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mother-homunculus · 8 days ago

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WINTERSUN

A year after the death of his first wife, Arra Norrey, Cregan Stark is practically pressured by other lords from the North to remarry. He finds a suitable candidate in Ylva, a daughter of House Umber, who would much rather stay in her family's remote castle.

Pairing: Cregan x OC

Hello my lovelies, I actually wanted to wait a little longer with this story, but some of you will certainly know how it is: If you have a good idea, it has to come out. And there simply has to be more fanfiction about our lovable Cregan.

As you could read in the description, my OC is a character from the House of Umber. I am a big fan of the families from the north, but I particularly like the Umbers. It's a shame that they aren't mentioned so much. But good for me, it gives me more freedom.

Small note: The seal of the house is the one from the books :)

And the capital is a little longer than intended.

Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Sexual Tension, Eventual Smut, Angst, Fluff and Smut, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Protective Cregan Stark, Grief/Mourning

Please note that an animal dies and is gutted.

Chapter 1: Fields of Snow

The air was thick with the weight of the winter, a biting cold that seeped into stone and bone alike—ancient, unforgiving, and eternal. It swept over the vast white expanse, where snow stretched unbroken for miles. The distant sound of the wind howling through the frozen hills blended with the occasional crack of ice and the groan of snow-laden trees.

Amidst the harshness of the region, Last Hearth stood as a dark and unyielding presence, carved from the cold, unrelenting stone of the land itself. The North's fierce resilience and the unwavering spirit of House Umber infuse every stone of this bastion against the wilds. The castle rose from a low hill, its silhouette dark against the horizon, framed by an endless sea of snow and the swirling gray sky. Its walls, thick and ancient, bore the scars of countless winters, their surfaces darkened by frost and weathered by the passage of time. Snow clung stubbornly to the cracks and crevices, the ice sparkling faintly in the wan light of the sun, which hovered low in the sky like a dying ember. Jagged towers rose like claws into the heavens, their watchful spires cloaked in snow and ice. Icicles hung from their eaves, glistening like shards of glass in the pale, meager light of the winter sun.

The gatehouse, a colossal construction of iron and oak, stood powerfully and unyieldingly before all who granted entry. Its doors, massive and imposing, bore the sigil of House Umber—a roaring giant breaking free of its chains—etched deep into the wood. Though the colors had faded, and the edges had worn smooth, the emblem remained a testament to the strength and fierceness of the house it represented. Above the gate, a lone banner fluttered weakly in the wind, its fabric frayed by years of relentless storms.

Beyond the fortress walls, the land sloped downward into dense forests, where towering fir trees and ancient oaks stood tall and silent, their branches heavy with snow, and their roots buried deep beneath the frozen earth. Trees formed a natural barrier, their canopy blocking out much of the fading light. Somewhere deep within those woods lay ancient secrets, the whispered memories of a land older than men.

The hunting party moved swiftly but cautiously, the chill of the early afternoon biting their exposed skin. Snow blanketed the ground in a crisp, unbroken sheet, muffling the sounds of hooves as the group moved forward. They were tracking a bear. The creature had been raiding the livestock near Last Hearth, leaving mauled carcasses and claw-marked trees in its wake.

Lord Jon Umber, his broad frame draped in a thick fur cloak, rode at the front, closely followed by his only daughter, Ylva. Beside her, Osric sat tall in the saddle, his face set in concentration, while Torren, ever impatient, kept pushing his horse just slightly ahead, his restless energy drawing a disapproving glance from their father.

Lord Umber commanded the group with effortless authority. His voice, rough and deep, carried over the soft crunch of snow.

"This one’s big and angry," Lord Umber said, gesturing to the massive claw marks on a tree trunk.

Hallis Hornwood, a veteran fighter and longtime friend of Lord Umber, chuckled as he leaned forward in his saddle. "Angry, aye, but maybe not as angry as you’ll be if one of your boys gets themselves mauled."

Torren shot him a glare, rising to his full height. "Worry about yourself, old man. You will need all your strength just to keep up."

"Enough, both of you," Lord Umber barked, his tone cutting through the exchange. "Focus on the trail. We are not here to bicker."

Osric looked at his sister.

"You have been quiet. Thoughts?"

Ylva’s gaze swept the scene as her mind pieced together the bear’s path. The broken branches ahead and the faint traces of fur snagged on bark told her all she needed to know.

"It’s heading northeast," she said, pointing toward the thicker part of the forest. "If we keep pace, we will catch it near the ravine." Her voice was calm, though her pulse quickened at the prospect of the hunt.

Her father nodded, approval gleaming in his eyes. "Good eye, Ylva. You heard her—move."

The group set off again, their horses’ hooves crunching through the snow. The ward of Lord Umber, a young man named Jeor, rode beside Ylva. He was lean and serious, his bow slung over his shoulder. "What is your plan when we corner it?" he asked her.

"Depends on where we find it," Ylva said, her fingers tightening around the reins. "But I suppose I will figure it out before you do."

Jeor smirked but said nothing, nudging his horse forward.

As they neared the ravine, Lord Umber raised a hand, signaling the group to stop. They dismounted silently, tying their horses to low-hanging trees. Osric unsheathed his sword, the sound whispering through the cold. Ylva gripped her spear, its weight familiar and comforting in her hand. She crouched down to inspect the tracks. Her leather armor creaked softly, and her bright eyes scanned the ground ahead. Ylva stood, brushing the snow from her hands.

"Do you think it is as big as that bear you and Osric took down last spring?" Torren asked, his voice a mix of nervousness and excitement.

Ylva smirked, standing and planting the butt of her spear in the snow. "Bigger, I hope. Last spring’s bear was hardly a challenge."

"Do not tempt fate, Ylva. Last time, you nearly got your arm ripped off." Osric said, his voice steady and laced with the calm of an older brother who had seen his sister’s confidence in action too many times. “You will regret those words when it is charging straight at you."

"I have seen her take on wilder things than a bear," Torren piped up, grinning. She behaves similarly to the kitchen staff when they run out of honey.

Ylva raised a hand to signal a halt, then turned to the group.

"It is doubling back toward the rocks," she said. Her voice was steady, but her eyes sparkled with exhilaration. "If we move quickly, we can box it in."

The hunting party pressed onward, the snow growing thicker underfoot, the dense forest began to thin out, and the tracks veered sharply to the right. The group spread as Ylva instructed, forming a rough semicircle to trap the bear. They are heavy with anticipation, every crackle of frost or snap of a branch causing hands to tighten on weapons. Ylva crept forward, her spear at the ready, her movements fluid and quiet despite the layers of armor.

Torren, eager as always, impatiently shifted his weight as he followed his sister's lead. He tightly clutched his spear in his gloved hands.

"Torren, hold your place," Lord Umber commanded, his voice low but firm, his massive axe slung across his back. "This is not a game. That beast could split you in two before you’d even have time to raise your spear."

Torren grumbled but fell back, his youthful pride bruised.

A deep growl echoed through the trees, causing a chill to run down their spines. Without warning, the bear burst from the underbrush, a massive wall of muscle and fur as dark as midnight. Its roar shook the air, a terrifying sound that may froze the hearts of even the most seasoned men. The bear lunged toward the group, its claws swiping through the air with deadly precision.

Lord Umber was the first to act, his axe glinting in the pale light as he stepped into its path. The bear swiped at him, but he dodged to the side with surprising agility, his axe biting into the beast’s flank. The beast roared in pain and reared up on its hind legs, towering above them all.

"Hold your ground!" he shouted, his voice commanding.

Osric moved next, his sword slicing through the air to land a blow across the bear’s shoulder. Ylva’s heart raced, but she did not falter. With a quick motion, she hurled her spear, the weapon sinking into the bear’s flank. The beast turned toward her with an enraged roar, its massive paws striking the ground where she had stood moments before.

She rolled out of the way just as Torren charged in, rushing to her side with his own spear. Together, they circled the bear, forcing it to split its attention between them.

"Watch yourself, Torren!", Osric shouted, his voice taut with worry as the younger boy narrowly avoided a swipe from the bear’s claws.

"I am fine!" Torren yelled back, his voice tinged with both fear and exhilaration.

The coordinated attacks of strikes and dodges began to wear the beast down, but it remained dangerous, lashing out with terrifying strength. Ylva maneuvered swiftly, delivering precise and fearless strikes, while her taunts deterred the bear from approaching the less experienced fighters. Jeor shot an arrow that found its mark in the bear’s shoulder, staggering it further.

Lord Umber and Hallis seized the opportunity, their weapons cutting deep into the creature with heavy, deliberate strikes. The older man stepped forward for the final blow. His axe came down in a powerful arc, striking the bear at the base of its neck. With a final growl, the bear collapsed into the snow, its massive body heaving once before going still.

Ylva stood over the fallen bear, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. Cold and adrenaline flushed her cheeks. Ylva stepped forward, her spear still embedded in the beast’s side. She planted her boot on its thick fur and pulled the weapon free, a satisfied smile on her face.

Her father approached, placing a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Quick, strong, and fearless," he said, pride gleaming in his eyes. "You’ve got the Umber blood, that’s for sure, girl."

Osric nodded in agreement, his face breaking into a rare smile despite his usual gruffness. "You handled yourself well, Ylva. Better than most men would have."

Torren grinned as he wiped blood from his face, his hands trembling slightly as he leaned on his own weapon. "Not bad for someone who spends her time playing nursemaid to the little ones," Torren teased, drawing a glare from Ylva. "I’ll remember that the next time you come whining to me about your aches after training."

The bear’s body loomed like a fallen mountain, its massive bulk spread across the snow, its dark fur matted with blood. The beast was enormous, its bulk nearly the size of the sledge they’d prepared to haul it back. Ylva stood over it, the cold seeping through her thick, dark wool tunic. She glanced toward the quiet forest, the thrill of the hunt still coursing through her veins. Around her, the others worked swiftly, their breaths rising in misty clouds as they prepared for the arduous task ahead. They had little daylight left; in a few hours the sun would die, and the blood would sooner or later attract other animals, especially wolves. This wasn’t her first hunt, but a bear was a prize unlike any other. It would provide them with food for weeks, and its fur could be used to make soft, warm cloaks.

Hallis tightened the leather straps of his gloves, his sharp eyes darting to the tree line as if expecting wolves to burst forth at any moment. Ryon, younger and less seasoned, shifted his weight nervously, one hand gripping the hilt of his blade while the other fumbled with the ropes slung over his shoulder.

Ylva crouched beside it; her knife was already in her hand, its blade sharp and ready.

“Never seen one this big,” Torren murmured, running a hand over the coarse fur.

“We’ve got daylight for maybe two or three hours—maybe less,” Hallis said gruffly, breaking the silence. His sharp eyes scanned the tree line before he gestured at Jeor, who lagged a few steps behind. “Let’s not waste it. Jeor, with me. Help me prepare the sledge." He gave a sheepish nod, his cheeks flushing as he joined Hallis. “Aye, I am coming.”

Ylva kneels at the bear’s head, glancing at its thick neck. Its enormous jaws slack, revealing yellow teeth that could have crushed a man’s skull, and the massive paws, tipped with claws the length of daggers, could have ripped her apart in an instant. Yet here it lay, lifeless and still. She glanced at Osric, who had already positioned himself to help.

“Start with the throat,” Osric instructed, his voice calm but firm as he crouched beside her. “We bleed it first.”

She nodded, her fingers stiff from the cold as she positioned the blade just below the jaw. The bear’s fur was dense, coarse against her gloves, and it took effort to press the blade into its flesh. The knife bit deep, and with a practiced pull, she opened the artery. Blood gushed out in a hot, steaming flow, pooling darkly in the snow. Torren, on the other side, held the bear’s massive head steady with both hands, his boots sinking into the crimson-stained ground.

“Good cut,” Torren muttered, glancing at her with a faint nod. “It will drain quickly.”

Hallis and Jeor were working in tandem to tie sturdy branches together with rawhide, but Jeor's face was a little pale. The young hunter’s hands shook slightly as he tied a knot, earning a sharp look from Hallis. He’d never processed a kill this large before, and the sheer size of the bear seemed to unsettle him.

“Steady, boy,” Hallis growled. “You’ve seen worse than this.”

“I know,” Ryon muttered, flushing. “It’s just… big. Feels like it’s still watching us.”

“Then work faster,” Hallis snapped, yanking the rope taut and testing the frame. “Wolves won’t wait for you to stop quivering.”

“Here,” Osric said, handing Ylva a larger blade. “Make the first cut down the belly. Torren, you hold the hide steady.”

Torren was at her side in moments, bracing the bear’s leg with his shoulder. “Got it,” he grunted.

Ylva made a long, deliberate cut from the chest to the hindquarters, slicing through the thick layers of fur and fat. The smell of warm flesh, rich and earthy, mingled with the metallic tang of blood, causing Ylva to wrinkle her nose as she continued to work.

“Not bad,” Torren muttered, pulling the edges of the hide apart as Ylva continued cutting. “You’re getting faster at this.”

The knife slid cleanly, revealing the rich red of muscle beneath. Osric leaned in, gripping the edges of the hide and pulling it back as she worked.

“Do not distract her,” Osric said with a smirk, but there was a note of pride in his voice. He moved to the other side, gripping the hide and helping peel it back. “Keep it steady.”

“Careful not to nick the meat,” he murmured. “Father won’t be pleased if this comes back torn to ribbons.”

“Father won’t bother looking,” Ylva replied dryly, earning a chuckle from Osric. Lord Umber rarely concerned himself with such tasks, trusting his children and men to handle the practicalities.

They worked methodically, peeling the hide from the massive body, the cold air biting at their exposed fingers. Ylva’s arms ached from the effort, but she did not stop. Torren grunted with exertion, his breath fogging in the air as he braced his boots against the snow for leverage.

With the hide finally free, they rolled it carefully and set it aside. “That will make fine cloaks,” Ylva remarked.

“Hallis, bring those sacks closer. We will need them for the fat.”

After finishing the final knot on the sledge, Hallis hauled the sacks over, with Ryon following closely behind. “The wolves will smell this from leagues away,” Hallis grumbled. “We’d best work faster.”

“Don’t forget the fat,” Lord Umber shouted from a few steps away. “That’ll fetch a price at the market if we don’t need it all.”

Ylva rolled her eyes playfully as Torren knelt nearby, carefully carving out chunks of the fatty layers, which glistened pale yellow in the dim light. Hallis packed the fatty layers into a sack, muttering about how much tallow they’d be able to render from it.

Ylva glanced over at him. “We will need some for Smalljon’s boots. He tore through the last pair already.”

Hallis smirked. “Aye, growing like a weed, that one.”

Afterwards Ylva focused on the bear’s hindquarters, the thick haunches rich with muscle. She carved through the layers with careful movements, her blade slicing cleanly along the bone. Torren joined her, his blade moving less smoothly but no less precisely. They worked together, slicing the flesh into manageable sections, each brimming with meat, and meticulously wrapping each piece in cloth to maintain its cleanliness.

Jeor, emboldened by the sight of the others working, took up an axe and moved to the ribs. “Careful,” Hallis said, watching him swing the axe to crack open the ribcage. “Don’t shatter it and waste beneficial marrow.”

“I know,” Jeor replied, his tone defensive but focused. The first swing was too light, the blade glancing off the bone with a dull thud.

Hallis responded with a slight smile. “Do it again, lad, and aim straight this time.”

Jeor flushed but tightened his grip, bringing the axe down again with more force. This time, the ribs cracked apart, the sound sharp in the stillness, exposing the tender meat inside. He grinned despite himself, looking to Hallis for approval, but the older hunter merely grunted and moved on.

Meanwhile, Ylva worked on removing the organs. The bear’s ribcage was cavernous, and the warmth of its innards was a stark contrast to the freezing air. She pulled free the heart, its weight solid and heavy in her hands, and handed it to Ryon, who placed it carefully in a sack. "Don't forget about the liver and kidneys," Osric said, reaching in to assist. The two of them worked swiftly, the rich, dark organs joining quickly.

As the light continued to fade, the group grew more urgent. Lord Umber supervised the packing process, making sure to secure every piece of usable meat, fat, and hide. Jeor and Ylva helped lash the larger cuts to the sled, their hands raw and cold despite their gloves.

“We’re nearly done. Just the bones left.” Osric was wiping his blade clean on a strip of cloth. He nodded toward the bear's skull and said, "The head. That’ll take two of us.”

Torren stepped forward without hesitation, gripping one side of the massive head while Osric took the other. And as the sun sank completely, they hoisted the bear’s head onto the sledge, its open jaws still a menacing sight. The younger one paused for a moment, catching his breath.

“That’s it,” Ylva said, stepping back to survey their work. The sled creaked under its weight, laden with the bounty of their hunt.

“Ready to move?” Osric asked, his breath visible in the freezing air.

“Ready,” his sister confirmed, gripping the sledge’s reins.

Hallis, Ylva, and Torren mounted their horses while Osric, Jeor, and some other men took care of the sledge. The first step proved to be the most challenging, as the sledge struggled against the frozen ground, but they managed to push it forward together. The wind whistled through the trees, and the faint howl of wolves echoed in the distance.

“Think they will catch our scent?” Torren asked nervously, glancing over his shoulder.

“If they do,” Hallis said with a grim smile, gripping his axe, “they’ll regret it.”

The group set off through the snow, it crunching beneath their boots. The forest grew darker with each step, the wind whispering through the trees, carrying the scent of blood and sweat. Ylva’s arms ached, but she felt relieved, knowing they would feast, and the bear’s gifts would see them through the harsh winter to come.

Ylva didn’t look back.

The Great Hall of Last Hearth was alive with its usual supper sounds—spoons clinking against wooden bowls, mugs slamming onto the long oak table, and voices rising in hearty chatter. Fires crackled in the hearths, their warmth a fierce contrast to the cold that prowled just beyond the thick stone walls. As the Umber family gathered for their evening meal, the scent of roasted venison, freshly baked bread, and hearty root vegetables crowded the long oak table, mingling with the faint tang of ale. Torches sputtered in their brackets, casting flickering light on the faces of the family and the ancient tapestries hanging on the walls. Outside, the wind howled its usual mournful tune, battering against the thick stone walls, but inside, the hearth blazed, defying the cold.

At the head of the table sat Lord Umber, his booming voice cutting through the din as he recounted the day’s events. His laughter rumbled like thunder as he recounted the latest news from the holdfasts and hunting trails. Around him sat his brood, ranging in age but all sharing the same sharp, unyielding features that spoke of their northern blood.

Ylva sat in her usual seat, close to her father, a bundle of mischief cradled on her lap. Her youngest brother, barely more than a year old, squirmed in her arms, faint tufts of pale hair that stuck up stubbornly, no matter how often she smoothed them down. His bright, wide eyes darted around, taking in the movement and noise of his older siblings and father. Ylva, ever patient, adjusted him gently so he could sit comfortably against her chest, his tiny hands reaching out to grab at the edge of the table.

A warm bowl of stew sat in front of them, steam curling upward, rich with the savory scents of slow-cooked meat, root vegetables, and fragrant herbs. Ylva dipped a wooden spoon into the broth, carefully blowing on the portion to cool it. Her lips pursed slightly as she tested the temperature against the back of her hand, ensuring it wasn’t too hot. Her eyes flicked to her brother’s face, checking to see if he was paying attention. Satisfied, she brought the spoon to her brother's small mouth.

“Open up, little bear,” she said softly, her voice laced with affection. The toddler looked up at her, his expression curious but wary. After a moment of hesitation, he opened his mouth, his tiny lips wrapping around the spoon as he tasted the stew. Ylva guided the spoon carefully, her steady hand ensuring not a drop spilled. His face lit up with delight, a wide smile spreading across his chubby cheeks.

“I knew you’d like it,” Ylva murmured, smiling as she scooped up another spoonful. She adjusted him on her lap, alternating between feeding him and eating her own meal, her movements fluid and practiced, a testament to how often she cared for him. When he became distracted, turning his head to watch their older brothers’ animated conversation, Ylva gently guided his attention back to her with a soft touch on his cheek.

Occasionally, the boy tried to grab the spoon himself, his tiny fingers wrapping around hers as she helped him guide it to his mouth. Ylva chuckled softly, her laughter low and soothing. “Oh, you think you’re ready for this, do you?” she teased, allowing him to guide the spoon toward his mouth with her assistance. His uncoordinated effort resulted in a smear of stew across his chin, but Ylva just laughed, grabbing a linen cloth from the table and dabbing at his face. She wiped away the mess with the practiced ease of someone who had done this countless times, her movements tender and unhurried. When he squirmed, distracted by the sound of their father’s booming laughter or the clatter of utensils, she gently turned his face back toward her with a soft touch on his cheek.

“Focus,” she said mock-sternly, though her tone carried nothing but affection. “We’ve got work to do here.” The boy settled again, leaning into her for warmth and comfort as he took another spoonful.

When the bowl was nearly empty, Ylva set the spoon down and wrapped both arms around the little boy, holding him close. She pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, her lips brushing against his warm skin as she whispered, “There we go, full belly and all.” The boy nuzzled into her shoulder, his breath slowing as he drifted toward sleep. Around them, the boisterous noise of the Umber family carried on. Her father glanced over, his expression softening as he watched them, and even her brothers, rough and rowdy as they were, paused to smile at the sight.

Lord Jon Umber leaned back in his chair, his broad hand curling around his goblet. His gaze swept the table, lingering for a moment on each of his children before he spoke.

Then, casually, almost as if the thought had just struck him, he spoke.

“Word reached me from Winterfell today,” he began, his deep voice carrying over the noise. The conversation faltered; curiosity piqued. His eyes flickered to Ylva, though his tone suggested he was speaking to no one in particular. “Cregan Stark might be considering a second wife. His boy needs a mother, and the North needs heirs.”

The statement lingered in the air; the casual delivery was unable to mask the significance of it. Slowly, the noise around the table began to quiet, and one by one, the eyes of the family turned toward Ylva, who was focused on her little brother in her arms. With time, Smalljon began to slump against her chest, his eyelids drooping and his small body growing heavier in her arms. Ylva brushed her fingers through his hair, humming a low Northern lullaby, her voice barely audible over the din of the room. The melody was haunting and soothing, a tune their mother had once sung on cold nights to quiet restless children.

The silence at the table stretched, unnatural and heavy. It wasn’t until the clatter of a dropped knife echoed through the quiet that Ylva realized the entire table had grown unnaturally still. Her movements slowed, and she glanced up, her brows furrowing as she took in the sea of expectant faces around her.

“What?” She asked, her voice level but edged with wariness.

Her father studied her with a look of faint amusement, as if waiting for her to take the bait. Osric leaned back with his arms crossed, his brow raised in silent curiosity. As he leaned forward, a sly grin spread across his face. “What indeed,” he said. “You heard Father. Winterfell’s lord needs a wife. You've always been so eager to prove yourself the equal of any man here. Who is better than a Stark? You’re strong enough to handle him.” A few of the younger boys snickered nervously, only to fall silent when Lord Umber gave them a pointed look. He leaned back in his chair with a mockingly grand gesture. “What say you, sister? Will you be the pride of the Umbers and warm the Warden of the North’s bed?”

The laughter this time was louder, more confident, emboldened by Osric’s audacity. But Ylva did not flinch. She let the moment linger, studying her brother as if he were a particularly foolish opponent in a sparring match.

“If it concerns you so much, Osric, perhaps you should offer to marry Lord Stark,” she said, her tone cold as the wind outside. “I’m sure he’d be thrilled to have such a clever, sharp-tongued companion to keep him warm.”

The laughter died instantly, replaced by a stunned silence. Osric’s smirk faltered, and his cheeks flushed red. The younger boys tried to stifle their snickers but failed miserably, their muffled guffaws echoing in the hall. Even Lord Umber let out a low chuckle as Torren sputtered, nearly choking on his bread.

Osric recovered quickly, leaning forward with mock indignation. “That’s no way to speak to your future liege, Ylva. If you think—”

“I think,” Ylva interrupted smoothly, “that I’ve said enough for one evening.” Ylva adjusted the boy’s blanket, pulling it snug around him as he burrowed closer. Her hands, calloused from years of training and work, handled him with a gentleness that belied her strength. She picked up the baby and rose from her seat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the little one needs to sleep, and I have no interest in wasting more time on nonsense.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and walked away; the toddler gurgled happily in her arms.

“Always the sharp tongue,” her father called, though there was no disapproval in his voice. “You’ve got your mother’s wit, girl, but don’t think I’ll let you dodge the subject so easily.”

After Ylva left the hall, the conversation gradually shifted back to other topics—hunting, the preparations for winter, the comings and goings of the bannermen—but the atmosphere in the hall had subtly changed. Osric, for his part, merely muttered under his breath, though he wisely refrained from further comment.

#cregan stark x original female character #cregan stark x oc #cregan stark fanfiction #cregan stark #hotd fanfiction

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