#it was a game of thrones fanfic

[florashifting]

Ok so I have no good reason for recent inactivity BUT I was reading a really good fanfic from a fandom I'm not even apart of and like it sucked me in and I was stuck there for days and I'm going right back it was so good

[chic-beyond-the-wall]

More medieval dyes for y'all!

[yeehawpim]

a comic about my weird irreverence for canon

go write a bad ending AU! ship your self-insert oc with your favourite villain!! the world's your oyster!!!

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐰𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬. ❞

┊ 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: betrothed to cregan stark, you seek respite in his chambers, unaccustomed to the blistering chill of the north. feelings become reality.

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: cregan stark x jace’s sister reader.

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 6.2K.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: smut (mdni), inexperienced reader, there was only one bed, getting warm gone sexual, heavy kissing, groping, mild hand kink, cregan calls the reader “princess” a lot, body worship, breast play/sucking, biting/light marking, thigh riding, dry humping/grinding, fingering (fem!rec), spooning.

𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: this was a random idea I cooked up but I actually got so wound up when writing this no joke 🧍 I love cregan so much, he’s husband !! as always, I hope you all enjoy reading, thank you sm! ❤️

TALES OF THE UNRELENTING NORTH OFTEN SPILLED FROM THE LIPS OF SOUTHERN NURSEMAIDS — WHISPERS OF SNOWFALLS PILED AS HIGH AS TOWERS, HOWLING GALES THAT CARRIED THE STING OF ICE WITH IT, TEMPERATURES THAT WOULD FREEZE MEN ALIVE.

If only you knew the truth of the matter, you might’ve recalled such stories and used them to your benefit.

Dragonstone was oftentimes tepid, a rocky island surrounded by saltwater tides and the kiss of summertime, where heat was a common commodity. Coming here, to Winterfell, you had experienced a rather dramatic shift in atmosphere.

From the moonlit gloom of your bedchambers, you watched a blizzard rage on, wisps of white whipping past your window. Gooseflesh clung to your skin like that of a plague, and you felt yourself being tormented by an incessant cold.

Glacial are the wreaths of snow-furled gales that blanket Winterfell in their pale callousness — it even seeps into your bones, bones forged of fire and blood. It makes you yearn for the South, for the kiss of heat, the lapping of the waves.

Unaccustomed to the biting weather of the North, you had come ill-prepared, thin shift doing little to shield you from the gnaw of ice. It was the hour of the ghost, too late to summon servants and too late to disturb the castle with your whims.

Cregan Stark, your betrothed, was the only one that you could think of who might still be awake at this ungodly hour.

This union formed between Starks and Targaryens was an arrangement of convenience, unlikely allies on the precipice of a tumultuous civil conflict. It was your willingness that had made this all possible — a scion of Rhaenyra, sent away to the blistering North.

Much to your own bewilderment, you did not dislike your current arrangement. Cregan’s stoicism and stalwart demeanor did not chafe at you as it did with others, and his alliance in this matter was of grave importance.

He was a grizzled man, his exterior rough, but you were no stranger to such behavior.

From what you had gleaned of him thus far, he was resolute and rugged, with a penchant for justice and honor — similar to most of the Starks. In the spirit of transparency, he was aesthetically pleasing to gaze upon, and you did plenty of it when time permitted.

A shiver ran down your spine as you tightened a furred robe around your body, and even that did not serve you well. Seizing a candlestick from atop the dead hearth’s mantle, you made your way from your quarters, greeted by a swell of silence.

The ghastly howl of the wintertime squall surged outside, like the shrill cry of a spectre. It did little to ease your nerves, body rattling like a leaf from the ceaseless chill.

The candle’s lick of warmth danced across your wrist, and it made you yearn for more, breath emerging in warm wisps as you made your way to Cregan’s chambers. It was inappropriate of you to disrupt him like this, but sleep evaded you — between missing home and the cold, you doubted that rest would find you.

Standing before the imposing doors of the Lord of Winterfell, your knuckles rapped timidly against the rough wood, drawing your robe around you once more. Waiting with bated breath, your shoulders straightened at the sound of movement from the other side of the door.

As ancient wood groaned in protest, Cregan’s massive form encapsulated much of the doorway, dark brows furrowed together. “My Lady,” His rumbling timbre often filled you with pangs of excitement. “Are you well?”

Concern laced itself into his cadence, fearing that something might’ve happened to you, or you’d received some sort of news. Storm-laden hues picked you apart in observance, noticing the way your body constantly trembled.

The desire for warmth had clouded everything else; you did not register his lack of clothing upon first glance. Cregan’s musculature was openly displayed, save for the trousers that clung to his hips.

“I am,” Your grip tightened around the base of the candlestick. “Forgive me, my Lord, I — the hearth has died in my chambers and it is much too late to rouse any of the servants. I am unaccustomed to this sort of climate.”

Cregan did not protest to your presence, stepping aside to invite you into his chambers. “You are welcome to warm yourself, my Lady.” Gesturing for you to enter, you were greeted by a roaring fire, gripped by an immediate relief.

A sigh of subdued joy slipped past your lips as you moved towards the crackling flames, feeling heat lick across your flesh. Cregan noticed how poorly dressed you were for such weather — a thin shift and one layer of fur would not do.

Admittedly, it might’ve been untoward for you to be here, not yet wed, in the chambers of your intended. You did not want to besmirch Cregan’s honor, nor lead anyone to believe that you’d gone to him with malicious intent.

“I apologize if this is a disturbance, I … I did not know where else to go,” A pang of realization rippled through you, then. “I do not want you to think that I’ve come here with any foul notions.”

A brief huff spread throughout his chest as the Northern lord moved to sit atop the fur-laden footlocker at the end of his bed. “I do not believe your plight of warmth to be dishonorable,” A hint of amusement lingered within his tone. “This is not the South.”

Allowing yourself to relax, you seemed to abandon your coiled posture, placing the candlestick along the mantle above the hearth. “It is not.” Something forlorn saturated your voice, a wistful longing to return to Dragonstone, to your mother.

Cregan could discern the twinge of melancholy within your tone, enough to garner some concern. He knew that this was all unfamiliar to you — and he did not want you to feel unwelcome.

“What troubles you?” His inquiry was born of sympathy, a desire to understand you better. This betrothal was an unexpected thing, but he had no intention of making either of you miserable.

As firelight danced across your features, Cregan fought against baser instincts, crass thoughts of lesser men; and he was not above them. Your beauty was renowned, taking after the features of your Highborn mother, some remnants of your father still present.

An amalgamation of true adoration, no less.

Captivating was a mere understatement, not worthy enough of your appearance, bathed in an orange glow. As grey hues subtly admired your countenance, he realized that your gaze seemed to do the very same, a mutual exchange.

Lips parted, words turning to ash upon your tongue as you clamored for an appropriate response, not wanting to burden him with your lamenting of home. A soft stirring resonated from your throat. “I miss home — my Mother, most of all.”

The softness of your confession was not lost upon him, a sentiment that Cregan could certainly understand. “You are not a prisoner here, my Lady,” He murmured, brows gathering together. “You are permitted to return to Dragonstone and visit, if it pleases you.”

“Duty is sacrifice,” You lamented, a threadbare smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “With conflict on the horizon, it is best if I stay here — it doesn’t lessen the sting, but I know what is expected of me.”

Cregan found it admirable, your acknowledgment of your pledge here, the very root of your betrothal; even then, he would not begrudge you for returning to your family. He was half a stranger, someone that you were growing accustomed to.

“I admire you for it,” Gray hues like that of a swirling snowstorm hadn’t left you, drinking in your features as if you were some magnificent piece of artwork. He grew quiet, noticing the occasional shudder that coursed throughout your body. “Here.”

Lifting a bundle of thick bearskin, Cregan invited you to sit beside him, if you chose. Lacking your typical shrewdness, you stepped forward, joining him atop the footlocker as he shrouded you in the furry hide.

Sinking into the furs, you exhaled, feeling warmth return to your bones as you basked within the dancing firelight. Nestled beside your betrothed, you exuded plentiful restraint, tearing your gaze away from the bare muscle that brushed against you.

There was some grizzled perfection about him — rough, like uneven leather; as mountainous as the Wall itself. Yet, beneath this hardened exterior, he was endlessly soft, a notion that enticed you. He never made you feel an ounce of discomfort.

“Thank you for this,” A sigh floated from your lips, stare trained upon the hearth’s soothing glow as you warmed yourself at his side. “I have felt so alone in coming here, but you have made me feel as if I do have someone.”

Admittedly, he had his doubts about your betrothal — House Targaryen was as infamous and mystical as they claimed, the blood of dragons. Within your graciousness and tender heart, Cregan found himself wanting you, beyond all bounds of propriety, of decency.

Gray hues flickered over your visage, his appreciation of you not entirely subtle, as if he were screaming his praise through gaze alone. Firelight encapsulated your flesh, the glow surrounding you picturesque.

“I shall not waver in my duty as your husband, Princess — you can be sure of that,” Cregan uttered, able to feel the brief brush of your body against his own, a tantalizing thing. It was swift, fleeting; yet it incited the deepest of yearning. “I will remain here, by your side.”

Princess; as the simple title spilled from his lips, warped with his Northern timbre, you felt a peculiar heat wash over your insides. It was untoward of you to feel the tendrils of desire, especially before being wed. You felt like some craven, thinking this way.

It was his moral compass and staunch sense of duty that had enticed you, the way in which he carried himself with an effortless strength. For a man as young as he, one-and-twenty, his wisdom seemed to stretch on for several moons his senior.

The heaviness of sleep had not yet found you, still rather alert as you remained by his side, hues occasionally stealing glances at his musculature. Absentmindedly, your fingers kneaded into the bearskin, something idle to relieve the spark of tension.

“I should hope that I grow accustomed to this chill, with time,” A flicker of amusement danced within your tone, a shiver gripping your body as you shrank into the furs. “I fear that I am not as resilient to this insufferable snow as I thought.”

A short chuckle escaped Cregan, the sound brief; yet it warmed you more than any simmering flame. An unassuming smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, dissipating as soon as it had appeared. “You will become tolerant with time, princess. I shall see about getting you warmer hides.”

Unable to suppress your smile, a burst of ebullient laughter peeled from your lips, like the chime of bells to the Northern lord’s ears. “You have my gratitude, my Lord. Thank you.”

“Cregan,” His insistence was disarmingly gentle, brows knitting together for only a moment. “We do not have to continue to uphold such formalities.” It seemed to dissolve whatever awkward barrier had rested between you; betrothals were never easy.

“Cregan,” As you repeated his name, he savored the way it rolled from your tongue, wrapped in inklings of a growing fondness. He was practical, a man of the present, but he could imagine himself enjoying his union with you. “It is only right if you do the same.”

The bulk of his musculature softly rattled with a brief huff. “Of course, princess.” He mused, tone betraying the hint of amusement that flickered across his features. The hour had grown exceedingly late, and yet, he did not feel the sting of exhaustion.

Such an innocuous remark had effectively stoked a fire within you, tendrils of a starving flame coiling around your insides. Gooseflesh cascaded along your spine, bringing with it a dull ache. A sliver of your being wanted to stay with Cregan, but it was entirely untoward.

In the spirit of transparency, Cregan shared your unspoken sentiment. To lay with one’s betrothed was not inherently a sin; the gnaw of desire grew within, and he feared what it might twist into.

“I wish to stay here this eve, if you are agreeable,” The suddenness of your inquiry had ensnared his attention, bewildering him to no end. He hadn’t expected you to want to stay — let alone share his bed. “I understand how it might seem …”

“I would not condemn you to further suffer in the cold, my Lady.” Cregan’s reply had made your bones lurch, heart fluttering within your breast like the beating of dragon’s wings.

A gale of fire churned ceaselessly within the pit of your stomach, a sensation not often quelled. You had let it burn, as a stark reminder of the sensations he brought to you. As you mulled over his response, the wolfish lord quietly gestured toward the sprawling bed behind you.

Layered in an endless ocean of hides, from bearskin to that of stags, your feet fell atop the cold stone, feather-light as you made your way into the sanctuary of his mattress. It was fit for a man of his bulk, you’d realized, with plenty of room to spare.

Even the mere presence of a companion had brought a sense of ease to your startled nerves, basking beneath the furs and blankets. As warmth settled into your bones, Cregan joined you, keeping a comfortable distance within his own space.

Sprawled upon your back, you cast your restless gaze to the ceiling — an unremarkable labyrinth of ancient stone. To your right, his musculature lay wedged beneath the furs, an arm tucked beneath his head, a gap of silence present.

“You will be an excellent husband,” The genuine conviction within your tone was enough to cause his head to turn, storm-laden hues finding your pleasant profile. “I no longer fear this union as I once had, and I have you to thank for it.”

Cregan steeled himself, honor hanging by a mere thread; you, curled up within his bed, speaking of him in ways that he had not dreamed of. “Your words are both honorable and humbling, princess. I should hope to protect you, and keep you happy.”

Gods, his voice; a timbre akin to the rolling of thunder, harboring a thinly-veiled gentleness that you so desperately craved. No man compared to him, and it made you want him more, and such a notion was strong already.

Despite the berth of distance residing between bodies, he felt closer than ever, within arm’s reach of touching you. A smile found its way onto your face, as warm as a midsummer’s eve, gaze glittering with a peculiar tenderness.

Whatever ghastly chill had once assailed your bones had been quelled by Cregan’s warmth, a fondness displayed through stare alone. Gray hues traced the contours of your visage, toward the plane of your collarbone, slipping beneath fabric.

Huddling beneath the furs, you rolled over, curled up on your side as your gaze found Cregan’s own with a wordless gratitude. A tension began to brew, the first inklings of a pleasant storm that you had no desire to flee from.

A shiver gripped your spine, claws of a gnawing ice momentarily raking themselves across your flesh. With time, you hoped that you would become accustomed to the Northern climate — it was brutal and unforgiving enough as it stood.

“Still cold, princess?” Cregan felt a twinge of sympathy for you, this hotblooded maiden, brought to heel by the wrath of a snowstorm. He felt the desire to safeguard you, shield you from harm, a deluge included.

A fib nearly tumbled from your lips, and you silenced yourself before it could blossom to fruition. Fingers flexed into the furs, seeking relief; you longed to find your relief in him. “Terribly,” Sinking further into the mattress, you happened to smile. “You might not have a wife when this is over.”

In a futile attempt at lightheartedness, Cregan did not see it that way, growing concerned at the incessant chattering of your teeth, the rise of gooseflesh permeating your skin.

Wordlessly, the young wolf gestured to the space at his side, inviting you to take refuge against the biting chill, if you so desired. He did not seem perturbed, but the doe-like glint within your gaze screamed otherwise.

“You do not …” The shrewd cadence of your tone seemed to ooze with embarrassment, a peculiar heat clinging to your visage. Smitten, you watched as Cregan grunted, head bobbing in a brief shake as he coaxed you closer.

“I would prefer it if you did not wither away.” Such a gentle baritone had struck a match within you, turning your insides to molten liquid. With bated breath, you sluggishly crawled towards him, fingers sheepishly hovering above his abdomen.

Cregan’s thick arm encircled you, as innocuous as he could possibly be, ensuring that he did not cause you any discomfort. Nevertheless, he reveled in the sensation of your body pressing against him, kissed by winter’s chill.

Heat bled from his flesh as if he were his own flame, radiating with bodily warmth as he let you seek such respite. The cold plane of your cheek nestled atop his collarbone, the saccharine scent of you wafting from your downy crown.

Many might’ve considered such behavior scandalous, improper, considering that the two of you had not yet wed. For Cregan, he cared little for labels of impropriety or deviance, preferring to put your own wellbeing above any damning accusations.

The erratic beating of your heart nearly leapt into your throat, fingertips absentmindedly dancing across the impressive bulk of his chest. His stature was immense when placed beside you, and yet you remained captivated by it, soaking in any droplet of warmth that he provided.

It was agonizing, being so close; you wanted to curse restraint, damn dignity, beseech your future husband for a kiss. His jaw tensed when you began to stir, writhing against him in an involuntary attempt to become comfortable.

A sharp inhale punctured his lungs, restraint so threadbare that it nearly ripped into two, hand accidentally brushing across your backside. It wasn’t intentional, but your incessant squirming had made this increasingly difficult.

A familiar stirring roused within his trousers, cock twitching as the curve of your breasts happened to ghost beside his ribcage. Cregan wanted to grab you, force you to remain still, if such a thing were even possible.

“You must stop moving.” Through gritted teeth, his warning was sternly spoken, but not one of anger. As his words assailed your senses, you immediately ceased, breath hitching as his hand firmly pressed against your hips.

Before you could sputter some bewildered apology, your gaze sheepishly flickered toward him, his countenance one of thinly-veiled frustration. This frustration was of a different sort, as if he were holding some unseen weight upon his shoulders.

Realization hit with a sudden force as you swallowed the growing lump within your throat. Cregan’s stare met yours, and you seemed to reach some unspoken understanding as to why your constant moving had vexed him.

Impulsivity gripped you then, prompting you to careen forward, soft lips pressing themselves to his. A ripple of startlement consumed Cregan, who did not act until your palm had settled atop his muscled abdomen. He reciprocated your kiss, pulling away with perplexity.

“I am sorry,” Through a hasty, rushed apology, you felt shameful, cursing yourself for behaving in such an uncouth manner. However, to your surprise, Cregan did not appear offended in the slightest. “I … We are not yet wed.”

Wedlock had little to do with this brewing desire, one that he was aching to act upon. Arbitrary rules often dictated that pleasure without the bonds of marriage was some unsightly sin — it couldn’t have been further from the truth.

Cregan wanted you; he did not desire your titles, position, or your dragon — it was your heart he sought, something worth coveting, worth cherishing. Whatever pact was struck to ensure your marriage, he became grateful for it.

“I would not dare discomfort you, princess,” A shudder rolled throughout your body, able to feel his palm knead into your waist. “You have my word.” A ripple of understanding found you, then. A sliver of your being knew that it might’ve been wrong, but you found yourself dismissing the notion.

With a nod, you happened to shift closer, noticing the way in which he’d begun to angle himself towards you. “I wish for your warmth.” The lingering, lascivious implication hung heavy within your words, enough for Cregan to urge you closer.

Flush against him, he quieted, steely glower piercing through you like the tip of an arrow, hand continuing to caress along your spine. Somewhat shy, you elected to sever your tangle of nerves, lips seeking his once more.

Cregan’s mouth crawled against yours, disarmingly gentle, intended to savor you instead of rushing headfirst into the fire. He smelled of leather and the woodlands, carrying a rustic scent upon his flesh, brow creased in concentration.

Sluggishly, your body shifted against him once more, feeling the muscle of his thigh press between your thighs. The sudden intrusion made you gasp, lips torn asunder as he broke your kiss, caging you against the hot expanse of his chest.

“Is that what you wish for?” Cregan’s low utterance made your stomach erupt with butterflies, able to feel the tantalizing shift of his thigh, allowing you to rock yourself into him.

Inexperience was scrawled into your features, confidence effectively extinguished then and there. It was your brazenness that had catapulted all of this into motion, and now, you were strangled by your own lack of knowledge.

“Yes, I — I’ve never …” As you attempted to vocalize your lack of physicality, Cregan soothed you with a kiss to your brow. “I do not wish to fully consummate — not yet.” With a strong sense of understanding, your betrothed nodded, digits idly caressing along your side.

“Then we are in agreement.” A sense of comfort flooded through you then, knowing that Cregan did not wish to cross such a boundary on this night. However, he had a plethora of fantasies to supplement your shared desires.

Bridging the gap between you once more, lips sealed themselves together, his palm moving to cup your jaw. It was inherently tender, the purpose of it ensuring your comfort with such acts, thigh continuing to teasingly brush against your core.

A gnawing ache continues to eat away at you, manifesting as arousal that begins to coalesce between your legs. As if acting upon instinct, you continue to grind yourself into his thigh, a soft moan catching within your throat.

Cregan’s palm begins to drift lower, from the plush curve of your waist to your backside, gingerly kneading into the pliant flesh. He is cautious, painstakingly gentle as he lavishes kiss after kiss to your wanting lips.

There is little space between you, replaced with a heated friction that seeps into your bones. No longer tormented by the plague of the Northern chill, your betrothed is eager to take the cold away. His chest bumps into yours, peaks of your breasts snug against the plane of muscle.

Crackling firelight paints the room in a feverish glow, embers beginning to wane like that of a fading sun. It is in your kiss that he finds a semblance of peace, hunger continuing to grow until it becomes some ravenous bite.

A soft gasp inhabits your lungs, sharp like the prick of a knife as you grind against his thigh once more, feeling it brush over a particular spot. Pleasure rippled through you, a foreign sensation that leaves you raw, yearning for more.

The ruffled collar of your shift begins to slip, sagging above your bosom, soft flesh unraveled to the ogling gaze of your betrothed. Mouths ceaselessly collide, wet and fervent, prompting you to reach for his bicep in order to anchor yourself.

Entangled beneath the furs, whatever bitter chill that once grasped your bones had dissipated entirely. Wandering fingers found their way to the nape of his neck, tangling around the chestnut tresses there. Each kiss made you feel delirious, dizzy with a wanton desire.

It was then that Cregan’s large hand smoothed across your body, from the dainty curve of your jaw to your stomach, and then up once more. The sluggish drag of his caress made you shiver, hips continuing to rock against his muscled thigh.

Calloused digits find the ties of your evening shift, his grip like that of hardened steel, not daring to unravel you, not yet. With another bruising kiss, you feel him withdraw, gray hues roving across your visage, drinking you in; enamored.

Wisps of hot, labored sighs drift between the both of you, wrought with exhilaration. Slowly, Cregan’s hand wanders, gathering against your thigh, bunched into the silk. “I wish to see more of you, princess.” He rumbled, brows furrowing together.

Fingertips trace along the nape of his neck, caressing along sinewy muscle. His throat bobs momentarily, a fleeting gesture; a needy hum tears past your lips as you nod. “Please.” It is all you can manage, words turning to ash upon your tongue.

Admittedly, he cared little for himself, staunchly devoted to your own pleasure and exploration, storm-laden gaze tinged with tenderness. The hand that had so fiercely grasped at the ties of your shift gives the silk a brief pull, loosening the fabrics altogether.

Beneath his incendiary stare, your heart begins to race, slamming beneath your breast as he gingerly tugs the collar downward. There is an indiscernible devotion within his eyes, a certain protectiveness that puts you at-ease.

Warm, roughened digits gingerly pry at your garment, easing the ruffled silks along your chest, unveiling the soft peaks of your breasts to him. A low grunt of approval stirred within his throat, reveling in the sensation of your lips against his jaw.

Everything about him exuded strength, an honorable stoicism that oozed from every pore. Without pause, you continued to plant kisses against his throat, body seizing with a punctuated gasp as he cupped your breast.

Flicking the pad of his thumb over your nipple, Cregan watched as your countenance contorted into an expression of bliss, lips beginning to part. He was disarmingly tender, kneading at the soft, pliant flesh of your chest, lips pressing against your cheek.

Any sliver of distance that had existed before had been squashed, forms molded to one another, hips begging for a scrap of friction. As you urged yourself against him, you felt the growing tent within Cregan’s trousers, feeling a tendril of warmth slither across your body.

Rough lips pressed a passionate trail of kisses along your neck, nose inhaling lungfuls of your saccharine scent. A pleading moan slipped past your lips, careening into the embrace of his hand.

“Cregan,” With a breathy sigh, your back arched slightly, as if strings tethered you to him, pulling you forward. His mouth hungrily explored your throat, traveling toward the silky plane of your collarbone. “Do not stop.” You whined.

It was all the encouragement he truly needed, bolstered by the tranquil hum of your voice. Lower, and lower still; until his mouth sank between your breasts, still kneading at one, thumb circling your nipple. Your body responded with a visceral glee, continuing to grind against him.

Beyond the archaic stone of Winterfell, the blizzard raged on with its howling gales — and yet, you had never been warmer.

Continuing to palm at your breast, Cregan’s mouth began to lavish the unattended peak in a myriad of kisses, worshiping you in the way that you rightfully deserved. A string of whines left you, gown-clad core brushing over his pelvis once more.

Taking one nipple into his maw, he kissed and sucked at the sensitive bud, a low grunt reverberating throughout his chest. His hips softly collided with yours, the friction driving him to the brink of madness.

Each kiss sent dizzying waves of bliss throughout your body, wisps of air stolen from your lungs as you clung to him, legs parted by the bulk of his thigh. Your shift had hitched higher, gathered towards your knees.

Gently rolling your hardened peak betwixt his fingers, Cregan did not relent, lavishing your breasts in kisses. In the midst of his alternation, his unoccupied hand graced your haunch, caressing into your backside, toying with the hem of your nightgown.

His burly musculature nearly swallowed you whole, wafting with a warmth that you had grown addicted to, longing for his heat as you would gusts of crisp air. Delicate fingertips idly traced along his broad shoulders, hips brushing against his own.

Calloused pads began to drift beneath your shift, crawling along your leg, akin to leather ghosting against velvet. Cregan suckled at your breast, assailing your sweet flesh in a barrage of kisses. Throaty moans signaled your approval of his actions.

Caressing along your inner thigh, his thumb drew circles into the supple skin there, lingering dangerously close to your aching core. Looming above you, his mouth pressed a gentle trail toward your throat, leaving a searing fire in his wake.

Seeking the coalescing warmth between your legs, you nearly choked upon a strangled gasp as Cregan’s digits ghosted along your petals. Arousal had gathered there, akin to the sticky sweetness of honey, prompting you to shiver beneath him.

Gray hues sought yours, boring into you with a burning intensity, enough to elicit a wave of gooseflesh, one that crawled along your spine. He exuded immeasurable restraint, fixated upon your own pleasure, upon your comfort. Wordlessly, he pushed deeper still, fingers pressing into your core.

A sharp exhale pierced your lungs, ripping through your diaphragm as you gripped his bicep, nails leaving behind crimson crescents. Cregan remained unperturbed, concentrating on his new charge, digits dragging in a sluggish rhythm.

Bliss unfurled from your features, a pleasure that blossomed throughout as your hips jolted forward of their own accord. “Cregan.” A breathy whine escaped you, lips clamoring for him once more. The kiss was intimate, a flurry of devotion and desire, now entangled.

“Easy, princess,” Cregan’s husky cadence had lulled you into subservience, able to feel his hot breath fan out across your skin. “Slowly.” He uttered, mouth returning to yours with a thinly-veiled rapture.

It became difficult to stifle your movements, kiss-swollen lips delighted to find him again. Each kiss was accompanied by a swipe of his digits, exploring your nethers with an obvious gentleness.

Between fervent exchanges, his gaze never once strayed from you, steely hues drinking in the weight of pleasure that permeated your visage. Beginning to increase his pace, he stroked along your aching cunt, thumb finding your pearl.

Tracing around the sensitive bud in slow, tantalizing circles, you could do little to smother your moans, hips occasionally lurching forward. The friction that festered between you was intoxicating, something that Cregan found himself savoring.

His lips returned to the hollow of your shoulder, the velvety dip between that and your throat. A string of kisses manifested there, digits continuing to caress over your slit. This rhythm was agonizing, your body screaming with ecstasy.

Chestnut tresses brushed against your neck as he began to suck at your supple flesh, enough to create a mark that would flourish with time. “Lay with your back to me.” Cregan rumbled, watching the flicker of excitement crawl across your features.

In silent subservience, you obeyed, slowly rolling over until your back was nestled snugly against the hot expanse of his chest. He was all indomitable muscle and oozing with strength, the swell of his cock grinding into your backside.

Thick digits returned to you, burly arm looped over your front, taut with impressive muscle. They became fervent in their ministrations, a finger beginning to trace over your entrance.

Caged against him, you used his bicep as leverage, digging into his rugged flesh as he kissed across your shoulder. “Gods, you are perfect.” As the husked roll of his voice echoed within your ear, you moaned, feeling his thumb continue to play with your clit.

Cregan’s other arm had looped beneath you, caressing your collarbone as he gently eased one digit inside of you, the sensation foreign yet exhilarating. It was unexpected, and yet you craved all of it, as much as he was willing to provide.

You squirmed, cunt aching for him in every way imaginable, hips jolting into the sensation of his practiced digits. As his thumb toyed with your pearl, he eased a finger in and out of you at a rhythmic pace, allowing you to grow accustomed to it.

Kisses lavished your soft flesh, seemingly endless, and you felt your bones scream for release. He touched you with such fervent passion, mouth clamoring for yours, lips unable to tear themselves away.

Despite the awkward angle of your head, you reciprocated his kiss as best as you could, needy moans swallowed by his maw. It was then that a second finger accompanied the first, sluggishly stretching you in a way that you didn’t think possible.

He was gentle yet vigorous, digits deliberately rocking themselves in and out of your tight cunt, thumb providing a burst of stimulation against your clit. Your warm, sweet breath fanned over him, mouth agape as a series of excitable pants escaped you.

Arousal clung to your flesh, the intensity of it only magnified, body assailed by sensations on all sides. As Cregan’s fingers pumped themselves in and out of your nethers, you felt your cunt clench pathetically around him.

“Cregan, I — I’m close,” A wanton huff tumbled from your lips, emerging as a moan against his mouth. He kissed you fervently, mouth wandering in the column of your throat, lavishing you in another barrage of kisses. “There.”

A furnace raged within you, a chasm of yearning soon to be quelled, tempered. Heat lapped at your flesh, burning with a smoldering temperature as desire washed over you. His dexterous fingers continued to circle around your pearl, causing you to stifle a moan.

Between the constant assault of lips, teeth, and fingers, you are barely able to register the white-hot rush of your pinnacle, writhing into Cregan’s hand. Thick digits stretch you still, rocking in and out of your snug cunt at a rhythmic pace.

It nearly blinds you, choking upon the cry that turns to ash within your throat. The visceral response of your body is one that Cregan longs to become intimately acquainted with, feeling you pulse around him as you reach your peak.

“That’s it, princess. I have you.” Soothing utterances slip beside your ear, bridge of his nose nuzzling your cheek, heat oozing from him like that of an open hearth. Caressing your stomach with one hand, the other works you through your release.

Through the tepid haze of your release, you begin to find your composure, sinking into his grasp as his hand begins to slow. Thighs tremble in the wake of such ecstasy, and you begin to turn back into Cregan, lips seizing his own in a soft kiss.

Unable to refuse you, the wolf indulges, reciprocating your kiss with such blistering passion that it nearly elicits a moan from you.

As you withdraw, flesh still stinging with an intense heat, you move enough to adjust your shift back into place, peering at him through your lashes. Before your palm can tend to the growing tent within his trousers, he stops you.

“Another night,” Cregan rumbled, moving to lay upon his back, allowing you to curl next to him, his arm finding its purchase around your hips. The other sprawls outward, allowing you to soak everything in. “Are you well?”

“I am,” Sitting up enough to perch your chin atop his chest, your palms draw delicate circles against his abdomen. He nearly smiles, grabbing one of them with a furrowed brow — your flesh is still cold. “Thank you, Cregan.”

A brief huff escaped him, warm palm caressing your own, attempting to provide some relief. “If you are agreeable, I would prefer it if you stay.” Cregan thoroughly enjoyed your presence, more than he ever thought he would.

A tender smile spread across your visage, a soft expression that beguiled him so, roused feelings of devotion from within. Even he seemed to blush, countenance muddied with a scarlet pallor as he caressed along your spine.

“I wish to stay, but what if something is said …” The last thing that you wanted was to besmirch the honor of an already honorable man. A twinge of amusement swirled within his gray hues, and he seemed dismissive of your worries.

“Let them gossip, princess,” Cregan reassured you, one brow quirking just enough to ensnare your attention. “After all, you are here to warm yourself.” His jest made you unbelievably flustered, and yet, he only coaxed you closer, tugging the furs around your bodies.

Heat persists where the chill does not, gone entirely; he is your warmth, and you willingly chase after him.

[cherryheairt]

Hidden Truths

Cregan x Wife!reader

pt. 1

named reader (aye-leese) no description, from house Glover.

summary - Cregan comes home from war with a scandalous surprise, much to the horror of his wife. Though, it is not all that she expected when she heard of her husband's infidelity.

Inspired by Ned and Catelyn Stark (obviously lol)

It had been four moons since Cregan Stark returned from King's Landing, ending the war and placing Aegon iii on the Iron Throne. Four moons since he presented his bastard for all to see, declaring to his wife that they would raise the boy as a legitimized Stark.

Aelys Glover, now Stark, had never thought her husband would betray her in such a brutal way. To bed another woman down in the South, in a time of war, to father a bastard. To give the bastard his Stark name.

She hadn't even had her first babe yet, due to the young couple deciding to spend their first few years of marriage having each other all to themselves. Had it all been a lie from Cregan? A masterful deceit to make his mistress' son his heir? Perhaps he had regretted their marriage and chosen to disregard any of her future children, thinking her genetics undesirable. Whatever dull excuse he had, it would never be enough to balm her heart.

People whispered about which mother's son might be Cregan's heir apparent.

It was not yet decided, and would not be until years ahead when Aelys showed if she could bear him more sons or not. Until she did, Brandon Stark would be Cregan's unofficially heir as his eldest son.

Aelys had refused to share a bed with Cregan since the night he returned. She would not perform her marital duties anymore, not until she was either dead or he forced her, which she knew he at least had the honor to not. Aelys would give him no children of her own, spitefully intending to leave the Stark line to a bastard who would forever be known to the world as such.

She would make it clear that her husband's stupidity would end the Stark's honorable history streak. The babe would be legit, yes, but never trueborn. It was said that bastards were born nasty and cruel, and Aelys had not believed such rumors until she met the babe herself. Her spite grew in spite of her previous kind and understanding nature, driven to hate the babe without knowing him.

Even with the same House name as his father, the boy was nothing like him. He seemed to carry his mother's traits, instead, whoever she was. Dark black hair and even darker eyes to match, though the Northern pale skin Cregan carried had stayed through the genetic battle.

At least Cregan did not bring her home, too. If he had, Aelys would have thrown herself from The Wall in shame and disgrace. She would not be the other woman in her own marriage.

His words when he returned burned at her heart, even now the dust had not settled nor had the fire quelled.

"It was a one-time tryst, I swear this to you. A night of vulnerability, when it got rough in King's Landing." He said, voice strained and undereyes dark with the heavy weight of guilt and responsibility. She'd never felt such an intense urge to hit a man before.

His bastard sister, Sara Snow, a woman whom Aelys had grown to see as her own sister and close confidante, returned from King's Landing a month after her brother.

She looked even worse than her elder brother, who still could barely hold Aelys' eyes when she wordlessly passed him in the halls. She looked gaunt and exhausted, though she claimed that the journey back was tiring. Sighing, Aelys could only welcome her back into the Great Keep to catch up over all that she had missed. Apparently, Sara had stayed in the Riverlands for most of the moons Cregan had hosted in the Crownlands. She was housed by the Blackwoods, becoming fast friends with Alysanne Blackwood and Davos Blackwood, the fierce aunt and nephew who fought together against the Greens.

No useful information about the whore that Cregan had bedded that night, Aelys bitterly thought for a moment. Then, a wave of guilt and regret hit her. It was not Sara's fault for her brother's mistakes. She was truly glad to have the conpany back, seeing as Winterfell had felt cold and emptier now that Cregan was back than it ever had before. She had been avoiding his for these four moons, leaving only a few rooms accessible for her privacy and peace of mind.

She never entered the nursery room's entire hallway. Even when needing something past it, she chose to go the longest possible route to avoid it. She didn't wish to think about the boy more than she already did. She saw him during dinners, being presented to Cregan by his wet nurse before being put down to sleep for the night. Those mere glimpses were plenty to feed her anxious mind.

Today, the adjacent hall towards the Keep's hotsprings was closed. "A few cobblestone in the wall have cracked, m'Lady. You mustn't enter for one might accidentally fall on you." A young servant boy had informed her, thoroughly apologetic as she sighed and headed him. The nursery's hall was the only one that also held the door outside, lest she chose to go all the way around the outside of the keep in this blizzard.

The thought was tempting but childish. Steeling her courage up, Aelys had fixed herself to stride past the door. She could not help the subconscious glance inside, seeing the glimpse of curly black hair laying alone in his crib, but wide awake and almost flailing around in a fuss.

Looking around, Aelys was surprised to see not one attendant or wet nurse. From her experience with babes, they were rarely left alone unless they were sleeping. Even then, some mothers and nurses liked to hover to ensure its safety while unconscious. Aelys stepped into the dim room, finding that Brandon's attention immediately focused on her. He whined out, reaching out grabbing hands toward her. Grimacing, she reached into the crib to lift him up, holding him at a safe distance from her face.

Up close, she could reluctantly admit that the babe was cute. He was well-doted on in the Keep by all the maids and even visiting Lords. Though his parentage was questionable and whispered about, none actually had the courage to ask why the boy had been legitimized so quickly. Aelys guessed it had been the circumstances. Aegon, the new King, was young and suseptible to influence, so legitimizing a bastard like Brandon was done without question.

"What are you fussing on about, you spoiled thing?" She asked, though her tone was soft and gentle. Brandon smiled a gummy smile, face lifting as he reached out again for her. This time, she allowed him to rest on her shoulder as she supported him, gently rocking back and forth as she stood. The faster he was asleep, the faster she could leave without feeling like a monster.

She already had that feeling nagging at her mind too much. Hating a babe took a lot of energy. She knew it was wrongfully placed, but Brandon's very nature and sire had wronged her more. The physical reminder that his father had not loved her.

Soft snores filled the room as she hummed lowly, the vibrations and comforting sound putting the fussy tot to sleep quicker than she had anticipated. Gently placing him back in the cot, she hands gripped the wooden edges harshly, a sharp contrast to her previous touch. Was she betraying herself for not demanding that the babe be taken away? Warded with another great House until she finally had a son? No. Cregan would never allow it, even as Lady of the House she held no true power over the Warden.

Turning, Aelys was met with her husband in the doorway. Silent as a stalking wolf, he leaned against the doorway and looked upon his son and wife with pools of affection. There was a slight gloss to them as she looked closer that she opted to ignore. "Cregan." She greeted curtly, moving to slide past him and speak no more of her presence in the nursery.

"He has a way of melting one's heart, does he not?" He asked, tilting his chin to look down at her. A branch, left out and hanging by Cregan's strong arms. Too bad that she did not need it.

"He disgusts me." She said instead, shouldering past him and continuing back to her rooms. She changed her mind in the few minutes that she spent with the bastard Stark boy. She could stay here no longer, could not bear for her own husband to bring this embodied lie to live in the very home that she did. Wouldn't raise any children to be in their older brother's shadow.

Ignoring the hushed plea from Cregan, Aelys went straight to the Maester's tower. Maester Parek had been a helpful and understanding ear for Aelys to rant to when dealing with arisen problems, whether with her moon blood, achy bones from the cold, or questioning if any ravens had come from mysterious women. None had, as far as she had been told. That is, if Parek had been entirely truthful to his Lady.

Hurriedly knocking on the man's door, it was soon opened after a grunt of physical labor had been heard from the other side. The Maester had always complained about his bad knees and how they were made worse in the winters.

"Lady Stark?" He asked, shocked to see her at midday. It was a rarity, as she usually made her visits in the morning after she broke her fast.

"Maester." She greeted, shifting on her feet. "I need to send a letter, urgently."

"May I ask to whom?" He inquired, earning a solemn nod from the young Lady.

"I'm sorry, Parek. It is private."

"Of course, my Lady. The room is yours." He bowed and left the chambers to occupy himself while she busied herself as well. She immediately made for the small attached room in the tower, made into a raven nest hundreds of years ago. A few perched black birds squaked or raised her heads at the unfamiliar sight curiously, but they were well-trained and did not spook.

Bending over the crickity desk, she quickly drafted a messily-writen yet vague letter.

Father,

Some troubles have come up in Winterfell, and Cregan Stark has advised me to return to House Glover's protection while he deals with matters here. I will be returning swiftly, though the snow will hinder the horse a few days.

See you soon,

your dearest Aelys.

As soon as she finished, she hastily melted the powder blue wax and sealed the direwolf sigil onto the rolled paper. Tying the scroll to a raven's foot, Aelys sent it off. The bird would reach House Glover's Maester quickly, and in the meantime she would ready herself for departure.

As she was shoving clothes and pelts into various bags, the very ones that carried her belongings to Winterfell over two years ago, Aelys could not stop the hot, angry tears that fell to her cheeks. Wiping away at her face with scruffy sleeve fur, gifted to her by Cregan himself, Aelys felt the frustration and loneliness sting at her soul. The loneliness was a choice on her part, most would say. That she was dramatic and most Lords sired bastards. She should be grateful he did not bring the mother back, too, and house her in his home next to his Lady Wife. All whispers she heard from her ladies-in-waiting, whom she immediately dismissed from service upon hearing such impudent things.

She would not be subjected to the humiliation. She wanted love, and she once had it. Oh, she had it. Cregan treated her like a goddess walking amongst humans for the moons they spent together before his leave to King's Landing. If she could not have Cregan's loyalty or love, she would at least find a man who she did not have high expectations for. An older Lord, perhaps, one who just wanted a young and pretty woman to give him final heirs during his last years of life. Aelys would know her role, then, and would live contently knowing she did not love foolishly while expecting faithfulness in return.

First, this marriage had to be annuled. In Lord Glover's home, she could easily ask for such a thing. The marriage had been commsumated, but there were no witnesses and no babes to confirm this to outsiders. Aelys would simply have to claim that she and Lord Stark never once bedded before he left to find another woman, and then she'd be an unmarried Lady once more. A Glover, not a Stark.

She realized she'd been quite fastidious in her packing. Unlike her carriage ride to Winterfell, her luggage could not be carried easily on one horse. She picked only one of her bags, with the thickest dresses and warmest pelts she had, rushing out of the room while clipping a cloak over her shoulders. Dark blue in color, Aelys almost cursed at the thought that almost all of her wardrobe and fine things had been gifts from Cregan. Her pelts, gloves, and even the horse that she would take home.

Cobalt, she had named the steed, noticing how his pure black coat almost gleamed blue in certain lights. Cregan had a wide and cherishing smile on his face as he walked the young stallion out of the stables a few days after their wedding. They often took walks on trails in the Wolfswood together on horseback, just their muffled conversations filling the still air. She remembered every moment with her husband fondly before he tarnished everything. Now, she knew all of it to be a facade, just like any other Lord in Westeros might have done. At least other men had the decency to be nasty plain to your face, unlike the Stark.

Aelys sneaked into the armory to pick up a few extra things, knowing no one would occupy the room when the whether was so unfortunate.

Striding towards the stables with squinted eyes, Aelys shivered at the temperature change. Luckily, the journey would be quick, with only a few days to walk on horseback. Cobalt was a resilient horse built for such harsh weather, and she was a Northern woman through and through.

She attached the bag and waterskin to Cobalt's saddle after she tacked him up. His long and unruly made quivered in the breeze as the light blizzard raged on as it had been for two days now. It did not deter her. She attached her bow and quiver to the other side to keep weight even, knowing she'd have to hunt for herself during the journey.

Steadying herself on the saddle, Aelys glanced once more at Winterfell's Great Keep, where Cregan was surely in his study or councilroom. She squeezed Colbalt's side lightly to urge the percheron onwards, giving herself no room for second guessing her choices.

At the wall's gate, the two snow-covered men regarded her with weary looks. "My Lady, there is a blizzard—" Ron Frasel told her, ginger brow upturned in question.

"I have eyes, Ron. I will return soon, I have buisness in Winter Town." She said tiredly, not wanting to be interrupted by the men at such an important time. It would not be long before a maid reported her missing.

Ernest, the guard's most frequent partner, inquired gently. "Will you require any assistance, Lady Stark? I'm sure Lord Stark would feel more at ease knowing you are escorted."

"He is fine with me going on my own, it is a short ride." She said curtly, anxious for Cregan to find out about her plan.

Ernest nodded and gestured for the iron gate to be lifted. "Safe travels, my Lady." Before bowing his head politely.

As Aelys walked through the opened gate, she urged Cobalt to a faster trot to create quick distance between her and Winterfell before she set up camp.

Ron shared an uneasy look with Ernest as the woman passed. "Lord Stark has never allowed her out without a guard before." He whispered.

His friend nodded, eyes glancing between her fading figure in the snow and the Keep. "Perhaps we should go see Lord Stark himself, just to be safe."

Ron shivered. "If he finds out we let his wife go into the blizzard without him knowin', who knows what'd happen to us."

"Quickly, then." They were both skidding off towards the Keep with no time to waste.

[shrimpybbq]

a contended husband is no menace to the kingdom

Aegon being forced to marry his niece instead of Helaena, much to his chagrin. At least Helaena wasn’t a bastard, but now his father wishes to embarrass him more by wedding him to a brown-haired princess and keep him aside. Aegon is so grumpy until he meets the newly-grown Velaryon Princess once more. He underestimated how much of her beauty she got from her mother, and truthfully, she was more comely than he’d expected.

At least he should have something pretty to look at, he thinks.

However, he’s soon shocked by just how much he seems to like the Princess. She’s sweet and kind to him, despite her timid nature. She tries to stay close to him and speak and learn of his interests - only his less than savoury responses seem to leave her crestfallen; something Aegon has found he doesn’t like. He doesn’t like to see the way her smile falls when he is rude to her, or when his mother spares the girl another insult. It’s incredibly unlike Aegon when he first stands up for his betrothed against his mother. He didn’t even stand up for himself and yet he couldn’t take watching the sweet princess curl in on herself anymore.

Aegon and the Princess marry in the great sept, both bride and groom feeling surprisingly pleased with their fate. Aegon has warmed to the girl and begun to feel the impacts of being loved and cared for for once in his life. The Princess has realised that behind the cold and crass exterior of the Prince, he is but a boy wishing to be loved and held.

Rhaenyra comes back for Luke’s petition years later to see her daughter again in person, giggling away with her husband in the throne room. The husband and wife are clinging to each other, the princess dressed in a resplendent gold gown, as they whisper conspiratorially whilst looking around the room. Rhaenyra feels her chest tighten at the small bump protruding from her daughter’s skirt - she had yet to receive a letter announcing this most recent pregnancy. Rhaenyra had wanted to keep her daughter away from the greens at all costs but now looking at her daughter so happy and content, she wonders if maybe her perceptions of Aegon had been incorrect.

(please why couldn’t this man just be happy!)

[thesongoficeandfir3]

Mine to take care of

Jacaerys Velaryon x Fem!Wife!reader

Warnings: brief talk of gore, talks of menstrual cycle, slight description of menstrual blood, smut alluded

Genre: Fluff

Prompt: Jace taking care of his wife who’s on her moon blood

A/n: You’re next Cregan Stark

You changed your position on the four-poster bed for what felt like the hundredth time as your mind bops in between sleep and wakefulness. You had a long and irritable day just wanting to sleep but your body had other ideas as it writhed in some unknown pain that worsened throughout the night.  Finally accepting the fact you weren’t getting any sleep you allow your body to fully wake up and once your mind comes back to the waking world, your eyes burst open when you realized what was keeping you from sleep. 

You jolted to a sitting position ripping the furs from your body. Your eyes snapping down and a string of curses leaving your lips and you leap out of bed. The room was  somewhat dark, all the once tall and bright  candlesticks now mere stubs hardly sputtering flames and the fireplace reduced to embers. Yet you could still make out the dark bloodstain, a stark contrast to the white sheets. You are pulled from your panic when you hear soft mumbling and Jace shifting awake. You move quickly and hide the stain covering it with the furs.

“What is it?” He mummers out still half asleep and his voice raspy with sleep.

“It is nothing my love,” you stutter out, failing horribly to conceal the distraught in your tone. “Please just go back to bed.” Though you had succeeded in covering the truth on the bedsheets with the furs, you failed to remember it also seeped through your rather thin and white nightgown.

“If it were nothing then why does your voice-” he pauses mid sentence once his eyes land on you, his mind still not quite in the waking world “what is that on your-”  his eyes then widen in realization and you prayed to all the gods above to end you right there.

Despite being betrothed for two years, it was not until a fortnight ago that you two were married and started to share a marriage bed. Thus there were still a few more intimate and more private things yet to be revealed in your relationship, your moon blood being one of them. While from the very first day you had met Jacaerys he had been nothing but kind and gentle with you, at this moment your insecurities got the better of you making you feel ashamed and embarrassed about your own moon blood. 

Jacaerys was not as savage nor dumb like many of the other men of Westeros when it comes to a woman’s anatomy (something you found out rather quickly on your wedding night). Due to reading and having female family members he was more than aware of what a moon blood was. This however was not enough to prepare him for how it truly looked and he can not help be slightly taken aback. He had been to war, he has  seen men’s heads crushed, animal’s stomachs ripped open, people skins bubble and burn from dragon fire, but seven hells was that a lot of blood for a person who was not injured or cut.

“Oh is that your… you know” He desperately tries to act casual.

His words go through one ear and out the next, not only was the lower part of your nightgown stained with blood but as you sleeped with nothing more than a nightgown the blood also dripped and stained down your legs.

Mayhaps it was the lack of sleep or the raging and unpredictable emotions that always came with your moon blood but your eyes immediately became watery with tears. 

 “Sorry” your voice breaks and you prepare for him to make any signs of disgust or try to pretend he doesn't see anything and go back to bed as you told him early. 

This is more than enough to snap him out of his surprised state, he mentally slaps himself for his initial dumbfounded reaction. He quickly shifts right back to the loving and caring man you know so well and needed more than ever at this moment.

“Hush now my love, there is nothing to apologize for,” he is at your side in an instant “this is a natural part of a woman’s body and you should never apologize for it.” His voice is soft and gentle. Despite his encouraging words he can still see your heart aching and it doesn't help when your arm quickly wraps around your abdomen when a painful cramp surges through. “Come now, let's get you out of that and cleaned up” he says as he reaches for the laces of your nightgown.

You recoil, not because of him but because of yourself. “I am repulsive, I should do it myself”

His face twists in disappointment, his disappointment pointed toward your words not at you. His hands grab your biceps slightly squeezing them in an attempt to stop you from walking away from him and for you to listen to what he had to say.

“Stop that you are anything but, what you are is my queen, my woman and you are mine and i intend to take care of what belongs to me” he ends the sentence with a soft kiss on the forehead before undoing the laces. Once undone he slips it over your head leaving you completely bare, you both instantly noticing how even bloodier in between your thighs were.

“This is a womanly thing, many men would be off-put by this so I will not shame you if you are.” you know he said just a few moments ago it was fine, but seeing blood stains was one thing and seeing its source was a whole other.

“Don’t you dare compare me to those dimwitted fools,” he takes your hand and leads you to the wash basin “a real man will not be fazed by his wife's body functioning  the way it's supposed to.”

Once at the wash basin, he picks up a clean cloth and soap. He kneels in front of you getting to work at cleaning off all the blood, you can feel the tender love and care through his touch. It was quiet the entire time he washed you, but a it was a comfortable silence as you two reached a new level of intimacy.

Jace felt honored that you allowed him to see this side of you. So raw and vulnerable yet you still trusted him and for that , he did not think it was possible, but he fell in love with you more. After the cleaning is done he leans forward pressing a long and gentle kiss where your womb would be.

“Guess what,” he murmurs, his breath felt warm against your skin “Your womb has not been seeded yet.” he stands once more “so that means I can try again and again until my seed starts to bloom in your beautiful garden.” 

He pulls you flush against him and you laugh at his words, his heart swells being able to hear the sound again.

“And once you give birth to our beautiful king or queen  I will plant hundreds more.

You bite on your bottom lip, the insecurity from earlier passing and you feel more bold now.

“Well then what is stopping you from starting now?”

“Nothing my heart” his eyes darkened with love and desire, he lifts you up taking you two to the bed.

[ireneispunk]

Duty

Jacaerys Velaryon x female reader smut

After a rough start to your marriage, whispers from the palace cause you and your betrothed to start what you should have done months ago; produce an heir.

w.c: 1487

c.w: SMUT 18+, NO use of Y/N, not exactly enemies but y'all beefing, hate sex (if you squint, but more like dislike sex and its more just sass idfk), mention of pregnancy, breeding kink, afab reader, p in v sex, fingering, overstimulation, pls let me know if i've missed any

a.n: so i recently watched the queen charlotte bridgerton spin off and i absolutely loved it, this is very inspired by charlotte and george's earlier dynamic tee hee.

Four months and 3 days. That is how long it has been since your wedding, and how long you have loathed your husband. The two of you were not exactly close before your betrothal on account of the rapidness of it but the tensions that spread between parts of his family did not help. You both seem to fight every conversation you had thereafter, so it became easier to avoid each other. That was until around 3 months into your betrothal that questions of when you would need your dresses altering had you worried. You were supposed to making heirs but you both exploded whilst in the same room as each other.  You’d visited the prince in his separate room and communicated the issue, he was reading by the fire. You played with your fingers in your hands as he eyed the flaw, thinking intently. He placed his book face down on the table as he petted the bench beside him. You hesitated for a moment, before sitting next to him. “Once a week, we will fulfil our, uh, duty to try and produce an heir. Once you are with child we will stop.” You thought for a moment, before nodding. You couldn’t help but feel your heart sink. This was not what you had wished for in your marriage. Jacaerys was a painfully handsome man, dark curls that framed he chiselled features.

“It is the end of the week today, your grace.” You spoke, not fully considering the implications of the statement. But the quicker your belly was full the better.

He turned to you, hesitated for a moment before moving closer to you and pulled you onto his lap. You were surprised by the sudden closeness of someone, let alone your husband. He looked up from beneath you with a glimmer of what he had on your wedding night, without the naïve hope. His hands slid up from your hips to the bust of your dress, he looked into your eyes before giving the bodice of your dress a quick tug down allowing your breast to spill out. You gasped as his hands cupped over your breasts, massaging them before running a thumb over your nipple. You brought your bottom lip between your teeth as you felt a warmth spread over your body. You didn’t dare look him in the eye, keeping your eyes shut or trained on the ceiling. You felt as one hand left your breast and hike up your dress further up your hips. He sighed to himself slightly, at the sight of your exposed cunt. He could not believe his luck the first time he had saw you. You were quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and unfortunately that did not change the more you both disliked each other. If anything, it grew. Seeing you from across the room at formal engagements, gluing to his side when you needed to seem like the happy couple. It made the frustrations between the two of you even more palpable over the past few months, given the lack of relief. You opened your eyes to see his dark eyes looking up at you. He brought his two first fingers up to your lips, “Open.” His soft tone contradicted the demand and look upon his face. His fingers slid into your mouth, gliding across your tongue as you closed your lips around them. Out of sheer lust you grinded your hips against him, needing to feel some release and gaining small jolt at the feeling of your cunt rubbing against his clothed cock. His free hand shot to your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh. He removed his fingers from your mouth, admiring his spit covered fingers for a moment before they reached between your thighs and lightly grazed across your clit. You jolted, leaning forward to grip the bench behind him.

You could not stop the moan that escaped your mouth as his fingers slowly ran circles across your clit. He smirked as the noises that fell from your lips, knowing how much you couldn’t bare to be around him but fell apart in his arms was a satisfying feeling.  “I did not know you were so needy, dear wife.” The honorific felt like a pin prick. Insincere and laced with sarcasm.

Despite the tightening growing in your stomach, you could not let him have the final word as usual. “You hadn’t been paying close enough attention, your grace.” A flash of frustration flashed upon his face as his hand moved to grip your hair and fingers plunged inside of you. A gasp left you as his fingers thrusted deep inside of your cunt, you had gone from strolling towards an orgasm to being thrown at it. The tips of his fingers curled slightly, deliciously massaging that spot inside your pussy that drove you wild. You jaw fell open, eyes going wide at the loss of contact when he removed his fingers from you. You went to protest before seeing his cock in his hands, brows furrowed as he stroked the length.

You couldn’t hold off any longer before you took a hold of his wrists and pushed his hands away to his sides. You took his cock into your hand giving it a few pumps, watching an expression of lust spread across his face. You leaned over slightly, letting a ball of spit leave your lips and watch as it slid down his cock. He hissed, returning his hands to your hips pulling you closer to him. You took the hint, angling his cock towards your pussy, rubbing the tip over your clit for your own pleasure a few times, before lining him up and sliding down slowly, a large groan left his lips as be bottomed out inside of you. You had forgotten just how big his cock was, and just how good it had felt filling you up. You began to raise your hips up and down, moans leaving your lips as you did. You worked at a steady pace but after being accustomed to his hands began to push up and down with the movements of your hips moving you faster. Your fingernails dug into his shoulders as he pounded into you, no matter how much your stifled your moans, you gave him the satisfaction of them loudly leaving your lips. His hand reached up to yours, removing it from his shoulders and moving your fingers between your legs. You immediately got his instruction, fingers latching onto your clit. You worked tight circles into it as you got filled over and over with Jacaerys’ cock. A familiar tightness returned to your stomach as your head dropped back and numerous illicit words left your lips. Recognising your peak, he pulled you forward by your thighs, almost pressing your bodies against each other as he quickened his pace. Your orgasm cascaded over you, feeling your pussy tighten around Jacaerys’ cock and your body buzz from the overstimulation. You rode out your high atop of him, watching as his eyes screwed shut and his thrusts became sloppier.

You took the opportunity to return your knees to the bench either side of him and bob your hips up and down as fast as you could. His fingers reached the lip of the bench gripping it until his knuckles turned white. “Mmm, my grace,” You moaned out. His eyes shot open, his heart pounding at your remark. “Please fill me with your seed.” You pleaded and moaned, half doing it for a reaction, half because it felt too good. His jaw hung open in shock for a split second before he sputtered a moan from his lips, hips snapping into yours. You felt satisfied as a warmth filled your pussy. Your hips moved slightly, slowly thrusting his cock inside of you still. His hand shot to your hip, mumbling something, before you placed your hand flat across his chest. You bobbed a few more times on his cock, being sure to be as full as possible with his cum. You smirked to yourself seeing his head throne back, lip quivering, veins prominent in his hands gripping your waist, sweaty curls sticking to his neck. You slowly raised yourself off of his cock, standing to your feet and trying to mask your wobbliness as adjusting your dress.

You stole a glance his way, admiring his beauty before he spoke and ruined it. He panted through his mouth, arms outstretched over the sides of the bench. You smirked to yourself, admiring how he too had crumbled for you. The opening of his doorhandle caused him to call your name from behind you. You glanced at him and smiled. “Goodnight your grace, see you in seven eves’.” He opened his mouth to response, but you had already shut the door behind you. You hoped it would be sooner before he fucked you again.

[multific]

Moonlight 

Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Wife!Reader

Warnings: childbirth (no detailed description)

Summary: Aemond loves his little wife, so naturally, when you give birth to your first son, Aemond falls in love even deeper. However, when a simple refusal of his breaks your heart, it will be difficult for him to win you back.

It was hard to keep you close. You were much like Aemond, a true fighter. You had a fire in you which couldn't be questioned. A fire towards him, pure love. And now, fire towards your son.

Aeren was only born a week ago, yet you protected him fiercely like a dragon.

And you refused to let the small child out of your hands.

When Aemond was allowed in the room, he saw the blood, he heard your screams and many times, he wanted to barge in but he knew he couldn't.

So, once he was allowed in, someone informed him that it was a boy and that you were in bad shape. 

Aemond could see it, you looked beyond tired, yet you smiled.

But your smile didn't last long.

Aemond refused to hold his son. 

"Give him to me." he heard your voice as he looked from the woman holding his son to you. You looked angry. Way too angry.

It was too late when Aemond realised what he had just done.

He refused to hold his own child.

And since then, you didn't speak a word to him.

You slept in a different room with your baby, sometimes, late at night, he heard the cries. He wanted to get up and go to you but he couldn't, his guilt was overbearing. 

"You should put a leash on her, brother. If I had a wife like that, she wouldn't be sleeping in another room." Aegon taunted his brother daily. 

One day, you were in the gardens, walking with your son in your arms when Aegon spoke up.

Aemond never heard his brother speak with such longing.

"I truly wish she was mine." 

Aemond looked at his brother who was watching you.

"But she's mine." was his simple and firm reply.

But you truly weren't.

You used to be, now, you just sat next to him during dinners. 

One night, you excused yourself, and he followed you.

In an empty corridor, he spoke up.

"Why are you avoiding me?" he knew why. He very well knew why.

"I'm sorry, My Prince." you turned and looked at him. "I believe you are mistaken. I'm not avoiding you, I just hate to see the disappointment on your face." this surprised Aemond. "I gave birth to a child you refused to even look at. I loved you, Prince Aemond, I truly did. But I love my child more. And if you cannot look at him, you won't get to look at me. Fill your bed with whores for all I care. Goodnight." 

"You are mistaken." he said, not letting you leave, but you did grab the handle. "You-You were in that bed, crying, screaming and bleeding for hours. I couldn't do anything. And when they let me in, the blood... so much... they told me you were weak, you survived but you needed a lot of rest. How-How could I hold my child when the love of my life almost died? How could I look at him when I was worried to even look at you? I feared you would die giving birth. I was shaking. I feared losing you and my child. That is why I didn't hold him. I was scared." you stood there, your hand on the door, you looked away from his eyes.

"Then you could have just fucking say so, Aemond! For fucks sake!"

"That is not very lady-like."

"FUCK lady-like, you made me believe you hate me and our son! I believed I disappointed you since you wanted a daughter."

"I said I would be happy either way. My emphasis was on a girl because I feared if you had a daughter, you would see that as disappointing my bloodline."

"You are fucking terrible at communicating." you opened the door and walked into the huge room in which you stayed the last couple of weeks.

Aemond followed you, and watched as you walked over to the small bed and picked up your son. "Next time, you should just tell me. Letting me assume things clearly don't work out." 

"Of course." a small smile found its way onto his lips, next time, it was the promise of a future, a promise of more, something he could work towards. He walked over to you after closing the door. "I wish to hold him." you handed him the small child who didn't even stir in his sleep. "Aeren you named him I recall." Aemond's attention was now fully on his son as you decided to leave the two alone after watching them for a couple of minutes.

You got changed and when you arrived back, Aemond was sitting on the bed, his son on his chest.

"Some nights I heard his cries. It broke my heart but I broke yours far more. I apologise for not being clear and for causing you pain. I am truly sorry."

"I'm sorry as well. I should have asked." you said as you sat down next to him. "I will have to feed him soon."

"I will stay here with you."

You smiled as the moon shined through the window, illuminating the room a little more, helping the fire so you could see your husband's face.

"I love you so much Aemond."

"I love you too, My Queen." you giggled, moving closer to him as he leaned down to kiss you.

You two kissed in the moonlight until your son made it clear that he was hungry.

It all made you look towards a better future.

Taglist: @castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse  @jacalineiscomingforyou @mandoloriancookie @brascaris @il0vebeingdelulu @deliciousfestsalad

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE OR REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[ninetailedfoxmanchi]

The Northern Winds

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Reader

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

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

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

Words: 18k

MASTERLIST

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"As my lord commands."

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The box?” inquired Lord Stark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y/N nodded to herself, “Of course.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Forgive my prying, my lord, but—”

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

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

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

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

Y/N listened patiently, nodding to herself.

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

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

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

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

Y/N nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a knock on the door.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” blurted Lady Y/N. “When?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

PART 2

[catsteeth]

Turn Your Cloak

Benjicot Blackwood x reader 

+:✿ One Shot ✿:+ part 2

Summary: You’re a Velaryon/Strong princess, daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen. You have unhappily left Dragonstone to travel the RiverLands on a marital tour. A marriage to untie the RiverLands with your mothers claim.  CW: MDNI, afab reader, violence, misogyny, SMUT, drunk sexual relations, fingering, biting, cum play (sorta kinda), alcohol consumption, mention of arranged marriage, proposal. A/N: your honor, I do not care if he aint bloody ben… he got me during my ovulation cycle so he’s getting a smutty one shot. 

Word Count: 6K

You swore, pleaded, and begged your mother not to send you on a marital tour. You wanted to fight for your mothers claim, for revenge, with your dragon Silverwing. A giant beast whose loyalty to you was greater than any other.

You did not wish to be paraded around the realm as if you were a ladder for a house to climb towards the crown. But you knew it was inevitable.

Your mother had no desire to betroth you to the only eligible Targaryen. Nor did Alicent have any desire to wed her trueborn son to the bastard daughter of Dragonstone. And now it was impossible, blood was shed and war was afoot.

In the gantry of Dragonstone, Silverwing stood beside you as you begrudgingly shoved your hands into the leather of your riding gloves. Her feeling your unhappiness nudged you with her snout as she often did. It used to push you to the ground but now you were used to it. You ran your hand up her snout, smiling softly as her nostrils flared and her eyes blinked slowly at you. 

Though your smile faded once you saw your mother entering the mounting dock. As she smiled somberly upon you, you looked away from her defiantly. “Must I go?” You asked, your gentle tone thinly veiled your anger.

She stepped closer to you, “I was once in your position myself. The idea of marriage itself once greatly disagreed with me.” She said with a tilt of her head, attempting to console you one last time. 

You turned to her, “Then why send me off?” you said in a huff.

With a huff in return your mother began her lecture, “The Riverlands would be an invaluable asset in this war. Deamon has already complicated our position there enough.” Her passion rose in her voice, and her eyes narrowed, “A marriage to a respected house would strengthen our support. But I do not wish to pick a suitor for you, a luxury that I was not granted.” She sighed, letting go of her anger. Understanding your position. “Marriage is partnership. Find someone who you can lean on, someone who has the humility to lean on you. As I did with your father.” She said softly.

You sighed, stepping closer to her. “No one will want me. It will be a great jest to them.” You whispered to her. 

Your mother looked upon you with confusion, “Why would you-”

“Jurnegon rȳ nyke, muña.  Nyke gīmigon iksan kostōba.  Āzma hen Perzys Ānogār. Eman jorrāelagon syt ziry, yn issa gīda naejot mirre iksan daor āzma hen lopor se embar.” “Look at me,  Mother. I know I am strong. Born of fire and blood, yes. And despite my love for it, it is clear to all I am not born of salt and sea.” You spoke in High Valyrian in an attempt to hide your words from outsiders. 

Your mother looked around paranoid that there might be ears around. She turned to you, holding your cheek in your hand, “Emā se ānogar hen uēpa Valyria isse aōha ānogar.  Iksā iā zaldrīzes kipagīros.  Dārilaros hen sīkuda Dārȳti.  Dārilaros naejot Driftmārki.  Iksā iā Targārien.  Konīr iksis daor iā lentor bona ivestragon daor.” “You have the blood of old Valyria in your veins. You are a dragon rider. Princess of the seven kingdoms. Heir to Driftmark. You are a Targaryen. There is not a house that could refuse you.” She said with hard eyes and a strong conviction in her voice. Attempting to convince you of your own importance desperately. 

You sighed, looking down. “Lī vali jaelagon nyke syt ñuha ānogar se daorun tolī.  Jaelan naejot jorrāelagon se sagon jorrāelatan.” “Those men want me for my blood and nothing more. I want to love and be loved.” You said, the sadness in you grew, and Silverwing let out a small whine as she felt it too.

Your mother looked upon you sweetly, seeing so much of herself in you. She ran her hand along the length of your hair, “Nyke nykēla iksin daor biare naejot sagon wed naejot aōha kepa.  Yn isse jēda kesā ūndegon, hēnka.  Hae nyke se aōha kepa gōntan. Se riñar kessa sagon aōha rovaja biarves.  Kesā dohaeragon aōha gaomilaksir lēda rōvēgrie rigle.  Mazverdagon bisa ojūdan syt aōha ānogar.” “I myself was not happy to be wed to your father. But in time you will find commonality. As I and your father did. And children will be your greatest happiness. You will serve your duty with great honor. Make this sacrifice for your house.” Her last words were the words of a ruler, not a mother. But you understood her position well enough.

You look towards Silverwing, who’s loving eyes look upon you. 

You thought for a moment, even if you married a man you would never be able to take you away from your dragon. And with your dragon, you’d always be free. 

You let out one last defiant huff, “What if they are all old and terrible?” You asked like a child.

Your mother sharply exhaled through her nose as she smirked at your attitude. “Fly safely, sweet girl.” She said as she kissed your brow before leaving you to fly. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

As you flew over the Riverlands, you approached the large plot of land that the good Lords of Riverland picked for you to receive suitors. You could see the crowds of men like ants below you. 

Part of you wanted to command Silverwing to burn them all, the other half of you wanted to keep flying and not look back. However neither part could hold sway in this. If you wanted revenge for Luke, or Rhaenys, you would need to play your role no matter how unpleasant it may be. 

As you landed, the men attempted to remain calm and composed. However as Silverwing’s weight shook the ground, and her roar crackled through the air, the men took cautious steps backwards and tried to hold their gasps to themselves. You smirked to yourself as you dismounted.

“You are late, Princess.” Ser Lorent, a member of your mothers Queens Guard said to you.

You bit down on the finger of your leather gloves as you pulled them off, “Well then we’d ought to proceed in haste.” You said with a mischievous smile. 

“Introducing, Princess (Y/N). Trueborn daughter of Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and Lord Leanor Velaryon. Heir to Driftmark, the future Lady of the tides and master of ships.” Ser Lorent announced as you sat at the makeshift throne they’d created for you. 

And so the vieding began. One Lord after another, giving you the same speech of how honorable their house is, and how loyal they have always been to your mothers inheritance. Soon your patience was running thinner, and thinner. 

It was only when an elderly man approached, and began speaking to his worth for your hand. You scoffed to yourself as he did so shamelessly, “My Princess, If chosen I will ensure your safety-”

You interrupted him, “Tell me Lord Chambers, how do you plan on protecting me when you are older than my own Grandsire?” The old man stared at you, his mouth agape as the other men began to snicker, “It is a reasonable question.” You finished. 

“My Princess,” Ser Lorent said under his breathe in annoyance, 

“I mislike old men who think themselves worthy of any woman.” You said to him quietly. 

He sighed “Next,” Ser Lorent called out in a huff.

As you saw the next plain faced boy walking towards the front of the line you turned back to the knight beside you, “Ser Lorent, I am quite tired and quite famished. As is Silverwing.” you said in a desperate attempt to finish this marital tour early. 

As you stood from your seat, Silverwing cried out and the thunder in the sky rang. Clouds gathered over the Riverlands, and the winds began to shift. However you were undeterred, paying no mind to it, you continued to walk towards Silverwing who was already laying close to the ground for you to mount her. 

Ser Lorent however came towards you, grabbing your arm gently. “A storm approaches,” Ser Lorent warned you. 

You looked upon the sky, ready to crack at any moment. But then shaking your head and then resuming your strides towards your beast. “Silverwing has seen worse.” 

“I do not think that is wise, my Princess. Silverwing has seen worse in flight but you have not. You lack the experience.” He called out over the sky’s loud rumbles. 

He spoke truly, and it frustrated you. You spun around looking towards him, “Well what would you have me do?” 

Ser Lorent looked behind him, raising his hand presenting the men that stood there, “We've the Lords of this Land here, they’d be more than honored to offer bread and milk to a Princess.” 

You were not at all thrilled by the idea of it. Though as the sky began to crack, and the water fell from the heavens above you, you’d no choice. “What of Silverwing?”

Ser Lorent was much more concerned with your own well being than that of a dragon, one that could manage fine on its own. “Leave the beast for the night-”

You shook your head, and retorted quickly, “I will not leave Silverwing. She’s mine.” You said with strong conviction. 

He huffed, growing more frustrated by your stubbornness. “My Princess, the only place with large enough land to accommodate such a beast would be the Raventree Hall.” 

“Who occupies it?” You nearly shouted over the growing rain, 

“The Blackwoods, my Princess.” Ser Lorent shouted back, loud enough for the Blackwoods to hear it. 

Lord Blackwood almost appeared out of thin air as he approached you with his seven sons. The sight made you exhausted at the idea of being under a roof with them, “We’d be most grateful if you and your dragon accept our guest right, my Princess.” You thought of it for a moment, but with no choice you nodded hesitantly, The Lord looked giddy like a child as he turned to his nephew behind him, “Benjicot give the Princess your cloak for Gods sake.” 

The lad came to you, holding a black and red cloak. He did not look you in the eye but stared at the ground as he approached you. Once he stood face to face with you, he looked down into your eyes. You felt a shiver down your spine, surely it was due to the frightful weather. He gently placed the cloak upon your shoulders before giving you a slight respectful nod, “My Princess.”

You looked at him with curious eyes, “I thank you.” You said to him, earnestly. 

“Fly your beast to the fields of RavenTree, our men will take care of you.” Lord Blackwood shouted. 

You nodded, then mounted Silverwing, “Rȳbās, dokimarvose, Silverwing! sagon gīda, rȳbagon, dohaerās, sōvēs!” “Focus, pay attention, Silverwing! Be calm, listen, obey, fly!” You shouted over the thundering rains now roaring through the skies, commanding your beast. To which she as always eagerly obeyed. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈

In Raventree you sat at the head of a large dinner table with the rest of the Blackwoods. You awkwardly picked at the food that was being served to you on the finest plates they owned. All the while Lord Blackwood went on and on about their houses' histories. All that you could stand but your patience was tested when the Lord Black wood began to say… “It would of course be a great honor, the highest honor, for the Princess to consider one of our sons-”

Benjicot placed his fork down loudly, as he kept his head low looking over to his uncle, “Uncle, I am sure the Princess would rather eat.” It was as if he could tell the question offended you.

You looked at the dark haired man sitting beside you. His eyes met yours for only a moment before he looked away. You wanted to thank him, but could tell his comment only upset his uncle.

Your eyes stayed on Ben as you said, “I thank you-” Before turning your head to his uncle, “for your hospitality. And I thank you for your… proposals.” You said politely, attempting to hide your discomfort.

Lord Blackwells attention then again turning back to you smiled as he leaned forward at the other end of the table, "I once vied for your mother, the Queen Rhaenyra's hand, before she wed Ser Laenor. I always liked her spirit. She had the true blood of the dragon. Just as I see it in you.” He said with a smile, you suspected it was to be a compliment but it only made you feel dirty.

“Uncle.” Benjicot said under his breath, glaring at his uncle. You could feel the hostility emanating off of him. 

His uncle glared back at him, and rather than allow an altercation to take place you interjected. 

“Your house honors me, my Lord. I thank you, and the crown shall not forget your service. However, it has been a long day, and I spent many hours on dragon back. I should bid you all a pleasant night.” 

The Lord bowed his head, “Of course, my Princess.” He turned to a handmaiden who stood behind him holding a large bottle of their wine. “Jeyne, take the Princess (Y/N) to her chambers.” 

As you followed the handmaiden to your chambers, your loyal knight Ser Lorent followed closely behind you. “Who are you considering, my Princess?” He asked closely to your ear. 

You breathed a sigh of relief allowing your snarky personality to resurface, “I am considering many things. None of them are any of those men we saw today.” 

You reminded Ser Lorent of the most annoying parts of your mother when she was young. He huffed, “If you do not select a suitor, my Princess… The Riverlands-”

“Would now surely turn their cloaks, I know it.” As you reached your chambers, you turned to him, “Allow me to sleep. I’ll have an answer on the Marrow.” You conceded. 

He nodded somberly, “Goodnight, my Princess.” He said before leaving.

You did not sleep however. Your mind was restless. Of all the men you saw today, none offered you anything. None of them seemed to have any humility. Nor did any excite you. You stared out the window of your chambers, watching Silverwing lay in the fields of Raventree. She sighed restlessly, just as you did. You hated leaving her in such weather, but as the rains let up, you grabbed the cloak the blackwood nephew offered you. 

And so you snuck out of your chambers, so kindly given to you by the Blackwoods. With the intention of riding Silverwing back home and begging your mothers forgiveness and pray she doesn’t decide on a match for you.

However as you tread through the wet grass and mud towards your gorgeous beast. You unexpectedly were confronted with a rowdy group of Blackwood boys drinking from two large jugs of ale. You stopped in your tracks and stared at them with wide eyes, to which they returned the same look of shock when they saw you. Their loud speaking, laughing, and singing came to a stop once they saw you.

“My Lady!” One of the boys said as he hid the jug of ale behind his back.

The one beside him smacked the back of his head, “She’s not a lady, she’s a princess!” The other loudly corrected. 

You raised your hands up, “Sh!” You commanded, not wanting Ser Lorent to hear.

The eldest looking one began to stammer, “Princess, I- I apologize we thought you were abed.” 

You waved your hand in dismissal, “It’s quite alright.” You wrapped yourself in the cloak for warmth,  “It’s your home.” The boys looked at you with confusion. They did not want to question a princess but they really had no idea what you were doing out in the fields after such a storm. “I could not find sleep. So I took to a walk.” It technically was not a lie. 

The boys looked at you in silence, unsure of what to say or do. Until the younger boy revealing his jug of ale from behind his back, “We’ve ale-” 

The boy offered you, but soon a familiar voice rang out within the group of lads. “A Princess does not drink our shit ale.” Benjicot said as he stepped forward. 

You however did not need your honor defended against a drink. A drink you so badly needed, “I’ll drink it.” You said stepping forward and grabbing the jug and taking a swig. 

And soon enough you were as tipsy as the rest of the lads, and walking along the fields of the Blackwood land. You found yourself actually enjoying yourself. The boys were kind, and amused you. In fact you couldn’t think of the last time you’d laughed. 

The boys gasped as they saw your large beast fly across the sky. Her form covers the light of the moon for a moment. 

You smiled as you looked upon her, “Silverwing. She bonded with me when I was a girl the age of ten and two.” 

“Can we ride on it?” The younger blackwood boy asked innocently. 

“Don’t be daft, the beast would eat you alive!” The eldest boy said, scolding his younger brother. 

Amused you smiled as you pasted the jug of ale back. This time Benjicot took it from you. His hand gently brushed against your own. When his warm skin touched your own, you felt a chill. As if you’d never been touched before. You looked into his eyes. He didn’t seem so hard, his gaze was warm. You didn’t want to look away, and you didn’t want to move your hand. And from his stare you could tell neither did he. Until his gaze was ripped from you as six other men approached from down a tall hill.

Ben took the jug of ale from your hands, “Bracken cunts.” he grumbled  as he stepped in front of you, “Take the Princess back to Raventree Hall.” He ordered as he glared at the men approaching you. Though none dared to touch you. 

“Fitting!” One of the men in yellow said, “A bastard belongs with a Blackwood.“ They laughed. 

“What did you say?” Ben hissed, attempting to step towards them but one of the other blackwood boys held him back.

The man in yellow pointed at you, “The bastard’s dragon ate five Bracken cows.” He shouted.

Before Ben pushed his cousin off of him but before he could do or say anything else, you spoke up, “I would see to it that your house was given their worth doubled for your trouble. But your words are treasonous and above all a great insult to my mother the Queen.” You spoke calmly but your tone was dark and deep.

The Bracken stifled a laugh, stepping closer to you, “Your false Queen mother is a whore. What Velaryon has hair like that?” 

Benjicot stepped closer to the Bracken, blocking his path to you, “You wouldn’t dare.” He said, holding onto the hilt of his dagger. Ready to take the Brackens tongue for his words.

As your heartbeat rose, a large thud shook the ground beneath your feet. Silence that followed rang loudly. But not as loudly as the rumble of a heavy growl Silverwing made as the large ghastly beast began crawling down the tall hill. She began to open her mouth, with the heat and light of fire emanating from it. 

“Daor! Likiri, gaomagon daor nābēmagon, Silverwing!” “Be Calm, do not attack, Silverwing!” You commanded, and she obeyed. She let out a sigh, and a whine, eager to protect her rider. 

“Jikagon, kisalbar va tolī nuspes.” “Go, feast on more cows.” Your command pleased her well enough as she took to the sky once more. The flap of her wings and a large gust of wind pushed some of the Brackens into the mud. 

Your eyes went back down to the Brackens, “I just saved your very life. You might wish to thank me, by leaving my presence.” The men scattered, running back over the hill. 

Benjicot turned back to you, “I’ll see you to your chamber.” He said with a huff as he walked past you. 

As you followed the lads back, they were silent, aside from the youngest Blackwood making a few comments of how exciting it was to see a dragon up close. To which his older brother smacked the back of their head. 

Once Benjicot and you reached the door to your chamber, he stood there for a moment, trying his hardest not to look at you. As if he were restraining himself from something. 

“I enjoyed myself tonight. You have a charming family.” You said attempting to ease the awkward silence. 

His eyes finally found yours, unable to resist your gaze any longer. As you looked up at him, his dark hair messied from the night wind. His nose was slightly crooked no doubt from another fight. Something he seemed to enjoy. You found his temper to light a heat within your body. As did his gaze. It was lustful and warm. 

Your eyes fixated on his lips, he’d a small scar from his top lip to his nose. Perhaps it was from when he was a babe, or again, another fight. You didn’t know but wanted to, it was strange you had no interest in any man other than ogling at the nice looking ones from time to time. But you never had any interest in them as persons.

As your eyes still lingered on his lips. You looked back into his eyes, to see he himself was fixated on your own lips. He began to lean in closer to you, and you began to lean in closer to him. 

But he regained his control over himself, he bit his lower lip in restraint. Shutting his eyes, and swifting walking away. Leaving you in the hall. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・

You did not return to your room. No. 

You went back to the fields. You felt as though you were proven right. No man would want you. You were a bastard and the subject of many jokes amongst the highborns. Why would he want you? 

Your emotion took hold of you, regrettably. It was apparent as Silverwing began to crawl towards you, whining as she felt your pain. You loved your bond but hated that it would impact her in such a way.

So you embraced her, running your hand against her scales as you sang softly to her. “Drakari pykiros, Tīkummo jemiros, Yn lantyz bartossa, Saelot vāedis. Hen ñuhā elēnī: Perzyssy vestretis, Se gēlȳn irūdaks, Ānogrose, Perzyro udrȳssi, Ezīmptos laehossi, Hārossa, letagon, Aōt vāedan, Hae mērot gierūli: Se hāros bartossi, Prūmȳsa sōvīli, Gevī dāerī.” “Fire breather, Winged leader, But two heads, To a third sing. From my voice: The fires have spoken, And the price has been paid, With blood magic, With words of flame, With clear eyes, To bind the three, To you I sing, As one we gather, And with three heads, We shall fly as we were destined Beautifully, freely.” She purred and chirped at your song, calming her just as you knew it would. 

You smiled as she calmed, and in turn you felt peace as well. Until-

A familiar voice beckoned out “Your song is quite nice, your voice is beautiful.” You turned around to see Ben. You felt some anger towards him. But refused to allow him to think that you would care.

You nodded, “Thank you.” 

“What does it mean?” He asked gently, much more gently than he spoke to any other person that day.

You looked at him with curiosity, “It’s a song we sing to claim them. Though I find it calms her.” You looked away from him coldy, and returned to pet her. 

He swallowed hard, unsure of how to approach you, “I apologize for being… cold earlier. It was beneath me and you’d not deserve such treatment.” He said cautiously, you could tell he wished to say more but did not. He stepped towards you, “What are you doing here?”

You looked at him once more, your spirits softening for some reason. Strange as apologies never seemed to work on you. You sighed, “Debating whether I should flee to Pentos now that the skies are clear, or marry the oldest man who vied today.” 

“You said he was older than your grandsire.” He said, holding in a laugh at the memory of your insult. 

You smirked at him, “Well hopefully they’d not live long enough to consummate the marriage.”

He bit his tongue as he smirked back at you, “You don’t talk like a Princess.” He shook his head. 

You turned to face him as you stepped away from Silverwing, “Oh! You’ve met many?” You teased as you walked closer to him, “What are you doing here?”

His smile faded, and his eyes hardened, “Those cravens cannot speak to a princess-to you as he did. They were undeserving of your mercy.” He said angrily. 

You smirked and walked closer towards him, “Rivermen are made of mud, stubborn.” 

Davos sat down on the ground in a huff, “I should beat that Bracken cunt into the mud.” he said as he bit on his knuckles, still fuming. 

You however still found it not only amusing but excites your body, “I dare you.” you said with a mischievous grin, holding back a giggle.

Davos looked at you with wild eyes, blood lust perhaps. It made a shiver run down your spine as he stood and began to march back to the fields. As he was gritting through his teeth, and storming up to the Brackens still on the field. You followed him giddy, practically skipping behind him. 

As he marched over the tall hill, he could see the Bracken that had levied insult to your parentage earlier that night. He was stacking wood, and unluckily for him, alone. 

“Oi!” Davos yelled as he and you approached the Bracken. 

The fight was hardly fair. Not that Ben was larger or even stronger than the Bracken. But the way he fought was brutal and savage. The Bracken could not keep up with him. In the end the Bracken was a bloody, whimpering mess. And Ben was bloody, and dirtied from the mud. 

As he got off the Bracken, he was panting from exhaustion, but once his eyes fell back onto you, his gaze softened. 

It grew a heat in your body. As well as a guilt. You walked up to him in hast, your eyes clouded by lust. You grabbed his face into your hands and kissed him deeply. His hand found your jaw, attempting to pull you deeper into the kiss as if it were possible. 

Afterwards, you and Ben practically dragged one another back to Raventree and more specifically back to your chambers.

You began to disrobe. Beginning with the cloak he’d given you earlier that day. “I think I might be a poor influence on you, My Lord.” You said as you threw the cloak onto the bed.

“Or I you.” He said as his eyes roamed your form lustfully. 

You kicked your muddied shoes off, “Mayhaps both.” You began to untie the laces of your gown, “Still… Tonight was anything but dull.” You were left in your shift and small clothes. “Even when you are drunk, you fight very well.” You said as you crawled onto your bed.

Ben walked up to the end of your bed, looking down upon you with undignified thoughts, “Ah, well, those bracken swines couldn’t fight a babe.” He rasped, “I shouldn’t be swearing in front of a Lady, a princess no less.” He said as he cupped your cheek as you kneeled on the bed in front of him.

“I like it.” You said as you took his hand, looking at his bloodied knuckles, “Besides, I am hardly a lady.”

He shook his head with a soft smile, “No, you could be my Lady.” You looked up at him, somehow surprised by his words, “Your days would be easy and nights safe, not that you’d need it.” He rubbed your knuckles with his thumb.

Humility, was that what your mother spoke of? A man who could tell when his lady held her own?

“You did not vie for my hand today in the woods. But you do now, here in my chamber.” It was partially a jest, and partially not. You did not wish to be bedded and discarded. You did not want another jest to be made of you. 

His eyes darkened again, “It is an insult to you. To have each man from their houses come to bid on your hand. As if you’re a mare to breed.” He shook his head in disgust.

You smiled softly at him, “You’re unlike other men.” 

“In what way?” He asked earnestly. 

“You’re not an imbecile who thinks himself entitled to me simply because you’ve a cock.” You said with a smirk, and he chuckled softly at your vulgar words. 

He shook his head, “You owe me nothing. However I must ask of you one thing.” He said softly.

“What would that be?” You asked, looking up into his warm eyes.

He took your face into both of his hands, “All I ask is all of you, forever. Claim to your hand in marriage.” 

You felt time slow, as if it stopped just for you both. 

You’d ogled knights fighting in tourneys, or sparring in the yards. You’d met hundreds of Lords and can recall many you found comely. But none of them made you feel this way. None made your body weaken, and shake. None made your heart quicken. None made heat splash across your cheeks by their gaze alone. 

You never thought you’d accept a marriage by a man you’d only met meer hours ago. But he didn’t feel that way. He felt as though he’d been yours a lifetime, and you his.

‘that must be the ale’ you thought. And even if it was, which it wasn’t, Out of all the men you’d seen today he would have been your pick. 

You nodded, “You have it.”

You stood on your knees on the end of your bed. Wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him into a gentle kiss. He sucked gently on your plush lower lip, sweetly and slowly. His hands grasped your hips tightly. Leaving dirtied and bloody hand prints on your shift.

“We shouldn’t, I am bloodied, dirty,” He said reluctantly. 

You looked into his eyes, heavy with lust, “Then you should stop touching me with your eyes.” You smirked, and he smirked back at you, his eyes still running over your form, “Besides, I like it.” You said into his lips. 

He kissed you passionately, and then bit your lip making you wet. You whimpered as you pulled away, slightly surprised by his boldness. “You are a bad influence, my lady.” He leaned his forehead against your own, and looked into your eyes deviously. 

“Your lady?” You teased

“My Princess- my queen.” He said in a whisper as he rubbed his nose against yours.

“Call me my name,” You said with a smirk as your eyes stared at his lips.

“(Y/N)” He smiled as he stared at your lips as well. “My (Y/N),” He whispered into your lips. Kissing you again, passionately. 

His hands gripped your plush sides, running them up and down your back, running them through your hair, and soon enough he let go of any restraint as he ran his hand down your front, between your breasts, over your stomach, and between your thighs. You let out a small gasp as you felt his fingers move over your clothed cunt. 

“You ever had a man touch you like this?” He rasped into your lips, “It’s alright if ye have, I just want to know how careful I got to be.” He whispered.

You shook your head, “Only my own.” you whispered back.

“I’ll be careful,” He said as he placed his palm cupping your jaw, and his fingers tangled in your hair.

You shook your head again, this time with more conviction, “Don’t be.” You said slightly louder. His eyes stared into yours, as he slipped his hand into your small clothes. Slipping his fingers into your warmth. You moaned softly, and your face contorted to the pleasure. He relished in it. Watching you take the pleasure he was giving you. Loving your sounds more than he thought he ever could. “You feel like silk… Velvet…” He whispered into your lips, his mouth grazing over yours. It was as if he was breathing in each of your moans. 

You grabbed a hold of a handful of his dark hair, Pressing his forehead into yours even more, “That feels… good.” You whined, “So good.” You said as he began to kiss your neck. 

“You smell like dragon fire.” He said as he inhaled your scent, as if it were intoxicating. His fingers were still toying with your cunt.

He was doing such a good job, you turned your head to whisper into his ear, “You want to ride a dragon?” You asked mischievously with a smirk.

His face left your neck, looking into your eyes with devotion, “Only one.” 

You bit your lip looking at him, You stifled a laugh. “Do the biting again, maybe I’ll let you.” 

And so he did. He kissed you as if he were a starved man. Biting your lip as you commanded. His fingers motions quickened. He used two fingers to pump in and out of you while his thumb circled your clit. 

He sloppily kissed you, from your lips, to the side of your mouth, to your jaw, and finally your neck. Breathing in your scent as he bit and sucked at the sensitive skin of your throat. The pleasure was so great, you felt yourself clenching around his fingers. 

Your moans got louder, but he’d not have anyone other than him hearing them. Not let anyone know you, an unwed noble lady, were doing such an indecent act. So he pressed his mouth to yours, practically breathing in your moans to hide them. 

You clenched around his fingers tightly as you came. You shook and shuttered as you held onto his shoulders for dear life. 

He continued to pulse his fingers into you, helping you ride out your climax, until you were resting your head on his shoulder.  A whimpering and panting mess, like the Bracken. 

As he pulled his fingers out of your sensitive cunt, he looked at his wet fingers, taking them into his mouth. 

You looked at him with exhausted half lidded eyes, “Vulgar.” you said, as if it didn’t make your cunt hungry for more. 

“Ah, but you don’t taste vulgar at all.” He said as he held you closer, “You taste sweet like wine.” You said nothing, just looked at him with confusion and a smirk, “You don’t believe me?” He asked as he pressed his lips against yours, and pushed his tongue into your mouth. You tasted yourself on his tongue, and he was right, you did taste sweet. 

“Mphmm…” You moaned as your tongues dances together. 

Your hand found the tenting bulge in his breeches, you palmed it excitedly, wanting more. 

He begrudgingly took your wrist, “I cannot-” He said shutting his eyes, as if looking at you would cause him to break. “We may be drunk, I may be the hardest I’ve ever been, and you the most beautiful woman I've seen… But I cannot.” He said, attempting to convince himself. 

“You do not want to?” You asked sweetly. 

His eyes went wide at your question, and brows narrowed. “I want to, Gods know that I have wanted to sense I saw you ride that beast into the Riverlands. I thought that I would be able to, but I’ll not sully you without the Gods knowing I’m yours.” He spoke earnestly. 

You held in a laugh, “I’d not take you for a pious man.” 

You held your face in his hands, looking at you as if you were the most precious thing in the realm. “I’m not. But you're sacred to me, I don’t know why.” He shook his head. 

You smiled softly, “Then take this,” You said as you pulled off your small damp small clothes, “something for you to worship.” You with a cheek grin. 

He bit his tongue as he grinned at you. He grabbed hold of your small clothes, shoved them into his breeches for later. 

He gave you a final kiss before leaving you for the night. 

Finally, you found sleep. 

꒰ ୨୧ ─ ・┈ ・ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ─ ・┈ ꒱꒱

The next morn you began to prepare for your flight back home. 

As you put your leather riding gloves on, you looked out to see the members of House Blackwood coming to bid you farewell. Ben following behind, smiling at you.

Lord Blackwood approached you, “My Princess, I do not wish to pester you. However, have you considered perhaps a member of House Blackwood?” He began to ask once again. 

You however now had an answer, and delivered it quickly. “The Blackwoods are an ancient house. Once ruled as kings of the Riverlands.” You smiled, “It’d be a great honor.” 

Ser Lorent, who was reading his horse, could not believe his ears that you’d made such a decision so quickly. 

Lord Blackwood was eliated and attempted to remain composed. “You honor us greatly, Princess.” He let out a breathe to calm himself, smiling widely, “Perhaps our eldest son Samwell-”

“Benjicot.” You interrupted. “If he is willing of course. We are the same age, I feel it will make an equal union.” You explained. 

However he was not about to deny you, nor question your decision. As long as he’d the last name Blackwood that was all that mattered. “Very wise, my Princess. Fly safely, we shall see one another again.” He smiled and you smiled back with a nod. 

As he left you, Benjicot approached you, as he did his uncle passed him. Patting him on the back excitedly which only annoyed and embarrassed him. 

“Princess,” He bowed his head to you, keeping formalities in front of the knights of your mother. He held out a scroll of parchment. 

You took the scroll, looking at the wax seal of the sigil of house Blackwood. “What is this?” You asked softly. 

“A written proposal of marriage.” He said, holding in an eager smile. “Something to show to your mother. I wish for her to understand my intentions.” He said earnestly. 

“I should return this to you before I leave.” You said as you handed him his cloak that he’d given you the day prior.

He shook his head, “Keep it.” He said, stepping closer to you. “You’ll have something of mine, and I something of yours.” He said in a hushed whisper. You smiled softly, and Silverwing purred.

You looked at her, petting her side gently, “She likes you, I think.” 

“I should hope so.” He said, intimidated by the large beast. You smirked and giggled softly, “I shall write to you.” He said as you mounted Silverwing. 

“I would like that.” You said looking down upon him, hooking yourself into your saddle. “Geros ilas, ēva nyke ūndegon ao arlī.” You said to him sweetly.

“What does that mean?” He asked, 

You smirked down at him, “Perhaps one day I will teach you.” 

support me on ko-fi :3

Requests> ♥️♥️♥️♥️

[phantomqa]

I love it when men look sad 😔

It just has something special, like I just want to hug them 😔 I love miserable men

[woman-respecter]

men jerking off to videos simulating rape or at least violence featuring real women often facing actual pain and abuse is not the same as fanfic girlies reading about sasuke being exposed to sex pollen. be fucking serious.

also you basically never hear of someone injuring her partner during sex because she read destiel bdsm omegaverse, but men will demand their partners try extreme shit they saw in porn, sometimes with severe consequences.

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆.❞

KINKTOBER WEEK ONE — OVERSTIMULATION.

⤿ pairings: jacaerys velaryon x betrothed!reader.

⤿ word count: 6.5K (i got carried away)

⤿ warnings: smut (mdni), experienced!reader, dom!reader, sub!jace, dry humping/grinding, jace is a virgin, horny/yearning jace, mutual pining, heavy kissing, overstimulation (fem!rec), fingering (fem!rec), handjob, cunnilingus (fem!rec), talking jace through it, praise kink, hair-pulling kink, lots of body kissing, teasing, dirty talk, lots of begging

⤿ note: lowkey this is the final jace post for a long time, I think I got it all out & tried to combine some kinktober requests all into one :)) hope y’all enjoy!

Dusky curls fall across pallid features, brows creased in concentration with a curtain of stoicism.

The scrawling of a quill scratches hastily against parchment, its destination unknown to you. It is difficult to see him as a man grown, for men do not often pout with pliant lips.

Nightfall brings an unwanted chill, the first inklings of oceanic ice biting away at your bones, swirling about through the ancient stronghold of Dragonstone. Even the fur-lined slip you wear does not offer much comfort.

In the sparse moments that you shared with Jacaerys since the announcement of your union, you’ve strived to learn as much as you can about him. Loveless, tenuous arrangements were commonplace — you did not want to waste your years toiling alongside a man who cared little for you.

To your great fortune, he shared your sentiments, tracing the outline of your soul with his fingertips, gracing you with his time whenever he could. With the youth of the evening underway, you sought him out, having missed him at dinner.

Between the gap in the door and the cobbled archway, you stand within the shadows of the corridor, one palm perched along ancient mahogany. Wordlessly, you keep to your fleeting observations, hues flickering across the handsome plane of his visage.

The Prince of Dragonstone — your intended, whose kindly hand continued to cradle yours through the endless turbulence of a darkening political climate. You considered yourself lucky — it could’ve been much worse, an arranged marriage.

Jacaerys’s chambers fare far better than your own, befitting of royalty, steeped in Targaryen decorum and tapestries of crimson and black. Candlelight dances across his jaw, bathing him in a light so spectacular that it nearly rips the air from your lungs.

Handsome is a mere understatement — the Velaryon prince was every bit as comely as some gallant knight ripped from pages of a novella. Your stomach erupts with constant butterflies whenever you catch a glimpse of him, longing to tangle yourself within him.

For a moment, he pays you little mind, drowning in a sea of parchment, tackling the growing duties ushered in by the brink of war. You admired his desire for usefulness — he had brought plentiful allies into the fold with his determination and ambition.

“You did not come to dinner,” Your announcement is disarmingly gentle, the croon of a songbird through dusk as you slip inside of his quarters. It seems to ensnare him then, having you here, unchaperoned. “Are you not famished?”

You carried a silver plate of lukewarm foodstuffs, roasted quail, broiled vegetables, and a smattering of fruit — his stomach lurches at the sight. “I suppose I lost track of time,” He exhales, placing his quill down atop his desk. “Forgive me — my responsibilities seem rather endless.”

Beauty blossomed from you like a flourishing meadow, the warmth of springtime; tender, made to cloak him in your sweetness. He was captivated by you, still smitten to be alone in a room, and yet he committed countless sins within the recesses of his mind.

Between the occasional grace of your hand and a chaste kiss against his cheek, it left Jacaerys within a realm of wanting. An ocean of you, and he was drowning. It was improper to think of you in such a salacious manner, but the hot blood of youth prevailed.

“Then break from it,” You insisted, footsteps light as you crossed the threshold from doorway to desk, nudging the plate of food in his direction. “Hours without a quill in-hand will not hinder you any less.”

A threadbare smile graced his comely features, and he seemed accepting of your suggestion. In the time that you had been betrothed, he had made every effort to learn more about you — such efforts were not in-vain, as he made ample progress.

There was a kindly warmth to you, a depth that he found invigorating. You were shy, initially — time softened you, and you unfurled like the petals of a moonflower, showing your promise and intelligence, your swift wit.

Reluctantly, Jacaerys submitted to your advice, abandoning his quill and parchment for the somewhat mundane taste of now-cold food. Still, it was enough to relieve the gnawing bite within his stomach, allowing him to relax as much as one could.

“Why does your quill scratch so furiously?” Your inquiry drifted through the air, to be caught by him. It seemed that his only company was that of dust-laden tomes and endless parchment that swallowed him whole.

Begrudgingly, a wistful sigh tore past your betrothed’s rosy lips, fixed into a vexed expression. “I work tirelessly to bring allies into the fold for my mother’s cause,” He uttered, picking at the stem of a grape. “Some of it is to no avail.”

Empathetic, you placed your palm atop his shoulder, sinking into velvet and toughened silk. He nearly buckled beneath such a simple touch alone, fighting away the string of untoward thoughts. Instead, he reached, digits climbing to seize yours.

“Do not let this weight burden you so, Jacaerys. There are more than enough men to even the load,” Shaking his head, you were again privy to your intended’s glaring streak of stubbornness. “You do not have to take it all on your shoulders.”

“It is the only way to find some shred of worth, of usefulness,” He bemoaned his mother’s tight leash — she never let him scout, take to the skies on Vermax, participate in anything that wasn’t docile. “Being coddled in this way is maddening.”

Silken digits flexed around his hand, prompting him to relax, if he were even capable of such a thing. “If I were the Queen, my desire would be to protect you. Coddling can be easily mistaken for an overprotective nature.” You soothed, canting your head to one side.

He took little comfort in your words, as much as he longed to believe them. Perhaps he did not see such a goal now — in time, his thoughts may shift. “I will not trouble you with such thoughts any longer.” Jacaerys exhaled, and you let it rest.

In an unexpectedly sweet gesture, you brought his hand to the plushness of your lips, and as if you were some debonair swordsman, kissed his knuckles. The obvious flush of rose permeated his cheeks, and you then released his hand, much to his dismay.

Silence filled the void of conversation as you wandered about his chambers, quietly admiring the draconic decorum before seeking to sit, plucking at your nightgown. Being alone with him, here — it wasn’t entirely proper, and subconsciously, you were aware of this.

“Did supper yield any conversation of importance?” He inquired, eyes following you as you sat down atop the velveteen cushion of the chaise lounge. Hues of wisteria and mauve comprised your evening gown, colors that you wore splendidly.

“You did not miss much of anything,” Twisting around within your seat, you faced Jacaerys, tucking a fist beneath your chin. “Though, I certainly missed your presence. I feel like a stranger without you near.” You murmured.

Sent to Dragonstone to be at the side of your betrothed, you were away from home — unnerved, pensive, and left to wander about with no true direction. Jacaerys had done his best at ensuring that you were comfortable, but the feeling was not a permanent one.

“For that, I apologize,” Jace sighed, finishing half of his plate before rising from his seat. “I fear that this conflict has put a strain on all within this castle. You are not the source of any indifference.” He assured you, circling the lounge to sit by your side.

Closeness was something he’d yearned for in a way he never had before, and within the proximity of your warmth, he seemed to bristle. Seven Hells, how would he outlast this storm? He could not seem to halt the mounting desire he had for you.

If it weren’t for his sensibility and wanting to be gallant for you, as your intended husband, the impetuousness of lust would’ve guided his hand.

Crackling embers within the hearth began to wane, basking you in shades of orange, growing duller with each passing moment. He sat up straighter in your presence, stealing glances where he could, committing your features to memory.

Reassured, you offered him a gracious smile, hands folded neatly within your lap. “It is comforting to know that my presence here is not unwanted,” You sighed, casting your gaze to the flames. “I must thank you for your kindness, Jacaerys.”

A fluttering heat settled within the pit of your stomach when you momentarily caught his eyes — earthy-brown swirling with something indiscernible, yet something faintly familiar. Carnality was not lost upon you, for you had experienced it before.

Jacaerys, however — you pondered if your betrothed was still virtuous. The sins committed in your youth had been carefully hidden beneath many layers, layers you felt as if you could reveal to him.

Clearing his throat, Jacaerys tempered himself, wanting to pull himself in from acting upon basic impulses. Some part of him felt truly depraved for thinking of you in such untoward ways, but he couldn’t help himself. Many evenings were spent in grisly solitude, dreaming of you, fantasizing.

”It is my duty as your betrothed to ensure your comfort,” His words emerged as somewhat breathless, as if he were labored in his attempts to draw air. You did not see it, but he fisted the cloth along his thigh in an attempt to relieve some tension. “I am to be your husband.”

“Yes, and for that, I am eternally grateful,” Steeling yourself, you decided to give him the truth, unobstructed and plain as a clear day. “I do not wish for there to be any secrets kept between us, which is why I must confess something to you.”

Perplexed, dark brows furrowed together, yet they seemed to show little signs of hostility or malice. There were countless options as to what this could be — anything. A secret laid bare before him in a moment like this had the potential to ruin everything.

Through a clenched fist and tight jaw, Jacaerys swallowed the growing lump within his throat, affording you the courtesy of his undivided attention. “What is troubling you?” Rigid, he waited for you to speak, noticing the brief hesitation that surrounded you.

A sliver of you feared judgment, that such past deeds would permeate your union in a sour light, but you hoped that Jacaerys would not begrudge you for it. With a steady inhale, you cleared your throat.

“I have lost my maidenhead,” Silently, you pleaded to whatever Gods would listen, hoping that Jacaerys would be kind enough to lend you his understanding. “Before this union, before I was betrothed to you. It was long in the past and something that weighs heavily on me.”

It was not anger he felt, but jealousy.

Jealous that another man had the pleasure of having you, to touch you, to live within your fair heart. He nearly shuddered when imagining you in such a lewd manner, so much so that his features became rosy in pallor. Yet, it was long in the past and something set in-stone.

Out of nervousness, you let out a soft cough, smoothing your palms across your legs. “I — Please forgive me, Jacaerys. I only wished to have transparency between us. I hope that this does not tarnish anything.”

“No,” Jacaerys inhaled sharply, hot air filling his lungs, heart thrumming beneath his ribcage. “It does not tarnish anything.” An angry heat crawled across his spine, settling his flesh ablaze with another wave of want, an ache that refused to leave him.

“You are not angry with me?” The sweetness of your inquiry tasted saccharine upon his tongue, honeyed words tangling around his heart. It wasn’t something that you were proud of, but you did not regret such actions, either.

“I am not,” He assured, tensing when you brazenly reached for his hand, squeezing it as a show of affection. Jacaerys felt so incredibly pathetic, feeling his cock twitch incessantly within his trousers from the mere touch of your heavenly hand. “You are still my betrothed. My sentiments will not change.”

Even still, he looked pensive, as if he were teetering on the brink of madness. There was a visible frustration within his features that betrayed his words, prompting you to question him sharply.

“You seem agitated, even still. What troubles you?” It was too shameful to confess to his insurmountable sins — how horribly he desired you, this heart of rot. Jacaerys feared that you would despise him if he said what was on his heart and mind.

Flushed and flustered, he looked away, yet you continued to chase after him, digits caressing across his hand. Gooseflesh iced his spine, throat growing with thickness as he shook his head. “It is improper, and unbecoming of a Prince.”

“More unbecoming than what I just confessed to you?” You wanted him to be put at-ease — intimacy was merely a fact of life, and you understood its sacredness, but the past was simply that. “Jacaerys, we are to be wed, you and I. Consummation will inevitably be apart of that. There isn’t anything that you could say that would turn me away now.”

He would seek absolution on the morrow for this — there was no returning from the onslaught of desire he now faced. It was as if a great storm had rattled his bones, and instead of rainfall, it was his lust laid bare, as dark as swirling thunderclouds.

Biting at his tongue, Jacaerys attempted to stave off his confession, earthen hues flickering away, clinging to anything else. It was wrong to think of you so often — and each thought was wrought with a stinging lust.

“I hunger for you,” It was spoken in a gravelly groan that made your insides twist with a newfound excitement. His cock was throbbing, aching with something awful. “I am envious of this man in your past, longing to be in his place. I have … Thought about you, in ways that are untoward.”

Fluttering breaths hitched within the depths of your throat, growing thicker with each passing moment. Nails dug into the cushion beneath you, his confession leaving behind a wake of fire, turning you to ash.

Admittedly, Jacaerys was not alone in his lascivious imaginations — you fantasized about the very same, more times than you could possibly count.

Jacaerys steeled himself, and as much as he desired to remain collected and maintain propriety, it was all dissolving at the seams. “I — I have not the experience that you have, but I hope that I can learn what pleases you.”

His affections were ravenous, the sting of youth that burned with inexperience, yet he cared little for such a thing. Jacaerys was eager, beyond desperate to know how to best pleasure you, longing for your instruction, if you would offer it freely.

A growing fire stirred within your loins, enough to make your breath hitch within your throat. “Do you wish to consummate tonight?” You questioned, and to that, Jacaerys shook his head.

“No, no — I want to touch you,” His desperation was gorgeous, something that you seldom experienced. “I long to learn your body, but I fear that I may covet you.” Jacaerys uttered, lips parting as a wisp of air tore past his mouth.

“There is no sin in coveting your wife,” Your voice had rolled into some mesmerizing lull, a near-purr that sent shivers down his spine. “Someone who is already yours.” The label was now established, and you were quite satisfied with that. You were blessed to have one of the better husbands in the realm.

Jacaerys huffed, pliant lips graced by firelight, deliciously pink as he met your mouth halfway. It was a frenzied kiss, born of his own yearning and overwhelming desperation, and yours began to climb to new heights of their own.

This hunger was different — it was thrilling and exhilarating, sending a rush of excitement to your stomach, thighs shifting together beneath your nightgown. Your hands reached for his shoulders, digits toying with the clasps of his cloak.

Tousled curls framed his freckled visage, cheeks blossoming with a delicate shade of rose as he kissed you, so passionate that it nearly stole your breath from your lungs. Your digits then crawled towards the nape of his neck, seeking to pull him closer.

A simpering groan stirred within his throat, erupting in a cacophony of breathy sighs as he felt you press closer. Silk clung to your frame, allowing him to glimpse your beauteous curves, to know that something perfect dwelled beneath.

Pupils blown with lust were shielded beneath thick eyelashes and fluttering lids as he scrambled to catch his breath, hands unsure of themselves. “Show me what to do,” Jacaerys sighed, feeling your lips halt to a crawl. “Please.”

To your awe and delight, Jacaerys was subservient, willing to learn and to let you guide his hand. Instinct would drive him soon enough. “Let your hand wander, wherever it pleases you.” Soft digits folded around his wrist, bringing his palm to your collarbone.

If he acted on such whims, there was no telling where his hand might travel, and so he restrained himself. Soft gossamer fabrics swept against his fingertips as he felt the divide where clothing met flesh. He wanted to unravel you, see you with his own eyes.

An excitable shiver iced his spine, jaw tensed as you slipped from your robe, only a curtain of thin silk resting between him and your body. His features seemed permanently steeped in a warm blush, painted with a swath of rose and pink.

The soft peaks of your nipples pebbled beneath fabric at the loss of your robe, gooseflesh raking across your skin at the pace of a wave. His hesitation was visible, etched into his features as he deliberated on what to do, afraid of startling you as if you were a doe in the woodlands.

It was then when you pressed closer, slipping yourself into the expanse of his lap, tossing a leg over his hips until you settled fully. His earthy hues widened, breath hitching within the depths of his throat as he struggled to maintain his composure.

What he wanted to do and what was expected of him were two forking avenues. Jacaerys felt his mouth water involuntarily, palms finally finding their confidence as he placed them atop your hips, caressing toward your thighs. “You are mesmerizing, and even that is a sore understatement.”

His honeyed words elicited a smile from you, fingers gracing the velvet of his doublet, seeking to slip beneath the clasps to remove his tunic. “May I?” You inquired, eyelashes fluttering in rapid succession as your betrothed nodded breathlessly.

As nimble fingers sought to rid him of his tunic, Jacaerys craned forward, mouth desperately seeking your own. A delicate gasp slipped past your lips, dancing with his own, hands preoccupied with feasting upon bare flesh.

He was lean, musculature present yet nothing close to bulky. Broad shoulders were covered in smatterings of freckles that climbed toward his visage, dusted across his face. Jace shivered beneath your palms as they skirted across his chest.

The prominent tent within his trousers brought about an ache like no other, one that he longed to extinguish. Your position made it difficult for him to focus, occasionally bumping your core against him, thighs squeezing incessantly at his hips.

The galloping of his heart slammed against his ribcage, a fluttering sensation spreading like hot tendrils throughout his chest. Darkening hues caught a glimpse of your breasts, yearning to see you without any obstruction at all.

A pang of anxiousness swelled with his gut, the nervousness of performing, of ensuring that you were well-satisfied by his hand. Each kiss evoked a wave of desire that threatened to burn him to ash in your fire, feeling your fingers rake through his curls.

His hands kindly roamed over your body, cupping the swell of your hips through your gown before rising across your stomach. They inevitably sought your breasts, kneading into your clothed flesh, and he felt the soft moan stir within your throat.

Only thin laces provided a degree of separation — between your heavenly flesh and his sinful hand.

“Where do you enjoy being touched?” Jacaerys whispered, features feverishly hot, basked in an orange glow; ethereal, with the makings of a true prince. “I wish to please you.” The needy strain within his tone filled your belly with fire.

“By your hand? Everywhere,” You crooned, dazzled by his gentleness and eagerness to learn. Jacaerys touched you with true selfless intent, driven by the carnal desire to please you, satisfy you as your intended husband. “Between my legs, my thighs, breasts, neck.”

Jacaerys reached for the laces of your nightgown, searching your countenance for any sign of hesitation. “May I undress you?” He questioned, voice pitched with lust, a delicious husk that scratched a certain part deep within you.

“Yes,” A huff, a sigh of relief — you were the very picture of temptuous beauty, armed with the grace of a maiden. You watched with thinly-veiled rapture as Jacaerys gingerly tugged at the laces, silk sagging upon your form. “You are so perfect.”

He was a novice still, merely an apprentice when it came to the intricacies of sensuality, yet hearing your sweetly-spoken praise made him preen. Billowing silk fell away, unraveling your form until it was naked flesh exposed to the warmer air of his chambers.

Gods, you were so beautiful — painfully so, a goddess incarnate, made for him to worship so reverently at your feet. Jacaerys could not mask his want for you, tracing along your bare flesh as if you were a map of constellations, yet even stars would envy you.

With a steadily-growing confidence and assurance, Jacaerys’s fingers caressed along your thigh, tracing upward until he reached the pliant curve of your chest. He cupped your breast, feeling you bristle beneath his touch, thumb brushing across your nipple.

A shiver gripped you, lips parting with a soft gasp as you careened forward, gooseflesh crawling along your spine. “Jacaerys,” A low moan stirred within your throat, eyes pleasantly half-lidded. You felt his lips cautiously press against the slope of your jaw. “Don’t stop.” You sighed.

Swallowing the lump of anxiousness within his throat, Jacaerys did not deliberate, attempting to shed himself of his hesitancy. Each kiss was exploratory, soft lips peppering themselves toward the column of your throat.

He continued to knead and toy with your breast, savoring the sensation of silky flesh within his palm, digits flicking over your nipple. Your hand raked through his curls, absentmindedly tugging until it evoked a groan from his mouth.

Warm, molten heat coalesced between your thighs, slick against your core as you rocked yourself against his growing erection. Jacaerys gasped, lips nearly faltering, but he didn’t want to tear himself away from you so soon.

His kisses became fervent, hot against your flesh as he kissed his way across your throat, seeking your collarbone. Your unattended breast did not lack the attention for long, as he kneaded into your chest with a passionate need.

“Use your mouth.” You instructed, voice teetering along the fine edge of breathlessness, teeth grazing across your lower lip. Jacaerys peered at you, visage flushed with pink, earthy hues flickering toward your breasts.

Jacaerys obeyed, mouth making a trail toward your chest, holding you aloft. Curious lips peppered themselves over your breast, shuddering at the sensation of your nails gently raking over his scalp. “Here?”

You nodded, unable to pry your eyes away from him as he took one of your breasts into his mouth, teeth grazing soft flesh, sucking at your nipple. A wanton moan tore past your lips, such a cry causing his grasp to tighten, your back arching into him.

“Perfect,” Sweetly-spoken praises drifted throughout his chambers, hips incessantly grinding themselves against his clothed tent. Jacaerys nearly moaned in-tandem with you, kissing your chest with gallantry, attempting to stave off his burning arousal. “Do you enjoy that?”

Feigning ignorance as to not give you an edge, Jacaerys looked to you, flushed countenance betraying the words coming out of his mouth. “Enjoy what?” He inquired, hoping to distract you by craning upwards for a kiss.

“This,” Perplexed, you rocked your hips forward again, your cunt brushing against the tent in his breeches. Jace very nearly collapsed beneath your gesture, dark brows furrowing together. “Does it feel pleasurable?”

Jacaerys hesitated, terrified of reaching his peak and ending things prematurely. “Yes,” He panted, throat swimming with a certain thickness. “Gods, I need you — you can’t continue like this.” He pleaded, somewhat sheepish. “I do not wish for it to end so soon.”

Planting a kiss against your betrothed’s brow, you cocked your head to one side. “Nothing has to end once you’ve reached your peak, Jace,” He reveled in your use of his nickname. “There is plenty left to do.”

Filled with a semblance of relief, your intended traced his hands along your sides, feeling along your body. “What would you want me to do?” Eagerness crept into his voice, something you greatly appreciated.

“Kiss me between my legs,” You suggested, watching the scarlet pallor flourish within his cheeks, spreading toward his throat. “Touch me, if it pleases you.” As if to accentuate your statement, you grinded against him again, eliciting a husky moan from the depths of his throat.

Dragging his hand toward the apex of your thighs, he peered at you for tutelage, guidance on where exactly to touch you. Wordlessly, your hand slipped to his wrist, coaxing his digits to your slick cunt, noticing the blush on his features.

Admittedly, you were just as feverishly hot, lips parting slightly as he began to explore, concentrating on your satisfaction. Two fingers parted your petals, seeking to stroke along your slit. It evoked a soft gasp from you, hips careening into the subtle gesture.

“There?” Jacaerys questioned, digits creeping upward until they softly rolled around your clit, stimulating that electric clutch of nerves. You moaned, and it seemed to offer him some answers. “Is that what you want?” He whispered, octave sultry in its resonance.

His words made you smitten, yet you nodded in response, watching as he began to find his confidence. Letting your palms drift toward his abdomen, your back arched as he began to toy with your clit, reveling in the pleasure scrawled across your countenance.

His perfect lips consumed your whimpers, swallowing them whole in the embrace of his mouth. Jacaerys kissed you hard, lips dancing in such a heated entanglement, yet his digits never ceased their movements.

Eager digits preened through his dark tresses, one fist gripping at the nape of his neck. Your other hand sought to find the waist of his trousers, tugging at the strings until they loosened altogether. His visage appeared bewildered, as if he didn’t expect it, yet he didn’t want you to stop.

A whine tore through your throat as he circled your clit with a clumsy inexperience, yet you wouldn’t fault him for it. Jacaerys exerted more effort into learning alone than your previous paramour ever had, and you had nothing but gratitude in your heart.

Jacaerys’s fingers graced places where he knew he could hear you — evoke a myriad of disgraceful noises from your tongue, a maiden of desire. He found his pace inevitably, digits sinking along your weeping cunt before gracing your clit again.

This repetitive pattern made your thighs twitch, perspiration glittering along your brow as you brazenly loosened your betrothed’s underclothes. “I want to touch you,” You whispered near the shell of his ear. “I would not neglect you so.”

With a shiver of anticipation, those dilated, earthy hues of his silently pleaded with you to do whatever you wanted — Seven Hells, he would never belong to another. He was yours, imploding upon himself with your touch and tender gaze alone.

He nodded, pink and compliant, assisting you with maneuvering his breeches aside enough for you to free his cock. Jacaerys was embarrassed at how eager he’d become from this alone, length glistening with a sheen of precum.

Jacaerys did not allow his hand to still completely, lazily tracing his digits across your cunt, shivering whenever your soft palm encircled his length. The contact elicited a breathless groan from his mouth, unable to conceal the wave of excitement that flooded through him.

The tender clash of your lips sent a rush of warmth through you, coalescing between your thighs, heat stirred by the presence of Jacaerys’s fingers. Ensuring a sluggish pace, your hand stroked along your lover’s cock, thumb brushing over the head.

His stomach felt unnaturally tight, a coil of festering heat that slowly unraveled itself. “Gods, you are incredible.” Jacaerys huffed against your lips, voice nearly tapering off into a low whine when you began to kiss his jaw.

Pleasure was mutually exchanged, touching one another in-tandem, bodies beginning to glisten with a sheen of perspiration. It was your lips that lingered against his neck, showering his sweet skin in an untold amount of feather-light kisses.

Flushed with embarrassment, he felt the occasional jolt of his hips as he thrust into your hand, cock throbbing with an overwhelming bliss.

Jacaerys felt trapped within some lust-ridden haze, focus unsteady and sluggish. A soft, simpering moan resonated from you, drifting beside his ear, taking residence within his mind.

A cacophony of crass noises emanated throughout the walls of his chambers — breathy sighs intermingled with wanton moans, the exchange of flesh for fantasy. Soft lips peppered themselves along his freckled shoulder.

Never faltering in your ministrations, your hand continued to stroke along his cock, pace developing into something evocative. Jacaerys groaned, eyes half-lidded, pliant mouth parted as a string of satisfied sighs escaped him.

The simmering flame of desire burned brightly within the pit of your stomach, his digits continuing to stroke along your cunt. A cry of delight tore past your lips, nails lightly digging into his shoulder.

Embarrassment rippled through him whenever he happened to moan, flushed like a ripe peach. His ministrations were passionate, done in a flurry of desperation and excitement. “I … I —” Jacaerys groaned.

“Jace,” You panted, gooseflesh raking across your spine as you rocked your hips forward, seeking any shred of friction. “Gods, I need you.” The words nearly bit his heart into two, oozing crimson desire and want.

“You have me,” Jacaerys insisted through a strained sigh, a solemn promise through pleasured groans. His hips jolted again, cock desperately sliding against your palm, begging for anything you offered to him. “Seven Hells!” He groaned.

Pleasure mounted, swirling within him like a tumultuous wave, one that he seldom experienced. Digits began to still within you, losing their rhythm, abandoning it for something erratic. He chased after his encroaching release, coil beginning to unfurl within his stomach.

Another kiss invited his own demise as you sought sanctuary within his mouth, pliant lips tangling with one another. Your hand continued to drag itself along his cock, thumb idly flicking over the head of his length, bleeding warmth.

Your nerves burned with desire, every fiber of your being consumed by Jacaerys’s presence. You hadn’t felt such a kindly touch before — even your last spark did not bother to learn.

As Jace’s head began to tilt backward, his lips barely graced the curve of your jaw before he came, sudden and white-hot. His spend fell in hot tendrils against your palm, falling to his stomach in a glistening sheen.

He did not expect to come undone so swiftly, but it was the first time you had touched him in such an amorous manner. Half-lidded and dazed, Jacaerys attempted to recuperate, reaching to cup your cheek.

“Forgive me, I did not think to warn you,” He huffed, chest stinging with heat as he fought to breathe deeply again. “That was …” Words turned to ash upon his tongue, features painted with a delicate shade of crimson.

“Invigorated by the moment,” You mused, pressing a kiss against his cheek before crawling off of him, moving toward the basin of water on his vanity. “For one without experience, you do not act clueless.”

Retrieving a rag, you prepared to return to him — but he was at your heels. “Jacaerys?” The very picture of longing, looming beside you as his hand graced the curve of your breast, caressing towards your stomach.

“I want to taste you,” He rasped, his gaze practically begging for you to let him. Gently, he plucked the rag from your fingertips, cleaning himself off with haste. “Please.” Jacaerys groaned.

It was as if the fire within your belly burned thrice as hot, demanding to be extinguished with all its might. Your lips parted, fingers curling into the wood of his vanity as you pressed your thighs together.

Jacaerys’s lips descended upon yours in an ardor-laced frenzy, a groan stirring within his throat, hands immediately seizing your hips. Instinct drove him, desire renewed, as bright as your own flame.

You did not hesitate, reaching for him with a swiftness, digits tangling within his dark curls. He was a godly sight, laces of his trousers undone, visage flushed, earthy hues nearly black with desire. He hadn’t felt so strongly about someone before, anchored to you.

One could not mistake his passion for roughness — Jacaerys was gallant, a man of honor, and you suspected that being rough was not in his interest. Each clash of your lips left you reeling, dizzy with affection, flesh crawling with heat.

“I need you, so terribly,” Jacaerys whispered, filling you with a euphoric sentiment. Desperation crept into his voice, a resonance that was laced with yearning, a craving. “May I?” He was needlessly polite.

Wordlessly, your head bobbed up and down in a series of swift nods, teeth snagging on the inner skin of your cheek. He reciprocated with a kiss against your shoulder, and then to your collarbone, forging a path with his mouth.

Jacaerys only wished to map your flesh, to trace each curve as if you were a winding river — a river worth wading. His softened fingertips incessantly squeezed at your hips, gliding downward to seize handfuls of your haunches.

Each kiss brought forth a glow from you, interwoven with a myriad of throaty whines and whimpers. His confidence only blossomed from there, instilling a sense of pride within him as he kissed between your breasts.

“Jacaerys,” A sharp inhale ripped through your throat as he made his sluggish descent, savoring every inch of your body, skin like velvet beneath his tongue. “Do not torment me.” You hissed, aching for the embrace of his mouth.

It was you that dominated the current tension between you both, reaching for his crown of curls as you eased him downwards. Jacaerys obeyed, sinking onto his knees at your subtle instruction, kissing at your stomach.

He was at your mercy, peering up at you through thick lashes and flushed features, allowing you to take the initiative. You most certainly did, sluggishly guiding him toward your glistening cunt.

There was nothing he wanted more in this world than to oblige you, lips pressing all along your legs, mouth steadily finding the apex of your thighs. Jacaerys took care in spreading you apart, tongue raking hot embers across your cunt, your taste ambrosial.

A stirring fire of lust roused him, cock twitching within his breeches as he delved deeper into your core. His mouth was a thing of beauty, tongue sluggishly tasting you from your clit to your entrance.

Your chest heaved with wanton pants, hand forming a fist within his tresses, involuntarily tugging and pulling as you pleased. Jacaerys did not mind it at all, desperate to please you.

Tangled within his dark mane, you coaxed him closer, digits digging at the base of his skull. Jacaerys released a groan into your core, hands clamping down on your thighs with an ironclad grasp. Your nectar fell heavy upon his tongue, the sweetest of honey.

Jacaerys thoroughly delighted in the feeling of your hands within his hair, your hips occasionally stuttering and bucking forward, desperately seeking his mouth.

He was attentive, even for being a novice at the act itself, lapping at your cunt with a fervor. His plush lips drifted toward your clit, gauging your reaction to the sensation. You moaned, and that only seemed to encourage him.

With slow, eager laps of his tongue, Jacaerys made sure to savor you, letting it flick across your clit. The short, dizzying gasp that tore past your mouth spurred him on, as he pressed another string of kisses against your slit.

The continued sensation of your digits carding through his curls made him sigh with elation. “Jacaerys,” You whimpered, dizzying moans spurring him on. “Gods, you’re doing so well, so perfect.”

The lascivious praise he received made him groan into your cunt, desperate for you to shower him in compliments. He flourished with your sweet words, comely visage happily buried between your thighs.

His eagerness was palpable through each flick of his tongue, lost within the oasis between your legs. Your thighs burned, desire making you hazy, mind clouded with nothing but him.

A myriad of soft whimpers and whines escaped you, hand gingerly tugging on Jace’s hair as he showered your cunt in an alternation of steady licks to lingering ones.

The short, dizzying gasp that tore past your mouth spurred him on, as he pressed another string of kisses against your slit. It was overwhelming, the stimulation — you very nearly collapsed.

Instead, your euphoria manifested as your climax, sudden and without pause, a rush of heat that spilled forth. Jacaerys groaned, continuing to lap at your cunt as if he were drunk upon it, prompting you to peel him off of you.

The sight of your betrothed on his knees before you, panting with exhilaration, chin glistening with your slick — it was a sight that you wanted to see again and again.

“That was incredible,” Careening your digits through the top of his scalp, Jace moved into your embrace, angling his face to kiss your palm. “You did wonderful — are you certain that this is new for you?” You mused.

Jacaerys blushed, yet held firm on his honesty. “It isn’t new anymore,” He chimed, wishing that he could have you like this all the time. “I wish to please you again, if you’ll let me. Tomorrow, perhaps?”

With a cheshire smile, you coaxed him up from the ground, pressing a string of kisses all along his collarbone and neck. He seemed quite pleased with it, holding you closer.

“Tomorrow.” You sighed into his skin, wordlessly guiding him to bed. You wanted to lay with him, learn his heart, more than you already had. As you settled beside him, he appeared beyond elated. “But there is still tonight left.”

[cosmicviolencce]

baby fever. cregan stark.

Cregan proved himself as an amazing husband, but something clearly frustrates you — you hadn't had a child yet. Worried about you, cregan makes sure his lovely wife never feels empty again.

warnings: nsfw, (heavy) breeding kink, slight angst, cregan x wife!reader.

w.c: 3k.

Cregan could not accept a distant wife. He didn't expect a lovely wife either, but the Lord of Winterfell was a dutiful man also as husband, and he expected the same — for you to embrace your duty as wife and make his cold days a bit easier, to have someone to rely on trough tough days. Being Lord of the North was beyond titles, it meant carrying on his shoulders the responsibility of keeping his people from starving and freezing to death, of keeping his people away from the threats that wandered beyond the wall, of winter.

Cregan wasn't exactly demanding when it came to choosing a wife, but a weak woman would never survive the North, would never be fit for the role of a proper wife; to be the Lady of the North.

He expected someone who would bear it with him, someone to be trusted. And, if possible, gentle fingers to soothe his pain, a warm bed, cozy arms to embrace him and soft words whispered to his ear when he felt the need to be reassured, when he needed to be reminded of who he really was.

And then you came, he removed your leather glove to place a soft kiss on your numb fingers. The beautiful shade of pink that tinged you from your cheeks to the cold tip of your nose was different from anything he'd ever seen in that grey and white castle or it's pale surroundings. He judged you fit, soft for a wife, but educated for a lady, and he decided that he was willing to hold you until that freezing cold stopped shivering you to the bones.

He was rough, yes, his demeanor edging a distant coldness, but he was only a man in his raw essence. Cregan was kind under the thick furs that covered his broad frame. You've learned to love him, to understand every emotion under those icy eyes. Cregan was undoubtedly faithful, and the only nights he had you falling asleep in his absence was when council subjects took more of his time than he should allow.

But there was, deep down, something that bothered you, something you tried not to whine about too much; you haven't had a son, and it's been almost a year since you arrived to your husband's lands. You couldn't help but feel an enormous need to carry a piece of him inside you, to honor him with an heir, or better, to honor him with a great brood of babies for you to hold tight against your chest and cradle in your arms, for him to raise as the next keepers of Winterfell.

Cregan has always cherished you, always made sure you understood how much of a perfect dream you were for him, but you wanted more. You didn't need children to prove your worth, but you needed to do something about that need you felt within you, making you start to feel lonely and cold again.

That evening, Cregan entered your bedchambers. Your scent filled his nostrils, changing the atmosphere to a warmer one that he never thought possible to exist in that cold castle. For his surprise, you didn't wait for him with a steaming bath, or welcomed him with loving arms and happily began to help by shedding the layers of the heavy fur he wore. Your chambers were dark, save from the fireplace that burned low.

You layed still, your graceful form curled on the large bed, hugging a pillow with your back to the doors. It made him worried, to say the least, at first he even thought you were in pain. You could hear the sound of his boots against the stone floor; you'd prefer that he didn't approach, because you didn't want to explain the true reason of your frustration, nor to occupy his mind with more problems. You hated to feel like another burden to your husband's sore shoulders, but Winterfell was a cold and vast place and you felt alone in his absence, and that made your problems dig a wound in your heart even more painful than it should feel. So what was supposed to be little ended up eating you alive.

You tried to pretend to sleep, but the heavy sigh you accidentally let out was more than he needed. He sat at the edge of your side of the bed, making the mattress sink with his weight.

"My love?" he reached out to remove a strand of hair that covered your eyes, "You are not asleep. Are you in pain?"

Cregan's voice was rich, deep and tinged with a kindness he only had in his heart for you. It soothed your aches, soft like wind against your skin. You shook your head; all you felt now was guilt, for having him so worried over your stupid problems.

"I am not, my love. You should not worry."

He raised a brow, his calloused thumb caressing your warm cheek.

"What is it, then?" he asked with a slight hint of desperation in his voice; he couldn't bear the sight of you like this, "Something troubles you."

You signed, shifting a bit. When you opened your eyes to meet his, you softened instantly, his pretty eyes making your walls fall effortlessly. As if his words weren't enough to make you speak, he added, "You pout."

But you tried again, shaking your head and speaking in a dismissive tone. "My love..."

"Wife," he cuts you, his patience running thin and yet, his tone was nothing but kind, maybe the kindest it has ever gotten in that day, "I cannot bear the feigning, speak."

You blinked, then swallowed, and then words came out without your consent. "Something troubles me, yes. I simply find it expendable."

"Doesn't seem expendable." he insisted, leaning a bit closer, "Tell me, so that I can fix it."

You hesitated, letting go of the pillow to lean your weight on your elbows, your face level to level with his for a proper conversation. "It's been almost a year," you said, carefully, "and yet... I haven't given you a child."

He could sense your frustration, and something, something very little, shining like a spark of anger at yourself. He seemed taken aback, pulling back from your touch and straightening his spine. "We have tried, wife..."

You shook your head, like he wasn't getting it.

"We could do better," you said, eyes glistening with a hint of a bittersweet plea,"I don't feel like you give me enough chances to try."

There it was. Those words, the choice words, it hit a chord withing him, it almost felt like there was a hidden sense to it. Like it wasn't exactly about children, but about the little amout of time he actually invested on pleasing you — even if the ones he did, happened to be wildly passionate — , on warming you up. Cregan felt inefficient, and failing to his wife was something he could not accept. But it was true, in a way. He could see it now. You were always there, looking for after him after tough council meetings, after a long day of training. But he wasn't able to return the favor the way he wished to.

"I know duty demands a lot," you swallowed, your tone lowering to a whisper, "I didn't mean to overload you, so I thought it was best to stay quiet. But I can't anymore. I need to carry your babies inside me."

He swallowed hard, his lips going dry at your words.

"I am sorry, my wife," he began, a bit disconcerted, "I had not realized how much it hurted you. Forgive me," he said and you softened completely, the tension in your shoulders fading away. You sighed, looking down, ready to dismiss his apologies when you heard.

"Allow me to try," he asked in the sweetest tone, his rumble causing chills to your spine. Your glistening eyes widened under your hypnotizing long eyelashes.

"Now?"

"If you agree," he continued, playing with the strap of your gown while his eyes overflowed with affection — love. His words made you sit, quick eyes still trying to read him.

"Y-you must be tired, I-"

"No. Not for you, my love. I am sorry to cause you that impression," he leaned closer, trapping you against the mattress, "It is my duty to fulfill your desires. And if you want my babies, I shall fill you up with my seed."

He was already rubbing his lips against your exposed neck, his words coming out like thunders and reverberating over his chest like a rumble. You shut you eyes, lips parted in a silent gasp as he kept teasing your skin that way — it worked more than a thousand kisses. Your breath hitched visibly, and Cregan's eyes glistened with lust at the sight of you so desperate.

"You'll never have to beg again, sweet wife," he murmured and you could only nod repeatedly. His fingers worked vigorously on the laces of your gown, untying it with ease and letting the fabric fall back on bed. He wanted to swallow you. His beautiful wife begging to be filled, your rounded and delicate breasts falling as you got exposed, and he could only imagine how your silky skin would feel against his lips. His tongue darted out to swallow the rigid sensitive peak, he sucked and licked at your skin.

"Cregan..." you cried out.

It was like paradise, you felt so soft. With his head buried between your breasts, all he could smell was the scent of your perfume and your natural sweet scent, the same that cling to your pillow. He gave your breasts the attention they deserved before pulling back to remove his coat with a wolfish glint in his eyes, making sure you wouldn't step away from his reach. Course you wouldn't. Breathless and flushed, you could already feel the damp between your thighs. Cregan could see it too, the way your folds glistened under the flickering light, even if your thighs were pressed against eachother in a failed attempt to hide it. Gods, how much he'd neglect you. He wanted to bury himself in your sweet wet cunt, to fuck you the night away until you'd memorized how every inch of his cock felt inside you.

Cregan undressed in a hurry, with a dangerous look in his eyes — you didn't dare to move while his gaze burned that way, no. You simply stared at his pale skin, kissed with the cozy hue of a burning fireplace. His arms, oh, so strong, you wanted to hold onto them and disappear from the world while he hides you against that broad chest. Your husband parted your thighs with ease, gentle hands exposing your core while he positioned his big body between them, sinking into your breasts again until you let out those pretty little sounds that made him groan.

Cregan pulled back to cup your breasts in his hands, "They'll be heavy and full of milk, love," he said, making you moan shamelessly loud, his words having your core twitching in ache.

The idea of putting a child in you already did things to your husband, but now he seemed feral, moved by a raw, primal need to fuck you again and again until he was sure his seed began to bloom inside you.

He pulled back again, slipping his hand under his breeches to free his thick cock, already throbbing in his hand, painfully hard. When Cregan glued his body on yours, you cold smell the natural scent of his skin and it made your core pulsate even stronger. With your face pressed against his shoulder, Cregan forced himself inside you in a gentleness that did not match his feral need — a wolf's hunger. The things he wouldn't do for you, his lovely wife.

You were so wet, and his cock made his way inside you with ease, even though it's been some time since your pussy didn't receive some love from your husband and clenched incredibly tight.

"Gods," Cregan growled against your cheek, his cock pulsating hard against your insistent walls, and he couldn't help but notice how you curled up against him, "Have I neglected you this much, wife?"

Your lord husband couldn't forgive himself, not with the thought of you alone in this chambers, craving for his attention, his babies. He would make it right, rolling his hips against you the deeper he could, making you feel everything. There was nothing in this world he enjoyed more than the delightful sounds you made for him, he could already feel his skin burning with a uncommon heat in this Northern cold.

"Ah," you gasped, swallowing hard, "I need you."

He could only groan in response, hurrying his moves when his cock began to twitching painfully in a silent request, his rigid stones hitting your ass several times.

"Forgive me," he muttered against your cheek, the tip of his nose nudging your flesh, "Please, forgive me for leaving you alone like that."

You could almost scream, his frenetic moves mixed with his words overwhelmed you with too many sensations for your body to take at once. His cock filled you up perfectly, it was a shame for your man to have so many duties to attend to. Absence made you incredibly horny and sensitive, and he could tell it by the way you squirmed beneath him.

"I will give you the attention you deserve, wife," he murmured, now peppering your warm skin with kisses from your neck to your jaw and collarbone, "How silly of me, not filling you with my cock everytime you lay pretty like this."

You whined, nails leaving red marks on the pale skin of his shoulders. You were close, he could sense it. A few more thrusts and he pulled back, leaving you empty, begging for release. Cregan took one of your legs, shifting your position until you layed on your side. With no warning, he pushed inside again, his cock entering your aching pussy with even more ease with all that slick, forming a ring at the base of his cock. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, relishing in the wet sounds, the warm and familiar feeling of his wife's cunt.

"Cregan—," his cock hit you deeper now, hitting a spot in you that got you seeing stars. With his hand tight around your heels, you couldn't move, only contort wildly against his cock.

"Fuck," he breathed out, "That's it, love."

You pressed your thighs together, creating a deliciously sweet friction to your pearl, and a few more thrusts and there it was, you could feel release building up in your tummy quickly than you expected and blowing up in an explosion of sharp pleasure, the tension that had your body curling up moments ago now dissolving in a sweet bliss.

Cregan smiled, his fingers reaching for your hair. He would only come when he was certain that his wife felt good, because just giving you his seed wasn't enough. You hadn't completely came down from your high when Cregan's stones twitched slightly and his cock throbbed hard inside you, spilling ropes and ropes of his thick seed inside you with a groan. You managed to curl your lips in a satisfied — but tired — smile.

"There it is, love," Cregan rumbled, his voice reverberating within your chest, "All for you."

You didn't move, silently praying for the Gods, for them to make your husband's seed to flourish inside you. Cregan ran his fingers trough your hair, admiring your ethereal features before pulling out from you, his eyes now fixated on the way his cum overflowed it's way down your thighs.

"It must be enough," he said, placing a kiss at your temples, helping you to fix your gown, "But we shall keep trying."

You nodded, too happy to do more than that.

"Rest now, wife. Do not worry; I will make sure you never feel lonely again," he said, his thick arm caressing your sides one last time before he covered you with warm blankets, shielding you from the freezing cold. "I love you, my sweet wife. I can no longer wait, your belly will be round with my babies soon."

You smiled, the affection in his words filling your chest. You quickly fell asleep, it was easy with your husband's hands all over you — Cregan knew how to make you feel safe. You had no doubts, he was the best husband you could've had, and the Gods had been good — you expected them to be good just one more time, waiting for them to do the rest as his seed rested inside you.

[shrimpybbq]

Gwayne Hightower corrupting his sweet Targaryen niece!

His young niece is sent to Oldtown with her younger brother Daeron, much to Gwayne’s delight.

Though she’s a Targaryen, she looks so much like her mother and Gwayne is simply infatuated with her. His niece was Helaena’s twin, the girl much more lucid and rooted in the earth than her sister.

Gwayne who takes her under his wing, allowing the pair to form a strong bond as she learns more about Oldtown and the history of the Hightower’s.

Gwayne watches as his sweet niece seems to grow even more beautiful as she’s older. He notices the attention she draws and the leering gazes men level at her. It makes something in his chest burn.

His niece was expected to return to Kings Landing when she became of age, and yet the time has passed and her mother and father have not sent for her yet. Gwayne comforts his sweet niece though he’s secretly happy and enjoying her presence remaining longer.

Gwayne finds it more and more difficult to resist his niece as she clings to him more in her sadness, his body growing warm at the idea of taking her for himself. He reasons with himself: if her mother married her other daughter to her full-blooded brother then surely an uncle is a less egregious pairing. Gwayne’s been influenced too much by the Targaryen views at this point.

Gwayne seizes the opportunity to corrupt his niece once and for all when she cries desperately in her arms. She’s sobbing about how no man will ever want her as a wife if she never returns to the capital, how her family do not love her, how her mother sent away.

He’s taking her teary face in his hands softly, brushing her hair back from her face as he looks into her wide eyes. The heavy kiss he places on her lips has her momentarily shocked before she tentatively responds. Gwayne’s slowly guiding her lips in the way he likes, revelling in the feeling as her fingers begin threading through his hair.

Gwayne doesn’t fuck her straight away, no, he waits and waits until his niece is so dependant on him, hanging off his every word. She’s visiting the sept with him each day, dining with him and letting him kiss her as much as he wants.

But once he does, there is no one in the world that he would let take her away from him. He would show Otto the bloodied sheets from their coupling and watch his face fall in horror, disgusted at the sullying of a proper Targaryen princess. Otto didn’t think he had it in him, not to do something so vile.

Gwayne gets his way and soon his pretty little niece is standing in front of him in the Sept at Oldtown, exchanging vows with him.

Alicent is beside herself. Her sweet daughter corrupted and defiled by her own uncle, someone she trusted her with.

Gwayne and his new wife are the picture of marital bliss, always giggling and mumbling to each other. The maids in the keep at Oldtown are always giggling as they walk past their chambers; the gasps and groans escaping enough to make a grown man blush.

Gwayne fucks his wife good. I said it. He’s a munch too and 100% makes his wife cum at least once before getting into the main action. He’s got his niece wrapped around his finger and anytime he wants her, he has her.

It’s no surprise when the Red Keep receives a raven announcing the pregnancy of the Targaryen princess, a babe expected no more than 9 months after their wedding (they got down to business right away!).

(Aegon’s giggling at the rage colouring his mothers expression. He loves seeing her so unsettled and makes a note to tease her AS MUCH as possible.)