He had to.

You had your own time for reflection, riding home with Jacaerys made you realize how much you missed being on dragon back.

Your mother of course welcomed you with open arms, but was wracked with guilt that you and Cregan’s union was not working. You paid it no mind however, spending your days patrolling Dragonstone on Silverwing.

Cregan had taken his horse and a few men to retrieve you from Dragonstone. The trip by horse was long, more than several weeks.

The entire time he rode in silence he thought of you. He thought of your last conversation and the final words you had said to him. The dead don’t need lovers. And you were right. Alysanne would not have wished to see him treat you how he had, she would not have wanted Cregan to spend his time sulking or being angry. He only wished he had realized it before he left.

He loved you. If only it hadn’t taken you leaving for him to realize. You were kind, gentle, beautiful. Traits Alysanne didn’t have but it was what seperated you from her. It had been how he was able to find his own kind of love for you, even when he didn’t consciously realize it yet. His own bitterness from losing Aly had made forget his honor.

Cregan arrived about two moons after you had left. He was aching, frustrated, and desperate by the time he reached Dragonstone.

It was dark, pouring rain, and you were playing with your brothers Viserys and Aegon when he arrived.

“Your Grace!” A knight came into the room shouting. Your mother looked up from her book. “Cregan Stark of Winterfell has arrived and requests an immediate audience with you and the princess.”

Your mother looked at you, and you looked like you’d seen a ghost. Your heart sank and your face went pale, but you nodded.

You met him inside the council chambers with your mother and his men. He was soaked, shivering. You could hear your heart beating in your ears, that was how nervous you were.

“Cregan.” You said, walking towards him and pushing him by his arms to the hearth to warm him up. It was another thing he loved about you, your protective nature, so he said it.

“I love you.”

“Cregan…”

“Love her?” You both looked at your mother, whose face was angry. “You love my daughter?”

“Your Grace.” Cregan said, removing his sword and bending his knee. “I’ve come to beg your forgiveness.”

She walked towards you both. “It is not mine you need to beg for… I sent my only daughter to you, and you spurn her for your dead wife?!”

“Mother!”

“You will not interrupt the Queen when she is speaking.” She commands you. “What do you have to say for yourself, Lord Stark?”

He stands. “I have nothing to say, Your Grace. You are right. My behavior was unacceptable. The princess deserved none of it.”

“Why are you here?” Your mother asks him.

“I’ve come to ask the princess to return home.” Your mother scoffs at him.

She looks at you, then back to him. “You are lucky it is not my decision to make.”

She turns and exits, leaving and commanding his men to wait outside the doors so you both could be alone.

You were even more nervous with just the two of you in there. It is silent for a few moments before you speak.

“Why the sudden change of heart?” You ask Cregan.

“It took you leaving for me to realize I love you.” He says, taking your hands in his. You roll your eyes, taking your hands back and stepping away.

“I can’t believe you.” You say, starting to sob.

“I know, I know.” He steps closer to you again, taking you in his arms as you cry into his chest. “I’m so sorry.”

“I loved you, Cregan.” You say, crying. “Since I was a girl I loved you. I thought you were different from other men. But, you’re just like the rest.”

Cregan cries into your hair. “I’m so sorry, my princess. I’m so, so sorry.”

You both stand there, holding each other and crying.

“Please come home.” He says. “Let me take you home.”

“Rickon misses his mother, Sara misses her sister… I miss you, you my wife.”

You pull away to look at him, trying to read his normally stoic features. You can see he means it.

“Okay.”

———

You returned to Winterfell on Silverwing, no longer having the strength to remain apart from your dragon.

Cregan had to endure another long and grueling trip back to Winterfell, which you enjoyed knowing he was suffering while you road through the skies.

Rickon had cried tears of joy when you returned, and a week later when Cregan arrived Rickon cried again.

You and Cregan had remained in seperated chambers while you still navigated your marriage, but Cregan made a point to spend every moment of his free time with you.

But you had been keeping a secret from him.

After you returned home to Dragonstone originally, your blood never arrived. The maester determined you were with a babe, which would arrive several moons away in the dead of winter.

Your thick furs and dresses made it easier to hide from Cregan, as you were not ready to tell him.

The babe had complicated things. If you had not been pregnant, you might not have returned to Winterfell when Cregan came for you. But you knew you had a duty, and you believed if Cregan could love you then you could fix your union.

Cregan had indeed put the work in the second he arrived home. He attended to you, conversed with you, ate with you, laughed with you, but gave you the space you needed and gave you the option to be intimate with him when you were ready.

It was strangely like falling in love all over again. You blushed around each other, got nervous and flushed, made each other’s hearts race, shared a first kiss when you were both ready.

Cregan had undoubtedly fallen madly in love with you, and he regretted not taking the time to do it sooner. He couldn’t make up the time he lost being afraid. All he could do now was love you without guilt, love you without fear, love you without shame.

Normally Cregan always knocked on your chamber doors before entering, but for some reason this time he hadn’t. He didn’t know why he didn’t knock, he didn’t know if it happened unconsciously or if he was too busy wrapped up with his thoughts.

Either way, he entered without knocking and by that point the cat was out of the bag.

He said your name, greeting you with a smile, only for it to fall off his face as if it had never been there.

You were in the bath, relaxing in the burning water, but that wasn’t the problem. He’d seen you naked, although it hadn’t been for a few months by this point, but him accidentally invading your privacy wasn’t the problem either.

It was the bump in your belly that was a problem.

Your head turned sharply, covering your chest quickly. “Cregan!”

“Sorry.” He said quickly, turning around to avoid disrespecting you.

“It’s fine.” You said, dropping your arm from your chest. “You just gave me a fright.”

He said nothing for a moment, only continuing to face the wall.

“What is that?” He finally asked. You sighed, stepping out of the tub and into your robe.

You walked up behind him, resting a hand on his shoulder. He turned around to face you now, and his eyes fell down to your other hand resting on the small bump in your stomach.

“Perhaps it’s time we talk.”

“You think?” He spits at you, immediately apologizing after. “I’m sorry, princess. I didn’t mean to be cross with you.”

You said nothing, walking over to the seats by the hearth hoping he would follow.

He did, and he sat next to you, his eyes never leaving your belly.

“Can I?” He asked, gesturing to your stomach. You nodded, untying your robe so that you were bare. You grabbed his hand, bringing it to the small bump.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner? I could have accommodated for you, made sure you were comfortable.”

“Truth be told it’s been hard for me to accept I’m truly with a child.” You say, “The reality had not set in until… well until you just now found out... I am sorry, Cregan. I should not have kept it from you.”

He chokes back a sob. “Feels like just yesterday Alysanne had Rickon.”

“He will be overjoyed to know he will have a little brother or sister.” You tell him. He looks at you, his face full of emotion.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks and before you can even finish nodding your head, you’re already leaning in to kiss him.

“I love you. I love you so much, my wife.” He says in between kisses.

His hand did not move once from your stomach the whole night.

[agentmilayawithshield]

The category is: A boy who has all of the makings of a great king, forced upon a war to save his scattered family, that dies before seeing them together again:

(they also have great hair, face cards that never decline, and daddy issues)

[a-chaotic-dumbass]

i think its so funny that cersei thinks of catelyn as a meek little mouse in her povs when its like. that woman bashed a man's head in with a rock. she grabbed a valyrian steel blade without hesitation. she traveled across westeros to form an alliance with renly only to steal one of his kingsguard too. she set jaime free from the dungeons and got him to swear to get her daughters back. even in her last chapter she shanked a mf with a knife before going insane. catelyn stark was more of a lioness than cersei im sorry to say

[novaursa]

The North Remembers Her (duty)

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

- Paring: stark!reader/Ramsay Bolton

- Rating: Explicit 18+ (for Ramsay being himself)

- Previous part: the wolf's teeth

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

The dining hall of the Dreadfort is as cold as ever, the fire in the hearth doing little to chase away the chill that seeps through the stone walls. The long table is laid with modest fare—venison stew, crusty bread, and a pitcher of sour ale. You sit at one end of the table, Ramsay across from you, and Roose Bolton presiding at the head. Lady Walda sits at Roose’s side, her rosy cheeks glowing in the firelight as she picks at her food with small, dainty bites.

The air in the room is charged, as it always is when the Boltons gather. The scrape of knives on plates echoes louder than it should, filling the silence like a dirge. You cut into your meat with slow, deliberate movements, your expression calm and detached, ignoring the undercurrent of unease that hums through the air.

Roose is the first to speak, his voice quiet but sharp enough to cut through the stillness. “It’s been some time since your wedding.” He doesn’t look up from his plate, his pale eyes focused on the food before him. “And yet, there’s been no news of an heir.”

The words land like a stone in the middle of the table. You don’t flinch, your movements measured as you place a small piece of bread in your mouth and chew slowly. Ramsay, however, stiffens visibly, his grip tightening on the knife in his hand.

“My lord,” Ramsay begins, forcing a smile onto his face, “these things take time. We’re… settling into our roles as husband and wife.”

Roose looks up then, his expression unreadable but his tone laced with disappointment. “Time is a luxury we don’t have. Lady Walda is already with child.”

At this, Lady Walda smiles nervously, her hand drifting to her swollen belly. “The maester says it’s a strong one,” she says softly, her voice hesitant but warm. “He believes it will be a boy.”

Ramsay’s smile falters, his eyes flicking to you for a brief moment. You continue eating, unbothered by the conversation swirling around you. The stew is hearty, its warmth a small comfort in the otherwise frigid hall.

“And should it be a boy,” Roose continues, his voice calm but pointed, “his claim to the Dreadfort will be stronger than yours. Stark blood or not, your position is far from secure without an heir of your own.”

The tension thickens, and you feel Ramsay’s eyes burning into you, though you don’t look up.

“My lord,” Ramsay says, his voice tighter now, “you know I’ve always been loyal to you. My position—”

“Your position,” Roose interrupts, setting his fork down with deliberate care, “depends on more than loyalty. It depends on results. A Stark bride is only valuable if she gives you a Stark heir.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and unyielding. Lady Walda shifts uncomfortably in her seat, her gaze darting between the three of you.

You finish your bread and reach for your cup of ale, taking a slow sip as though you haven’t heard a word of the conversation.

Ramsay’s knuckles whiten around the handle of his knife. “She’s… difficult,” he says through gritted teeth, his eyes locked on you.

Roose raises an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to you. “Difficult, is she?”

“She doesn’t…” Ramsay hesitates, clearly struggling to phrase his thoughts without sounding weak. “She doesn’t make it easy.”

You finally look up, meeting Roose’s gaze with a calm, unreadable expression. “Perhaps your son isn’t as persuasive as he believes.”

Ramsay’s chair scrapes loudly against the stone floor as he stands abruptly, his grin forced and strained. “Shall I be persuasive, wife?” he asks, his tone light but his eyes burning with barely contained fury.

You take another sip of ale, unfazed. “You’ve tried. It hasn’t worked.”

Roose’s lips twitch faintly, the closest thing to amusement you’ve ever seen from him. “Ramsay, it seems your wife is more formidable than you anticipated.”

Ramsay’s jaw tightens, and his smile sharpens into something more like a snarl. “She’ll learn her place.”

“Will I?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.

The room falls silent again, the air thick with unspoken threats. Lady Walda shifts awkwardly in her seat, her eyes fixed firmly on her plate.

Roose leans back in his chair, his gaze settling on Ramsay. “Consider this your warning, Ramsay. Should Lady Walda give me a son, your position will be… reconsidered.”

Ramsay doesn’t respond, his knuckles white against the wood of his chair.

You place your cup down with deliberate care, the sound soft but resonant in the quiet hall. “If there’s nothing else, I believe I’ve had enough for the evening.”

Without waiting for permission, you rise from your seat and leave the hall, your footsteps echoing against the cold stone.

Behind you, you can feel Ramsay’s fury radiating like heat, but you don’t look back.

For the first time, you leave the table with the quiet satisfaction of knowing that, for all his cruelty, Ramsay Bolton had been rendered powerless—if only for a moment.

The air in your chamber is cold, but it feels like nothing compared to the chill of Ramsay’s presence. He leans against the doorframe, his pale blue eyes fixed on you with an unsettling mix of calculation and irritation. His grin is faint, but the tension in his shoulders betrays the tightly leashed frustration simmering beneath his carefully constructed facade.

You sit by the hearth, a book in your lap, feigning disinterest. The fire crackles softly, its warmth doing little to combat the cold weight of his stare.

“Do you intend to ignore me all night, wife?” Ramsay finally asks, his voice light but carrying an edge.

You glance up briefly, your expression calm, before returning to your book. “You don’t often bring anything worth listening to.”

His grin sharpens, but there’s no humor in it. He steps into the room, the sound of his boots against the stone floor loud in the quiet. “You’re quite the stubborn little wolf, aren’t you? Always so defiant.”

“I wouldn’t call it defiance,” you reply evenly. “Just… disinterest.”

The flicker of irritation in his eyes is quick but unmistakable. He moves closer, his hands clasped behind his back, as though trying to present himself as composed.

“Do you think this is a game?” he asks, his voice dropping into something softer, darker. “Do you think I don’t see what you’re doing?”

You close your book deliberately, setting it aside as you meet his gaze. “And what am I doing, Ramsay?”

His grin vanishes entirely, replaced by a cold intensity. “You’re testing me. Pushing me. And while I enjoy a good game, this one is wearing thin.”

You lean back in your chair, your expression calm. “You’re mistaken. I’m not testing you. I just have no interest in pretending this marriage is anything more than a farce.”

Ramsay’s jaw tightens, and he steps closer, his shadow stretching across you. “It’s not a farce, wife. It’s a bond. A bond that you’ve so far refused to honor.”

“Honor?” you repeat, a hint of dry amusement in your tone. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

His hand slams against the mantle of the hearth, the sudden movement making the flames flicker. “Do not mock me.”

You don’t flinch, your gaze steady. “Then don’t insult me with talk of honor.”

For a moment, the tension between you is thick enough to suffocate. Ramsay straightens, his expression smoothing into something eerily calm, though his eyes remain sharp.

“Let me be clear,” he says quietly, his voice carrying an unmistakable threat. “You will do your duty. One way or another.”

“And let me be clear,” you reply, your tone steady and unwavering. “You will never have me. Not willingly. You can force me, if that’s what you want, but it won’t change anything. You think taking what you want will break me?” You lean forward slightly, your voice dropping to a whisper. “You’ll only make me hate you more.”

His smile returns, sharp and humorless, but there’s a flicker of something behind it—uncertainty.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he says, almost to himself.

“Should I be?” you ask, tilting your head slightly.

He chuckles, though it lacks his usual mirth. “Everyone’s afraid of me, little wolf. Even my father.”

“Then perhaps that says more about them than it does about you,” you say calmly.

His grin falters, his pale eyes narrowing. “You think you’re untouchable. You think you can outlast me.”

“I don’t think,” you reply, rising from your chair and stepping closer to him. “I know. You want to know why, Ramsay?”

He says nothing, his jaw tightening as you take another step forward, standing so close that you can see the faint flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

“Because you need me,” you say softly, your voice like steel. “You need me alive, you need me intact, and you need me to give you what your father demands. But I don’t need you. You can hurt me, you can try to break me, but at the end of the day, you’ll still be a bastard pretending to be a lord.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Ramsay stares at you, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. For the first time, you feel the faintest ripple of satisfaction—you’ve rattled him.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he says finally, his voice low and tight.

“Perhaps,” you reply, your gaze unyielding. “But you’ll find I’m very good at games.”

He watches you for a moment longer before turning abruptly, his boots echoing against the stone floor as he strides to the door.

Before he leaves, he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. “You’ll regret this, wife.”

“Perhaps,” you say again, your voice calm. “But not tonight.”

The door slams shut behind him, and you let out a slow, measured breath. The fire crackles softly in the silence, and for the first time in weeks, you feel a flicker of triumph.

Ramsay Bolton may be the monster of the Dreadfort, but tonight, he walked away. And that, in itself, is a victory.

The woods surrounding the Dreadfort are quiet but alive with the rustle of wind through barren branches and the crunch of snow underfoot. The hunting party moves through the frozen forest like shadows, the breath of men and hounds misting in the cold air.

Ramsay rides at the front, his grin as sharp as the dagger strapped to his hip. Reek trails behind him, hunched over and shivering despite his heavy cloak. You ride just behind Ramsay, your expression stoic as your horse navigates the uneven terrain. The air is thick with anticipation—the kind of tension that always accompanies Ramsay’s games.

“This will be good for you, wife,” Ramsay calls over his shoulder, his voice carrying easily through the stillness. “A chance to prove you’re more than just a stubborn wolf.”

You don’t respond, your gaze fixed on the path ahead.

The hounds bark suddenly, their noses to the ground as they pick up the scent. The kennelmaster shouts commands, and the dogs surge forward, dragging their handlers with them.

“Ah, there it is,” Ramsay says, his grin widening. “Our prey awaits.”

The group slows as the hounds come to a halt, circling a small clearing. The deer is cornered, its wide eyes filled with panic as it struggles to find an escape. Its breath mists in the air, its body tense and trembling.

Ramsay dismounts with practiced ease, drawing his bow as he approaches the edge of the clearing. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he says, his voice low and almost reverent. He turns to you, his pale blue eyes glinting with something dark. “Why don’t you take the shot, wife? Let’s see if you’ve got Stark blood in those veins after all.”

You slide off your horse, accepting the bow one of his men offers. The weight of it feels familiar in your hands—a reminder of Winterfell and the lessons you’d had in the Godswood. Ramsay steps back, watching you with an expression of eager curiosity, like a cat waiting to pounce.

You step forward, your movements deliberate and controlled. The deer is still, its chest heaving, as you notch the arrow and draw the string.

The world narrows. Your breath steadies. You release the arrow.

It flies true, striking the deer cleanly in the heart. The animal staggers, its legs buckling as it collapses into the snow. Its death is quick, merciful.

The clearing is silent for a moment, save for the soft growls of the hounds and the murmurs of Ramsay’s men. Then Ramsay laughs, the sound loud and grating in the stillness.

“Well done, wife!” he exclaims, clapping his hands together. “It seems there’s a hunter in you after all.”

You turn to him, lowering the bow. “It wasn’t difficult,” you say simply.

Ramsay’s grin sharpens as he steps closer, his men watching from the edge of the clearing. “Oh, but it was,” he murmurs, his voice low. “Control like that… it takes skill. Precision.”

Before you can respond, he grabs your chin, tilting your face upward. His lips crash against yours, rough and possessive, and the taste of him—salt and cold metal—makes your stomach turn.

You shove him back, your glare sharp enough to cut. “Don’t touch me.”

Ramsay laughs again, softer this time, his grin unwavering. “Oh, but you like this, don’t you? The games, the hunt, the chase.” He tilts his head, his pale eyes gleaming with amusement. “You’re teasing me, little wolf. Do you want me to take you here? In front of all my men?”

The laughter of his men echoes behind him, low and cruel. You straighten, your voice cold and biting. “Do it, then. Show them what kind of coward their lord really is—only capable of taking what isn’t freely given.”

The laughter dies instantly, and for a moment, even Ramsay is silent. His grin falters, his eyes narrowing.

“You’re clever,” he says softly, his voice laced with menace. “Too clever for your own good.”

“You’ll find I’m far more than clever,” you reply, your tone unwavering.

For a moment, he looks at you as though he’s deciding whether to strike you. Then, with a sharp exhale, he steps back, his grin returning—though it’s tighter now, more strained.

“You’ll do your duty, wife,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “Sooner than you think.”

He turns abruptly, striding back toward the group, his men parting to let him pass. The tension lingers, thick and oppressive, as you stand in the clearing, your heart pounding in your chest.

Reek shuffles forward hesitantly, his eyes darting between you and Ramsay. He doesn’t speak, but there’s something in his expression—fear, pity, or perhaps both.

You ignore him, turning back to the fallen deer. The blood stains the snow a deep crimson, vivid against the white.

For now, it’s the only blood that’s been spilled. But you know it won’t be the last.

[silverspotted]

timeless grace

mercy across ages

margaery tyrell & the small folk

game of thrones

madonna laura; 1854

simon memmi

[grandkhan221b]

I've been slowly obsessing more and more about asoiaf fashion in the past 6 month, and really developing in details how it would look in different regions, classes, etc (the North being the one I have the most complete picture on). And I wanted to put some of this to paper instead of endlessly turning it in my head before I go to sleep. Usually when I costume design it is confined to a specific character, I've never done like worldbuilding fashion design, but idk asoiaf really gets me going.

So here's the North ! I could have kept going and added more stuff, but if I try to spew all the shit that's in my head I'm never gonna finish this x) So I focused mostly on great houses/nobles fashion for this. Maybe I'll do a sheet for smallfolk or practical clothing like battle armour after I'm done with all the kindoms. I already have to continue the anti AI quest...

More asoiaf fashion

[irlplasticlamb]

porcelain, ivory, steel.

prints + get an unique tee of mine and donate to medical aid for palestinians + commission info pinned to profile :)

[laurellerual]

Day 2: Family

When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives.