#song of winter (oc) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

damneddamsy · 16 days ago

Text

second sight | cregan stark x fem!oc (bonus ii)

a/n: I'm back on this bonus feature, a special episode of the Stark-fluff, I'm giving you deleted scenes! Yay! So these did not make the cut for the chapters I wrote, they were either repetitive or just meh, but I did work on them so I thought you'd all love a glimpse :)

SCENE #1 (part i) - I DON'T TRUST YOU

Winterfell had grown colder since her arrival.

It wasn’t just the weather. The halls felt different—quieter, more shadowed, the cold biting sharper than it had in years past. Since the day Claere had stepped across Winterfell’s threshold as his bride, whispers followed her, as persistent as the wind that howled through the keep.

Cregan Stark sat at the head of the long table in the Great Hall, a ledger spread open before him. The flicker of torchlight danced across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw. His supper, a hearty stew that had long gone cold, sat untouched beside him. But it wasn’t hunger gnawing at him tonight.

His thoughts were tangled, circling back to the same place: Claere.

She unsettled him in ways he couldn’t explain, though he prided himself on reason and instinct. She moved through Winterfell as though she were of another world—her silvery hair catching the light in a way that seemed otherworldly, her violet eyes drifting to things no one else seemed to notice. Her habits baffled the household. She barely ate, spoke sparingly, and often vanished for hours into the grey skies on her mighty dragon. The servants whispered of seeing her wander the halls at night, murmuring to herself in a language older than the North.

Cregan had witnessed it himself: her wandering, barefoot, as if in a trance, her lips forming soft, lilting words that left him uneasy. There was something haunting about her, something unknowable. Even the dogs kept their distance, tails tucked low when she passed.

He tried to dismiss the gnawing whispers as nonsense. Claere was a young woman far from home, a stranger in the harsh, unyielding North, navigating customs as cold and unrelenting as its winters. Of course, she would struggle. Of course, she would seem strange.

And yet, the stories clung to him like frost on iron.

The Valyrian witch, they called her. The true queen of pale fire and blood magic. Beautiful, yes, but unnatural—a creature of strange songs and sleepless nights. Whispers filled the keep, spoken in low tones by bannermen and servants alike. They said her kind preferred the taste of human flesh to that of beast, that her gifts were double-edged: capable of charm and destruction in equal measure.

Cregan had never been one to indulge superstition. The North demanded practicality, not folly. But Claere...

Her harp’s strange, haunting melodies still lingered in his mind, dissonant and otherworldly. Her violet eyes, too large, too sharp, seemed to see into places no mortal gaze should reach. She walked the halls of Winterfell in silence, barefoot and unflinching, her expression distant as if caught in a dream—or a curse.

With her, the line between myth and reality blurred in ways he hated.

A sharp echo of boots on stone pulled him from his brooding. He looked up from the ledger to see two figures approaching the long table, their movements halting and uncertain. A man and a woman, wrapped in wool cloaks patched from many winters past, their faces pale and taut with worry.

“My lord,” the man began, his voice trembling as he bowed low. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his cloak, twisting the frayed fabric nervously. “Forgive the intrusion, but we... we need your help.”

Cregan closed the ledger with deliberate slowness, the thud of its binding echoing in the chamber. He stood, his dark brows knitting together. “Help?”

“Our children,” the woman blurted, her voice cracking as she clutched her husband’s arm. “They’ve not returned from the woods. They went out hours ago. They were with...”

She faltered, her throat tightening around the name.

“With?” Cregan prompted, his voice cold and edged with steel.

“With the princess,” she whispered, her eyes darting toward the floor.

The name landed like an axe stroke.

“Claere?” The word came sharp, almost incredulous, but the knot in his chest tightened.

“They were curious about her, my lord,” the man added hastily. “About that dragon. My lady, she told them stories, and... well, they followed her.” His voice grew quieter. “We thought they’d be back before long, but they haven’t. It’s... it’s nearly sundown.”

Cregan’s gaze shifted to the narrow window, where the last streaks of sunlight bled orange into the encroaching dark. The North woods were no place for small children, not with wolves and worse lurking in the shadows.

“How old are they?” he asked, his tone clipped, his jaw tightening further.

“Six and four,” the woman said, her voice trembling. “Their names are Jonnel and Betha. Please, Lord Stark. Please bring my pups back to me.”

Her words cracked with desperation, the kind only a mother could summon. But Cregan barely heard her. His mind was already racing, drawn inexorably back to Claere.

Her strange, sleepless eyes. Her murmured words to herself, were too soft to catch yet unsettling in their rhythm. The echoes of the harp still rang faintly in his mind, haunting and cold.

The rumours clawed at him like unseen hands. Could she truly have harmed the children? The image of her, pale and otherworldly, the fire casting strange shadows across her sharp features, surfaced unbidden. He thought of the dragon she claimed was hers, a beast as enigmatic as its mistress.

No. He shook his head as if to dislodge the thought. It was ridiculous. It had to be. But still...

“Ready the horses,” he said, at last, his voice a low growl.

The woman sobbed with relief as her husband bowed low. Cregan turned away without another word, fastening his cloak and striding toward the courtyard. His men fell in behind him, ready to patrol, their silence speaking to the gravity of the task ahead.

As they mounted, he cast one last glance toward the keep. Somewhere within its ancient stones, she was likely unaware of the turmoil she’d caused—or worse, unbothered by it.

He spurred his horse forward, his thoughts darker than the woods they now entered. Whatever they found out there, he knew this much: Claere was not a woman to be trusted.

The woods swallowed the last light of day, the shadows deepening to a near impenetrable black. The only sounds were the crunch of hooves on frosted leaves and the occasional snap of a branch underfoot. Cregan rode at the head of the patrol, Ice strapped across his back, its weight a constant reminder of duty.

The trees closed in around them, gnarled branches clawing at the sky, and the cold bit sharper here, as if the forest itself sought to repel them. His men called out the children’s names—Jonnel, Betha—voices ringing out into the empty expanse. But none dared call for her.

His breath misted as his thoughts churned. The bloodied image of Claere from his imagination melded uncomfortably with reality. The rumours whispered in Winterfell grew louder in his mind. He gripped the reins tighter.

“Lord Stark!”

The shout snapped his attention forward. One of the men pointed, and there she was, emerging from the underbrush like some ghostly specter. Claere.

Her hands were slick with blood, crimson streaking her pale fingers and arms, as though freshly painted. Her skirts, once pristine, were smeared with mud and more blood, dark streaks dragged haphazardly across the fabric as if she’d wiped her hands there in haste. Her feet were bare, toes red and raw against the frostbitten earth, and her hair had fallen from its usual bindings, wild tendrils framing her gaunt, hollow face.

Cregan halted his horse so abruptly it reared off the track, and he dismounted in a single swift motion. Ice sang as he drew it, the great blade gleaming even in the dim light.

He approached his wife slowly, like a predator stalking its prey.

Claere’s head lifted at the sound of his boots crunching against the frost. Her violet eyes, tired and strange, met his. She took a hesitant step forward, but he raised the blade. Wordlessly.

Her steps faltered. She blinked, and though her expression remained still, her hands trembled, her fingers twitching at her sides. Slowly, she stepped back, lowering her eyes to the ground.

"My lord," she said, her voice hollow, as if the words were spoken from a great distance.

His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. The stories screamed in his mind—the Valyrian witch, blood and fire, the maneater, the beautiful demon.

“The children?” His voice was low, hard, edged with suspicion.

Claere did not flinch. She turned her head, glancing westward. “The brook by the tall trees,” she said, her voice faint and uneven. “I only tried—”

But he didn’t wait for more. He sheathed Ice and strode past her, his pace swift and resolute. His men followed, their torches bobbing behind him like fleeting will-o’-the-wisps.

The landmark came quickly, the brook glinting faintly in the moonlight, its surface not yet frozen over. At its edge stood a towering tree with roots gnarled and exposed, reaching toward the stream like claws. Beneath its shelter, he saw them.

Jonnel and Betha.

The children were huddled together beneath a cloak far too large for them, their small feet tucked into the softness. Claere’s cloak. The fire before them sputtered weakly, the last of its life fed by scraps of leather—her shoes again, he realized, sacrificed to the flames.

For a moment, he simply stared, the scene pressing on him. The children were unharmed. Warm. Protected.

The men moved quickly, retrieving the little ones, murmuring reassurances as they wrapped them in blankets. Cregan didn’t follow. His gaze remained on the remnants of the fire, on the makeshift items strewn about—the cloak she’d offered, the shoes she’d burned.

When he turned back toward the woods, he saw her standing at a distance, her shoulders hunched as if against the cold. Her hands hung limply at her sides, stained red but empty. She did not meet his eyes, staring instead at the children being carried away.

The suspicion that had burned so fiercely in his chest faltered. He looked at her again—not the witch, not the monster, but the woman who had given what little she had to keep two helpless children safe. The moment stretched, and he felt something stir—an unease that wasn’t borne of mistrust, but of something far heavier. Guilt.

Yet still, the concern lingered. The blood on her hands, the strange air about her—it was all too much. Too foreign. Too other.

He shook it off and turned away, climbing into his saddle. The ride back to Winterfell would be long, and the questions clinging to his thoughts longer still.

“The horses, my lord,” one of his men called, gesturing toward the horses. An extra one.

“Leave her one,” Cregan commanded. “Let her do as she pleases.”

He cast one last glance over his shoulder. She had taken to kneeling by the brook, a silent figure against the shadowed woods. For the briefest of moments, he wondered if she was praying—to whom, or for what, he could not say.

And then he rode on, the ghost of her presence trailing after him like a haunting he could not outrun.

Cregan leaned against the cold stone of the ramparts, the weight of the night pressing down on him. Below, the gates of Winterfell stood sturdy and silent, the soft glow of torches marking the perimeter. His breath came in slow, heavy puffs, mingling with the frost of the air. He told himself he wasn’t waiting, and yet his eyes lingered on the road leading from the woods, scanning for the faintest silhouette of a rider.

Her bloodied hands plagued him. He shook his head, frustration knotting his chest. What had he done? In his anger, his doubt, he had left her. The memory of her kneeling by the brook, her skirts muddied, her face hollow with exhaustion, burned itself into his thoughts.

“Damn it,” he muttered, running a gloved hand through his hair.

The sound of hooves on stone broke the quiet, and his heart stuttered. He leaned forward, eager, catching sight of a figure dismounting in the courtyard below. It was her—already within the keep. She hadn’t taken the horse he’d left; she’d come through Winter Town. Barefoot, frostbitten, her steps faltering but determined.

By the time Cregan reached her chamber, the air was thick with the sharp tang of herbs and damp wool. The door was slightly ajar, and a faint orange glow spilled out into the dim corridor. He paused, his hand resting against the rough wood, listening to the muffled movements within.

She was there, alone, perched on a low stool by the hearth. Her head was bowed, a curtain of silver hair falling across her face, her shoulders trembling as she worked. The basin at her feet was darkened with blood, the water tinged red and nearly frozen again. Her hands moved in slow, mechanical strokes, dabbing a cloth over the angry cuts on her fingers. Her frostbitten toes rested in the frigid water, the skin cracked and raw, as though she didn’t feel the sting of the cold.

It was the lack of reaction that unnerved him. She worked as if her body were something apart from herself, her expression distant, eerily calm, even serene.

“Claere,” he said, his voice rough, filling the silence.

She didn’t stir. Her focus remained locked on her hands, wiping at the blood as if she could somehow erase it from sight.

“Claere,” he said again, louder this time.

Her head lifted slowly, her eyes meeting his with a hollow detachment.

The sight of her—pale, bloodied, and so utterly calm—set his teeth on edge. Anger sparked in him, but it was an anger born of fear, of guilt, of not understanding sooner. He stepped inside, the door groaning on its hinges behind him.

“Stop,” he ordered, his tone sharper than he intended.

Her gaze flicked down to her hands, and for the first time, there was a flicker of awareness in her expression. Slowly, she lowered the cloth, her fingers trembling.

He crossed the room in two long strides, calling for the maester with a bark that echoed down the hall.

When Maester Kennet arrived moments later, his face tightened at the sight of her. “Lady Stark,” he said gently, kneeling beside her. “Please, allow me.”

Cregan stood back, his arms crossed, his eyes locked on her every movement. She didn’t resist as Kennet worked, applying oils and wrapping her hands with strips of linen soaked in pungent herbs. Even as the maester’s careful fingers pressed against the frostbitten flesh, she barely flinched. Her stillness was unsettling as if she had resigned herself to pain—or worse, as if she didn’t feel it at all.

“She’ll heal,” Kennet said when he finished, rising to face Cregan. “But the cold has taken its toll. She must stay warm, my lord.”

Cregan nodded curtly. “Thank you, maester.”

The room fell silent once more, save for the crackling of the fire. Claere remained where she was, her hands now neatly bandaged, her feet swaddled in cloth. She seemed smaller somehow, sitting there in the flickering light, her head bowed as though waiting for something she knew would not come.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she said, her voice low and steady, though her gaze dropped to the basin at her feet. The words were measured, devoid of plea or softness. “It was never my intention to cause their parents grief. I misjudged the woods, the snow. The children swore they knew the way to the shrubs I needed.” Her eyes flicked briefly to the bloodied water, then back to her frostbitten toes. “They did their best.”

Cregan’s gut twisted at the sight of her—the bruised, bloodied hands, the faint tremor in her slender frame. But her tone, her words—they struck something raw in him. There was no defense, no demand for his apology. Just quiet truth, sharp and unadorned.

His grip on his emotions slipped. He’d pointed a sword at her throat, doubted her every action, accused her in his heart of monstrous things. She had borne it all without protest and still managed to save two children who weren’t hers to protect. And she had nearly frozen herself to do it.

He swallowed thickly. “Thank you,” he said at last, the words low and stiff, clawing their way out of his chest.

Her head lifted at the sound, her silver hair falling from her face. Her violet eyes found his, and for a moment, the room seemed colder. She studied him in silence as if trying to see past his words, past his name and title, straight to the marrow of the man.

“You doubted me.” Her voice was soft, but it carried a bite—a blade, not dulled by anger, but honed by a quiet certainty. It wasn’t an accusation; it didn’t need to be.

“I…” He hesitated, the truth a jagged stone lodged in his throat. The weight of what he’d assumed, of how he’d treated her, was unbearable now, standing here in this room with her bruised feet in freezing water and her bandaged hands still trembling. “I was wrong, princess.”

She tilted her head, her expression unreadable. For a moment, he thought he saw the flicker of something in her eyes—amusement, perhaps, or pity. But it was gone too quickly to name.

“Even the lord of Winterfell,” she murmured, her voice laced with quiet irony, “can be wrong.”

He stiffened at the words, but not from anger. They weren’t spoken to wound. There was no malice in her tone, just an acknowledgment of the raw, human truth that he’d been so slow to see.

Her gaze dropped again to her hands, now wrapped tightly with linen soaked in oils and herbs. She flexed her fingers experimentally, as though testing the pain, but her expression barely changed. Only her lips moved, faintly, a breath too soft for him to hear.

Cregan watched her with a churn in his chest he couldn’t name. She was still too strange, too foreign, her pale beauty both otherworldly and unsettling. But there was something else now, something gnawing at the edges of his certainty.

“You burned your shoes,” he said suddenly, his voice sharper than he intended.

She glanced at him, startled, as though she’d forgotten he was still there. “The fire wouldn’t hold in the snow,” she replied simply. “Leather burns slower than wood.”

“And the cloak?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Sewn with wool and lined with my blood,” she said, showing him her wounded palms. “It was all I had left to keep them warm.” She shrugged faintly as if such a thing were obvious.

His chest tightened. She’d used her own blood to insulate the children, to keep them warm while she bore the frost herself. He thought of the sight of her in the woods, barefoot in the snow, her skirts smeared with blood. How quickly he had drawn his blade. How sure he had been that she was a monster.

And here she was, undoing every dark thought he’d clung to with a calmness that only made him feel smaller.

“Why?” he asked, though the word felt hollow as it left his mouth.

Her brows furrowed, as though the question confused her. “Because they were cold,” she said simply, tilting her head. “And I was not.”

There was no answer to that. No apology would be enough. He stared at her, his chest heavy with something unfamiliar. Guilt, shame, and something else—a growing awareness that this woman, this strange, pale figure who unsettled him so deeply, had a strength that defied the stories whispered behind her back.

As the silence stretched between them, she turned her gaze back to the water. Her fingers brushed the surface, red streaks curling like smoke in the fading warmth. “The children,” she said, breaking the quiet. “They are safe?”

“Aye,” he managed, his voice hoarse.

She nodded once, her expression unreadable. “Good,” she said softly, as if that were the only thing that mattered.

[ I have no idea why I rejected this scene, I think I didn't explain it as well or just did not have enough evidence to support Cregan's mistrust, the description wasn't up to par, it was just all over the place, so I wrote it off. ]

SCENE #2 (part ii) - SOAP AND BUBBLES

Winterfell was meaner than Claere had imagined—colder than the stories ever told. The air seemed to gnaw at her, the chill seeping beneath layers of fur and silk. But it wasn’t just the weather; it was the people, the customs, their lives. Northern life was unyielding, hard as the ironwood trees that dotted the wolfswood. Mercy was a luxury the North could not afford.

Claere had begun to learn the harsh ways of her new home. She spent long hours pouring over maps in the solar, her fingers tracing the paths of rivers and trade routes. She watched with quiet vigilance, absorbing everything—how the men spoke of war and how disputes were resolved swiftly and without sentiment. She’d even resorted to mingling with the maids and stewards, overhearing their fierce remarks about her. It stung, but she endured, knowing that respect was earned here, never freely given.

Cregan noticed. He always noticed.

At first, it was the odd tilt of her head when someone spoke, the way her clothes turned to more cloaks and furs, darker shades of his own colours rather than Targaryen colours, how her lips pressed together in thought. Then it was her diligence—how she’d taken to studying the Stark family ledgers without complaint, or how she lingered longer in the courtyards, her eyes sharp and observant of the children playing. She was... different. Strange, yes. Vigilant, certainly. But hers was a quiet resilience, the kind that never stopped intriguing him.

On his fortnightly ride to White Harbor, the thought of her lingered, as it often did these days. He tried to focus on the tasks at hand—the long lists of goods to inspect, the tallies to confirm—but her image crept into the quiet moments between. The curve of her lips when she smiled, the soft cadence of her voice when she spoke of the godswood, her quiet intensity as she studied maps in the flickering firelight.

Winterfell’s larders were vast and well-stocked, but White Harbor offered treasures the North could not produce—southern goods that reminded him of her, a woman so different from the hard, unyielding stone around them.

He moved among the crates of grain, smoked fish, and wool with the practised eye of a Stark lord. Each decision he made carried the weight of his house, and his men knew better than to question his scrutiny. But when he came upon the crates of southern wares, he paused.

“What else do you have from Dorne?” he asked the merchant, his tone sharp with interest.

The man looked at him, startled, before recovering. “Fruits, spices—cinnamon, saffron, dried lemons. They fetch a high price, my lord.”

“Bring more next time,” Cregan said, his voice brooking no argument. “Fresh, if you can manage it. And anything else of quality from the capital—items meant for royals.”

The merchant nodded eagerly. “Of course, my lord. Is there anything specific you seek?”

Cregan paused, considering. “Vegetarian fare,” he said at last. “Dried herbs, cheeses, and anything light. She...” He stopped himself, feeling the weight of his men’s curious gazes. “The Lady of Winterfell has particular tastes,” he finished curtly.

It wasn’t intentional, not at first. As the goods were sorted, his gaze wandered to another stall nearby, smaller but filled with curiosities from Essos—glass beads, bolts of silk, carved wooden idols. But when he saw the little bar of soap, nestled between silks, it stopped him in his tracks. It was a lovely thing, carved with intricate patterns and scented like lilies. He turned it over in his palm, imagining her expression if he gifted it to her.

“She’ll think you’re courting her,” one of his men teased, his grin wide.

“Then let her think it,” Cregan replied gruffly, tucking the soap into his saddlebag.

When he rode back to Winterfell, the cold biting at his cheeks, the thought of her remained a quiet warmth in his chest. The blood oranges, dates, and soap nestled in his saddlebag felt like small tokens, yet they carried a significance he didn’t yet have the words to express.

In his mind, he pictured her as she might look when she found the soap—a small, private smile tugging at her lips, the kind that made the world outside Winterfell feel momentarily distant. It was a thought that stayed with him, warming him far more than the furs on his back.

He left the gift in her chambers that evening, no note, no ceremony. The next day, he knew she had found it. The scent of lilies wove its way through Winterfell like a secret, light and intoxicating. It clung to the cold stone, a defiance of the North’s austerity.

By the time he passed her chambers that evening, the fragrance was stronger, laced with warmth from the hearthfire within. Her door hung ajar, as it often did—a small defiance she had taken to after remarking how Winterfell’s doors seemed designed to shut out the world. Cregan paused, his hand brushing the uneven wood of the doorframe. The hinges needed mending, he noted absently, his eyes narrowing.

He meant to pull it closed. He meant to walk away. But the faint sound of water—soft, sloshing and rhythmic—stilled his hand. His instincts told him to leave, to respect her privacy. But a flicker of motion within drew his gaze like a lodestone.

Just one glance. One little peek.

Gods, this was hell. The hearthlight gilded her bare shoulders, turning her skin to honeyed gold. Steam curled lazily around her, softening the stark edges of the chamber. Her hair, a tumble of silver silk, was piled atop her head, loose strands clinging to the damp nape of her neck. She moved with an unhurried grace, her back to him, the soap he had gifted her sliding over her skin.

Cregan went immobilized, his breath caught in his throat. The soap’s lather trailed down her shoulder, gleaming against her bare arm before vanishing into the water. Her movements were deliberate, sensual without intent, a quiet intimacy that made his pulse pound. He drank in the curve of her back, the subtle lines of her ribs, the delve of her spine, the elegant slope of her neck.

She was a sight to rival the old gods themselves.

A muscle in his jaw tightened as heat flared low in his stomach, an ache sharp and sudden. She was so different here, stripped of the Northern chill and her careful composure. She was soft. Vulnerable. A creature of fire and moonlight, wholly unguarded in her private sanctuary.

For a man of the North, accustomed to restraint, this was dangerous ground. He gripped the doorframe, his knuckles whitening as he struggled against the urge to step inside, to close the door behind him, to join her—

“Lord Stark.”

The voice shattered the spell. He turned sharply, his shoulders stiff, to find one of her handmaidens standing behind him. Her gaze flickered to the open door, her expression caught between curiosity and amusement.

“The hinges,” he said gruffly, his voice lower than usual. “They need mending.”

She arched a brow, a faint, knowing smile tugging at her lips. “Lady Stark prefers it that way, m'lord. She likes the air.”

Cregan forced a curt nod, stepping back and away from the door, away from the golden light and the intoxicating scent of lilies. “See to it,” he muttered, his tone clipped.

Without waiting for her response, he turned and strode toward his chambers, his steps heavy and deliberate. Once inside, he pushed the door shut with more force than necessary and leaned against it, dragging a hand down his face.

The scent still clung to him, subtle yet maddening. His hands trembled as he pressed his palms to his eyes, willing the image of her—bathed in firelight, her skin glistening, her form so achingly bare—to fade. But it didn’t. It stayed with him, carved into his mind, an unshakable temptation.

“Gods,” he muttered under his breath, sinking into the nearest chair. His chest rose and fell with each labored breath, and for the first time in years, Cregan Stark felt truly undone.

She was a storm he hadn’t anticipated, and she was far more dangerous than the winter winds ever could be.

[ I love how i deleted so many horny Cregan scenes, like I have two more of him just being a simp for his wife. lmao we love a pathetic lovey-dovey king ]

SCENE #3 (part iv) - BOW SHOOT

When Cregan sought her out to share the latest developments, he found her in the courtyard, not with her harp nor wandering the keep, but standing alone by the practice yard. She was a pale figure against the rough-hewn timber and frost-covered ground, a giant bow in her hands. Her eyes narrowed in quiet concentration as she drew the string back, the soft morning light catching the strands of silver in her hair.

Cregan paused by the stockades, his brow furrowing in curiosity. She was an unusual sight here, out of place among the cracked leather targets and straw dummies. Yet there was a determination in her stance, something raw and deliberate, even as the arrow she released flew wide, thudding into the frozen ground with an audible lack of grace.

She frowned, her lips tightening, but said nothing as she adjusted her grip and notched another arrow.

“Planning to shoot your way out of trouble now, princess?” Cregan called, his voice carrying over the yard. Though the words were light, his eyes lingered on her, taking in her unflinching focus.

Claere’s head turned slightly, her gaze meeting his for the briefest of moments. There was no smile, no coy remark—just that same steady resolve. “The bow was left by the yard,” she said, her tone as cool as the frost beneath their boots.

He approached, boots crunching against the frozen dirt. “And you thought to pick it up?”

“I thought to try,” she replied, not looking at him this time. Her fingers trembled slightly as she drew the string back again.

The release was awkward, the arrow wobbling and veering far from the target. Cregan sighed and stepped closer, his presence casting a long shadow over her. “A bow’s no use if you don’t know how to wield it,” he said, his tone softer now, but still tinged with amusement.

When the second shot went wide, he couldn’t help but smirk. “A bow’s no use to someone who doesn’t know how to wield it,” he said, stopping just short of her.

Her grip on the bow tightened, and for a moment, he thought she might argue. But instead, she turned her head, her gaze meeting his with that same unsettling calm. “Then show me,” she said simply.

The words hit him like a challenge, quiet but loaded with meaning. Without a word, he stepped behind her, closing the space between them until his chest was nearly flush against her back. The sharp scent of pine and leather clung to him, and she stiffened, though not out of fear.

“Here,” he murmured, his voice low as his hands came to rest on her shoulders. He adjusted her stance, his touch firm but careful, like a sculptor shaping something fragile. “Relax. You can’t shoot if you’re this tense.”

She inhaled sharply, her body responding instinctively to his nearness. His hands moved with deliberate slowness, sliding down her arms to guide her.

“You’re stiff as stone,” he chided softly, his hands sliding to her arms, steering them gently. “Let go of some of that pride. A bow doesn’t care for it.”

She inhaled sharply, her gaze fixed on the target ahead. But all she could feel was him—solid, steady, and far too close. His fingers brushed hers, calloused and warm, as he helped her notch another arrow.

“Draw slowly,” he instructed, his hot breaths against her cheek. “Feel the tension. Don’t fight it.”

Her pulse thundered as she drew the string back, the bow creaking under the strain. His hands moved over hers, steadying her grip. She could feel the rhythm of his breaths, deep and even, and unconsciously, she matched it.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his voice rougher now, closer. She swore she felt the faintest graze of his lips against the shell of her ear, though it could have been the ghost of her imagination. “Focus. You’re not thinking about the target.”

Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her heartbeat drummed in her ears as the bowstring thrummed under the tension. Her fingers felt too cold, her cheeks too warm, and his hands too solid, too sure as they held her steady.

“Let go, love,” he whispered, and it wasn’t just an instruction. It was a command, a promise, a challenge.

She released the string, the arrow slicing through the air. It struck the edge of the target—not perfect, but far better than before. A breathless laugh escaped her lips, surprising even herself.

“A fine attempt,” Cregan said, his voice laced with approval. But he didn’t step away. His hands lingered on hers, the rough calluses brushing against her softer skin, his touch deliberate, deliberate enough to send a shiver down her spine.

“And if I miss?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, her head tilting slightly to glance at him over her shoulder. The movement brought her lips close—too close—to his.

His gaze dropped to her mouth for a fraction of a second, his expression unreadable. Slowly, his fingers slid along the inside of her wrist, his touch featherlight, tracing the delicate veins beneath her skin.

“Then I’ll catch you,” he said.

The silence that followed was thick; charged. For a moment, the world narrowed to the space between them—their breath mingling in the cold air, the tension crackling like the belly of a beast.

And then he stepped back, the absence of his warmth a jarring contrast to the heat still lingering on her skin.

“Try again,” he said, his tone lighter now, though his eyes still burned with something unspoken.

She turned back to the target, her movements steady, though her heart was anything but. When she drew the string again, she couldn’t help but feel his gaze on her—not just watching but waiting.

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

121 notes · View notes

sealrock · 1 month ago

Text

colours fading. ♫

#ffxivsnaps #gposers #ffxiv gpose #ffxiv oc #hyur #mygposes.#me: it's freezing outside #percy: *wears jean shorts in the winter*#i was going back through my soundcloud playlists and landed on this song. still great #at first i was gonna recreate an old gpose of achille but i wanted to have a sky backdrop and then 3am #this was an experiment and a half because i had to crop out the magic border to clean up some stuff #but w/e look at percy perched on a ledge :]

64 notes · View notes

crimeronan · 2 months ago

Text

i can't believe i still have no voice. i wrote a song i'm pretty pleased with and i can't even record properly yet because my singing sounds like a slowly wheeze-dying cat.

#I WANT MY PRETTY PRINCESS SOPRANO BACK :(#i was like hey what if i just write about the OCs #so it's a song called 'winter solstice' that keeps with a long tradition of murder songs about killing predatory men <3 yay <3 #my music #tangentially #once i have this all arranged and recorded. then you will all see. my beautiful violence wife #sol

52 notes · View notes

stormystarlight · 3 days ago

Text

just realized i never posted the little baby trans five comics. how dare i

#i have to do this NOW before session starts and every relationship you see here gets put in the forever shredder (not really but im scared)#dungeons & dragons #dungeons and dragons #d&d #dnd #my art #doodles #comics #my ocs #dnd ocs #five drifting clouds (oc)#song of winter (oc)#flight of a robin (oc)#tangerine tree's blossom (oc)#the new age #tabaxi #cleric #2024

24 notes · View notes

ilreleonewikiart · 4 months ago

Text

Another month another art trade!

Thank you @kiraliaart for accepting my offer and let me draw your beautiful oc 😭. ❤️✨

After this, go and watch her illustration!

Actually this time we decided to leave the result a surprise, so, as I'm writing this post, I still din't saw the illustration, but I'm sure it ended up being a masterpiece ☝️✨��

In the mean time this is some lore about this ship:

"Aeriaenne is the second daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen and Ser Leanor Velaryon, born in 114 AC along with her fraternal twin brother Jacaerys. Initially, her mother thought of betrothing them, but she changed her mind when she realized their bond was purely fraternal. Unlike her siblings, Aeriaenne's dragon egg did not hatch, which made her introverted and inclined towards solitary activities like music and art. Her sensitive and introverted nature led her to cherish the company of her father Leanor, whom she loved dearly. Physically, Aeriaenne resembled her mother and grandfather, King Viserys I, but in character, she was similar to Rhaena, the Black Bride, with a strong sense of maternity. During the Dance of the Dragons, she was captured by her uncle Aegon II's men and imprisoned in the Red Keep. After most of her family was killed, she was deemed illegitimate but later legitimized again by Aegon II, who needed a wife. After the end of the war and the beginning of the Hour of the Wolf, Aeriaenne meets Cregan Stark."

26 notes · View notes

butdaddyilovehim99 · 6 months ago

Text

Summer Kisses, Winter Tears

Chapter One - The Beginning of the End and a Slow Nosedive Into Oblivion

Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four

18+

Gale Cleven x OC, John’s little sister

Summary - Winnie Egan curses her older brother for choosing the prettiest man alive as a best friend, Gale Cleven curses his best friend for having the prettiest little sister.

Warnings - Pretty vanilla smut this time around, cheating and age gap

Thank you @brotherwtf for all the help and encouragement you are the best bbg ❤️

Winifred Egan has been dragged all over the country for her brother John’s military career. She learns quickly not to get too comfortable on a base; John can and will be transferred—especially with the break out of the war. She is only human, though, and all the preparation in the world wouldn’t have helped her on the day John receives his orders with his new position as Air Executive. Living every day with the fear of John getting these orders to fly over Europe has been harrowing—now he has them even with the premise of a desk job.

She knows he will still fly. He would find a way if he couldn’t. Nobody in the entire Eighth Air Force could stop Johnny from flying—she knows that with all her being. She knows John almost as well as she knows herself. They’re as close as can be—trauma creates some of the strongest bonds. She learns early in life that John is the only person she can depend on—her other half.

Winnie had noted a change in their dynamic over a few years as she finished growing, less touching and hugging. She thought perhaps the military was changing him, but he was still her goofy John—still touchy with his buddies. She couldn’t fathom why until a few years ago, they were in Texas when John was a Cadet. It had been a horrific discovery early one morning: blood between her thighs—she thought of the worst outcomes for this. She was in hysterics—couldn’t be calmed by John. He was always able to console Winnie—but she had firmly locked him out of the bathroom while sobbing. John begged Gale to call for Marge in a last-ditch effort after an hour. Marge knew instantly what was going on—sent John and Gale away before she spent a long time gently explaining all the womanly things to Winnie. She is a woman now, she understands; of course, there had been a change in how John interacts with her; she hadn’t seen it then.

She has a particular appreciation for Marge’s kindness, though Winnie never quite let her attempts at friendship take hold. The ‘first monthly’ incident was the final nail in the coffin for any friendship to blossom. All Winnie could imagine afterward was Marge’s soft giggles while recounting the story to Gale. She put all those images in a tiny box in the back of her mind along with the question of why it bothered her so severely for Marge to tell her fiancé something about his best friend’s little sister—right beside the butterflies she felt in Gale’s presence. She twirls and dances right on the edge of the answer— it’s a simple crush.

A silly little girlhood crush that has followed her from John’s Air Force Cadet graduation, where she met Gale, “Buck,” as John had introduced him with the classic Egan grin and arm around his shoulders for the first time. She blushed heavily; she had never seen a man so attractive before—never felt a flicker for the boys she attended school with. But Gale—he was a man, a beautiful man who made Winnie feel things she knew were not very polite. If John noticed her blush, he was gracious enough not to tease her about it— perhaps he was terrified of the teenage outbursts she had been having. Now, she hardly ever has John to herself; Gale is always right by his side—she doesn’t mind so much.

John, of course, has plans with Buck and Marge tonight, a send-off of sorts, she supposes. She believes Marge will bring one of her girlfriends to keep John “busy.” The poor gal has no idea what she’s in for with John. She sits in the Officer’s Club, sipping a Coke at the bar. Gale and John are beside her while waiting for the girls to pick them up. She barely registers what they are saying to each other, reading her anatomy textbook and listening to the music playing in the next room. “Ah, there we are! Two beautiful ladies!” John’s loud voice makes her look up.

She watches as Marge and a dark-haired dame walk inside. Marge is quite a beauty; she pairs perfectly with gorgeous Gale. She wishes John hadn’t chosen him as a best friend sometimes—it’s a fleeting thought when her eyes land on him again, and she thanks god for their friendship. She continues to wonder when this girlhood crush on him will go away. Gale greets Marge with a kiss on her cheek, murmuring something Winnie doesn’t hear. Her stomach twists with that familiar pang of jealousy, and she looks away from them. She knows it’s ridiculous, but seeing Gale and Marge together hurts.

She notes the brunette who has walked in with Marge, she’s pretty too. She and John could make a nice pair if John weren’t John. He grabs the woman by the waist and kisses her cheek as well. “I’m Peggy, and you must be John.” She smiles brightly up at him.

“Call me Bucky, Doll.” John grins, causing Winnie to roll her eyes. She leans forward to sip her coke through the straw. Winnie flips the textbook page and feels a hand on her arm. She looks from the hand with red-painted nails to Marge, smiling her stunning smile down at Winnie.

“You coming along, Sweetie?” She asks, squeezing Winnie’s arm before removing her hand—her use of ‘sweetie’ feels like a sharp reminder that Winnie is much younger than the group before her and not entirely welcome.

Winnie looks from Marge to Gale, feeling her stomach twist again. She quickly looks to John, then Peggy, looking her up and down a little too obviously—as she closes her textbook. “No, thank you, Marge. We fly early tomorrow.”

She slides off the barstool, revealing she’s an entire foot shorter than John—the top of her head the height of his shoulders. She sees that John’s tie is a little askew—so she moves closer to him. She tucks the tie back in its proper place and pats his chest gently as she says, “Behave tonight.” She gives him a little smile. “See you in England, Major Cleven. Take care, Marge.” She and Marge share a hug. Winnie gives Peggy a polite smile and nods at her before walking away from the group to the exit—and steps out into the warm Nebraskan night.

Winnie is no stranger to waking up early, but that doesn’t mean she likes it. It’s John’s voice and his hand that wakes her. “C’mon Bunny. We can’t be late, you know I’m lead.” His typically loud voice is soft as he pushes her curls away from her face.

She cracks open her eyes, squinting at him. He’s already grinning down at her. She can tell he is freshly showered with his hair styled neatly, and he’s in his flight suit, with his white scarf tied around his neck. She can smell his aftershave, the familiar smell of him.

She gives him a slow, sleepy smile. “I’m up, Johnny.” She murmurs before her mouth opens in a yawn. She brings her hands up to rub her eyes. “How long until we fly?” She sits up in her rack, and when she opens her eyes again, John is already halfway to the door.

“You got an hour, meet me at the equipment room. Remember to wear what I gave you,” he calls back to her, throwing a grin over his shoulder before leaving.

Winnie pulls herself out of her rack and grabs her toiletries. She takes the quickest shower she is capable of before dressing in wool trousers and one of John’s sweaters she borrowed from him last year. She rolls the sleeves up a bit, then works on styling her curls, carefully brushing through them. Styling her hair, twisting and pinning until she has it all pinned up—a few loose, wispy curls hang around her face.

She grabs the flight suit John gave her to wear today. She frowns at the big piece of fabric before pulling it on. Winnie swims it in, just as she thought—positive the smallest size the army makes would be big on her, but Bucky’s flight suit? Enormous. She pulls the zipper up, then does the belt as tightly as possible. She rolls the sleeves and pant legs up so she has some movement. She finally calls it good enough and heads to the mess hall. She eats a simple piece of toast and says goodbye to some men on her way out. The walk to the equipment room is short, and she sees John waiting for her.

He stops his conversation with one of the crew when he spots her. “C’mon Bunny, we don’t have all day,” he calls, and she rolls her eyes.

“What are you going to do? Leave me here?” She shoots back, watching as he picks up an aviator’s kit and moves toward her. They stop in front of each other, and he pulls gear out of the kit.

“Don’t tempt me.” He smirks and puts the yellow life vest over her head, reaching around to buckle and tighten it. She lifts her arms a bit to keep them out of the way.

“Too much whiskey?” She teases with a grin, her dimples showing. She sees his eyes roll before he grabs the flight harness. He crouches down and starts securing it to her body— a smile on his lips, “Or not enough coffee?” He connects the last clip around her thigh and grunts as he stands up straight, “I’m going to stick you in the turret if you don’t stop yapping.” He says with a smirk, and she laughs as he stands up.

“I believe it’s irresponsible to give a civilian access to live ammunition.” She retorts, opening her mouth to continue but jumping slightly at the sound of Gale’s voice from just behind her.

“Civilian? You know more than Bucky here does as a Major.” He sidles up beside Winnie—John’s face and smirk are all she needs to know that she is blushing furiously. She glances up at Gale; he moves the toothpick in his mouth from one side to the other, and the corners of his supple lips turn up towards her.

“It truly wouldn’t be the worst item owed by the U.S. government I’ve given her access to,” he says, pretending to think then as if he remembers—snaps his fingers and points to Winnie, “I believe that was handing over an entire fort into your control.” Bucky cackles maniacally, throwing his head back. She smiles and glances at Gale; he’s smiling at John as they all relive the memory.

It is still one of the best days of her life. For her last birthday, Gale and John took her up in one of the training forts with the pretense of letting her see the views. Even that was a dream, but John had other plans. One minute, she’s in the nose, taking in the view, and the next, she is in the co-pilot seat next to Gale—her hands on the yoke as Gale gives her control. She let John talk her through a few maneuvers with Gale there in case anything happened—even though John had been saying for the last couple of years that she knew the forts as well as he did after helping him study as a Cadet.

“I do not know how they chose you to be Air Exec; it’s one of the most ludicrous decisions I’ve ever heard of.” She shakes her head but says the words fondly—glancing between the pair of smiling Majors. “Go on. Say your goodbyes. You poor boys will be separated for weeks this time. I can’t say I will keep Johnny out of trouble because we know it will be a lie.” John and Gale both laugh; she watches as Gale’s Adam’s apple bobs and the way his cheeks dimple—she moves her eyes from his face just before he turns to her.

He pulls her in for a hug; she closes her eyes and breathes in his aftershave. “See you in England, Winnie.” He winks down at her as he pulls away, a smirk on his lips—a nod to her line from the previous night, and she smiles.

“Fly safe, Gale.” She says softly, looking away from his gaze. Winnie makes her way to John’s nearby jeep, letting them have their goodbye. She kicks a pebble with the toe of her boot while she waits—her mind racing with the images of Gale’s smile and the sound of his laugh fresh in her mind.

She jumps a little at the sound of the jeep starting; John grins at her when she looks at him as she climbs in. “Here we go, Bunny.” He puts the jeep into gear and heads off towards his fort.

It’s a series of three flights to England, and Winnie handles each flight better than most of the crew, who are heading over early to prepare the base along with John. She teases them all relentlessly at each destination.

Winnie is appalled when John breaks the narwhal tusk while drunk out of his mind. He doesn’t even argue when she drags him out of the bar and puts him to bed. She saves her lecture for the flight to England the following day—so that John can’t escape or dodge her. She watches when he mails the letter to Gale with his plan to make it up to the Sergeant, and she is pleased with herself. She hopes the letter makes it across the pond before Gale heads to England himself.

The next several weeks are nonstop construction of the base. Winnie passes out coffee and whiskey—doing little tasks to help out. John finds a nearby pub to drink at with the locals, but Winnie does not accept his offer to go along with him.

Winnie is not happy when John finally divulges to her that he’s flying a couple of missions with another base. She doesn’t let him see her cry; she saves that for when she’s in her bunk that night—sobs wracking her whole body until she has nothing left to give. Sleep swallows her, and nightmares welcome her like an old friend.

She tells him she loves him and kisses his cheek before he leaves for a week with the 305th in Chelveston, nearly 90 miles away. Winnie buddies herself in any way possible while he is away—not letting her mind even wonder if he is in the sky. He is only an observation pilot for the week, that’s all. It’s easy to believe when her brain recites it like a prayer. She prays for him each night before she sleeps—and he returns unharmed, but there is something in his eyes. Winnie knows not to ask what he saw or how the missions went.

Then, one day, the ships dock, and the ground crew are transported to the base. Every day after that, forts with crews begin to arrive, the base becomes alive with activity, and it feels like home again when the men she knows best arrive. Curt practically throws her over his shoulder and spins her around when he arrives—she laughs and begs him to put her down.

Winnie’s heart skips when she realizes the 350th will be arriving soon. John finds her before she can even look for him—jeep outside her quarters. “C’mon Bunny, gotta greet the fellas.” He hooks his thumb, motioning for her to get in the jeep, and she does—noting the bikes in the back. She’s barely sitting when John punches the gas, and she screeches, “Johnny, I swear!” She slaps his arm half-heartedly with a grin as he cackles at her.

She watches in awe as the single-line formation of forts come into view in the sky—landing with their perfect precision as they always do. John waves to some working locals and thanks one in particular for the bikes; she raises an eyebrow but doesn’t question him. Forts taxi to awaiting hard stands; Winnie notes which forts are where. She tries to push down the butterflies she feels when John parks the jeep in front of ‘Our Baby’—they go away when she sees DeMarco setting a dog on the ground.

She squeals as she leaps from the jeep, rushing to pet the husky. “DeMarco!” John calls out over the sounds of engines. She ignores their greetings until John gets the dog’s name from Benny. “Welcome to the hundredth, Meatball.” John gives Meatball a rough pet, and she grins at Meatball as he wags his tail.

She continues loving him and cooing until she hears a familiar voice. She feels the butterflies again, looking up at Gale as he saunters over—aviator sunglasses on and carrying his aviation kit. “He wouldn’t stop howling,” Gale calls out.

“That’s because he’s part wolf,” Benny calls back, making Winnie smile and rub Meatball’s head again—but her eyes don’t leave Gale as he sidles up beside Benny.

“That wolf is part dog.” He says matter of fact as he removes his aviators, and suddenly, the cool English air is too hot. Were his eyes always such a pretty blue, she wonders. Her breath catches in her throat when he moves his eyes from Benny and John to her—a smile curling the corners of his pretty lips. She looks back down to Meatball, an easy excuse to take her attention off Gale. Still, DeMarco departs the group, taking Meatball along.

She looks after them, watching Meatball prance happily—letting the two Majors reunite, slowly trailing closer to the jeep. She doesn’t know why she is incredibly nervous today in Gale’s presence. She had heard once that absence makes the heart grow fonder—she believes it to be true now.

Winnie looks up as John approaches her with a grin, and Gale follows. John shows off the bikes proudly, and she forces herself not to tease him. She feels Gale’s hand on her waist as he steps closer to put his kit in the back of the jeep. Her heart stops, and she dares look up at him through her lashes—he’s already looking down at her with soft eyes and a soft smile that makes Winnie’s heart start again and pound happily in her chest.

He opens his mouth to say something when they hear a fort approaching in the sky. “Well, there’s Brady,” John says in a tone that doesn’t convey much confidence in the situation—right on cue, the alarm for the fire and ambulance crews rings out. Winnie frowns as Gale removes his hand from her waist, and the three of them watch as Brady has a wheels up landing in the field, as the emergency vehicles race to the scene.

Winnie chews on her lip in worry as the men spring from the fort and run in case of fire or explosion. The three of them don’t move a muscle until the ‘all clear’ is given, and they load into the jeep to check on the crew. Winnie sits between John and Gale, her arm pressed against him—she keeps her gaze ahead, looking at the crew. She feels better as they don’t seem to have any injuries—they pull to a stop near Brady and Crosby before John calls Brady over.

She listens to the conversation as she watches Crosby fidget and worry in the spot Brady left him. She tilts her head a little as she assesses Crosby, and his eyes widen before he turns away. Winnie looks down at her skirt and sees a bit of fluff on it, plucking it off as she listens to Brady’s words. She is a little surprised that Brady doesn’t mention Crosby or any of the crew by name, as she assumes something happened in the air involving Crosby based on his nervous behavior. John excuses Brady—she smooths a hand over her skirt.

“So, you want to tell me about this unicorn story?” Gale adjusts his cap and looks over her head at John. John’s ridiculous answer of, “The unicorn is my favorite extinct animal,” makes Winnie lift her head and squint at him, mouth slightly agape. Gale must have the same look, but John doesn’t crack; he starts the drive back to base.

“I think you need your head looked at Johnny.” Winnie can’t help but laugh—his matching smile spreads across his face. She hears Gale let out a soft snicker beside her and thanks the heavens that she can blame her red cheeks on the cool air whipping her cheeks as John drives. John glances at her, his eyes mischievous. “Well, I raised you, so what does that make you?” He nudges her lightly with his arm, looking back to the road.

She hums thoughtfully, “I learned how to toe the line of loony.” Her eyes shine as she grins up at him—happy for a moment to be silly with her brother.

John snorts and shakes his head, “I think you cross it occasionally, Bunny.” He hums, looking over her head at Gale. “Wouldn’t you say so, Buck?”

“Leave me outta this, won’t you?” Gale mutters, knee bumping against hers—her breath hitches, and her eyes flick back down where they touch, from hip to knee. Winnie’s skirt and his flight suit separate their skin, but she feels his warmth.

She breathes a soft sigh of relief, her heart pounding—when they approach the Officer’s Quarters. Gale unfolds himself from the jeep, walking to the other side. Winnie scoots over to get out. “Going to get some chow; remember your rank when you speak with Colonel Huglin.” She murmurs—giving him a knowing look and then leaning over to kiss John’s cheek before she climbs out of the jeep. She hears Gale thank John as she walks towards the Officer’s Mess. She takes a deep breath and does her best not to dwell on how she misses Gale’s body against hers.

Winnie starts to learn the new crewmen around the base over the few weeks before the real missions begin. A few Red Cross women, Helen and Tatty, seek her out when they spot her. She decides pretty quickly that she likes them. She makes her presence known at the airfield, meeting a good portion of the ground crew. Corporal Lemmons lets her spend time with him working on the forts and tells her to call him Kenny. It’s a great place to watch each squadron's training missions.

Towards the end of the month, two diversion missions are flown. They go well with no losses. Then, Major Cleven is set to fly the following day. Winnie knows John is anxious for his friend. She also knows John has been slightly different since going up, making her worry even more for Gale. John wouldn’t be so visibly stressed without good reason. Winnie goes to bed early with the crews set to fly for the first time while John drinks.

She wakes up with the gals who volunteer in her quarters. They all ready themselves in their uniforms, while Winnie wears a white cotton dress and a dark blue cardigan of John’s that she can’t remember even taking from him—she perpetually has it in her possession. The women all scurry off to their positions around the base as they need to be ready for the flight crew.

She smooths her curls and pulls up the top half with a white ribbon tied into a bow. Winnie isn’t with the Red Cross like the women she bunks with—she doesn’t know how John smooth-talked his way into having her join him, but here she is. She’s reasonably sure he won an incredulous bet—fate deciding she was to come along.

Winnie leaves the barracks, walking out into the cool English morning as the sun rises. She has taken long enough to get ready, assuming the men have been transported to their forts by now. She begins making her way to the airfield; she knows that John will need her today.

Just as Winnie had worried over John’s missions a few weeks before, John now worries about his best friend and the many crews flying today for which he is responsible. Winnie adjusts her dainty cross necklace, rubbing her finger over the small piece of jewelry—a tiny relic of her mother’s. It is something she has not taken off since finding it the morning of the funeral—in her mother’s jewelry box.

Winnie had been nine at the time; John—barely 19 himself, was away at college when the wreck occurred. Winnie was mercifully not allowed to go to the party with her parents and left with a babysitter. She remembers the policemen’s faces at the front door but not their names—the babysitter’s horror when they told her what was happening. When they returned to their patrol car, the babysitter had put her right to bed.

She didn’t know what was said to the babysitter and didn’t question it—too young to even realize just how strange it was. Winnie woke to the sound of quiet cries before sunrise. John sat at the edge of her bed; it was the only time she had seen him cry. He stopped when she opened her eyes—he was strong for her.

She pushes aside the weight of the memory and lets go of the necklace. He will be vital for his men today, and Winnie will be strong for John.

Her eyes move up towards the sky as she see the green flare shoot up, they have the go. She continues on walking and brings her eyes back to the trail—going through the taxi protocols and procedures in her head. Winnie brings her eyes back to the sky right before the first fort takes off and breaks the tree line; she lets herself grin as she timed it almost perfectly.

She watches as each fort takes off, a beautiful sight of perfect synchronization as she draws closer. Winnie breaks the treeline when the last fort rises to the sky. Winnie spots John in his white sheepskin on the control tower instantly and begins the way. He is lost in thought as he stares after the forts, beginning to get into formation as the clouds swallow them.

“Johnny!” She calls loudly as she approaches. Winnie sees him break out of his head, and he looks at her. She grins, “Come have breakfast with me—I’m starving!”

He is too far up to see, but she knows he rolls his eyes, and a smile splits his face. “How’d you know I didn’t eat?” He calls back. “I’ll be right down.” John moves swiftly down the stairs, and they walk towards each other.

“Because I know you.” She murmurs as she lets him wrap her into a tight hug. She burrows into his warmth momentarily, taking in the familiar scent of his cologne and cigarettes. She pretends not to notice the barely there smell of a sip of whiskey. She pulls away with a grin, “Breakfast, Major. I wasn’t kidding.”

He laughs and keeps an arm around her shoulder while they walk to his jeep to head back. They share breakfast in the officer’s mess, with a few others eating. Winnie knows he needs to work on paperwork, but she doesn’t remind him. Not while they eat. Not while she and John sit in the jeep after, he drives around aimlessly for hours. Not while John is joking and laughing with her, forgetting about his worries—because this is what she craves.

Her brother spending time with her. She was the sad girl with dead parents while attending school. John intimated any boys who tried to approach her while growing up—he continues to do it now on base; Winnie is strictly off limits. She craves attention from anyone at this point. She is grateful that she found Kenny and John’s friends are also lovely to be around—when he doesn’t drag them away to a bar.

John looks at his watch, his happiness fading into something dark. “The men should be back soon.” His tone sends a chill up her spine. She wants to ask what he saw while with the 305th.

She nods, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek before she steps out of the jeep. She watches as he drives towards the airfield, a pit growing in her stomach. Winnie has no idea what to expect when the men return, and John has made her fear what’s coming back.

She walks towards the interrogation hut, asking Tatty if they need any help. Tatty graciously accepts, and Winnie begins pouring whiskey into glasses, and the pit grows deeper. She waits anxiously until the first truck arrives. Winnie asks if they’d like a drink and passes out the whiskey to most men. Her hands start shaking as several come in, covered in other men’s blood—she realizes in horror. A few men are wounded, and Doc Stover gives them quick assessments. She casts her eyes down as she continues passing out the liquor.

She finally looks up when she hears Gale’s voice at check-in; John has come in with him. She looks up at with wide eyes, she feels like crying when his scanning eyes land on her. His face softens before it settles on anger. He gets closer to to her.

“What are you doing? You don’t need to be seeing and hearing all of this.” He says lowly to her, almost whispering; he’s close enough that she has to crane her neck to look up at him.

“I just wanted to help, Johnny,” she whispers, almost choking on a sob—shoving the glass of whiskey she was holding into his chest and his fingers wrapping around it. “I’m sorry,” she whimpers and flees from the hut. Winnie practically runs from the base; she has no idea where she is heading. She wipes the steady stream of tears from her cheeks as she goes. She stops short when she emerges from the tree line, seeing a mangled fort on a hard stand.

She lets out a soft sniffle as she slowly approaches—inspecting the damage. Winnie lets out soft, hiccuped sobs at the artillery holes punched into the plane. She makes her way to other hard stands and looks at them—some more banged up than others. The sun dips low, and all the sunlight is almost gone.

Winnie comes up short when she is face to face with ‘Our Baby.’ She wipes the final, almost dry tears from her cheeks. From looking, it has internal damage to a flap as it’s stuck in the wrong position for landing. She steps closer, raising her hand and brushing her fingers over the flap.

“You’re just like John.” Gale’s deep voice behind her causes her to jump and spin around. Her heart races from the fright. The sunlight has gone, and it is much darker out on the airfield. “He pointed out the one flap landing to me as if I didn’t know.”

“Do not say that.” Winnie huffs, trying to steady herself as he approaches her. He moves beside her, arms almost touching. She tilts her head back to look up at him, and he raises an eyebrow in question at her reply. “I am not John; for one, I’m a girl—woman.” She corrects herself, lifting her chin proudly.

He is close enough that she sees his pupils blow wide as he looks down at her. “Yes, you are.” He says in his deep voice. She thinks he looks down at her lips but attributes it to her crush and longing.

She feels a blush creeping up quickly on her cheeks and looks down, he has changed out from his flight suit. His uniform shirt tucked into his slack and tie tacked into place along with his sheepskin. She swallows, “I am.” She says quietly, before looking up at him again.

His eyes are dark, pupils still blown wide. He works his jaw, and muscles pop out. He moves in a flash after she speaks, hand coming up to the back of her neck and other of her waist as he leans down. His lips crash to hers as he kisses her deeply, hungrily. She gasps on his lips, eyes fluttering closed.

She tries her best to move her lips to meet his desperate kiss. She gasps again when she feels his tongue against her lips, but that lets him lick into her mouth. His thumb brushes along her jaw as he holds her neck. Her knees feel weak, and her head is fogging up from the way he kisses her. Winnie lets her hands rest on his chest, not knowing what to do with them.

He seems eager to touch her, the hand at her waist pulling her body to his. The other hand moving from her neck down her back, then both hands sliding down her waist to squeeze at her hips—his touch igniting something inside her. She pulls her lips away in surprise and gasps for air. Her heart races in her chest, and her breathing is uneven after kissing him. He chases her lips but settles for kissing her jaw, nuzzling his nose along her cheek, then moving his lips to her neck.

Winnie doesn’t know why, but she tilts her head to the side for him once his lips contact the sensitive skin. He nips lightly, and she lets out a soft moan. She bites her lip to be quiet, embarrassed of the sound she made. He groans lowly against her neck, and his hands move from her hips. She feels him fumbling between their bodies, and her foggy head doesn’t catch up until he pushes her cardigan off her shoulders.

Winnie blinks and looks around, coming to her senses. “Gale, we shouldn’t.” She whispers, pulling her body from his—she doesn’t want to. His lips felt like heaven on her skin and she misses the feel of his hands on her body.

Gale’s eyes follow her with a desperate look, hands reaching for her. Winnie lets him place a hand back on her waist; the other reaches up to caress her cheek, thumb rubbing along her cheek. She fights the urge to close her eyes and lean into his hand.

“Winnie, please, I need you.” Gale whispers, looking into her eyes. He’s begging her, she realizes with a shock. She stares into his longing eyes for a second before pushing up on her toes and kissing him again. “Not out here, though,” she murmurs on his lips, then pulls away.

His eyes scan their surroundings before he nods. Gale keeps his hand on her waist, leading them to a nearby ground crew tent. Winnie doesn’t let her mind think about anything but his hand on her waist and the way his mouth felt against hers.

It’s dark in the tent, just enough moonlight to see Gale’s face before her. He leans in a little slower this time when he presses his lips to hers, but his hands are faster—pushing her cardigan off. She kisses him back just as hungrily as he kisses her—more confident now. Her hands reach up, working on getting his tie off—tossing it aside before her fingers swiftly undo the buttons of his shirt. His hands are all over her body, not settling in one spot for very long.

Winnie pulls her lips away and lets out a small gasp when he lifts her by the hips on to a wooden crate— making them eye level, she spreads her legs instinctually and he moves between them. He brushes his nose against hers, their breathes mingling as they look into each other’s eyes. He presses kisses along her jaw to her neck and Winnie doesn’t mind the soft moan she lets out this time.

Gale’s hands begin pushing her dress up—she pushes his shirt off his shoulders before pulling his white undershirt free from his pants. She wants it off—she wants to see him. “Gale,” she says; it sounds like a whine even to her ears. His lips are curved when he pulls back slightly; he pulls the T-shirt over his head and drops it to the ground.

He cups her cheek when he meets Winnie’s lips again, the other hand high up her bare thigh—thumb brushing the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. So, so close to her panties.

Winnie places her hands on his firm chest, slowly moving her hands across his skin—up to his shoulders, then back down his chest and lower. His ab muscles are hard under her hands. She whines softly in the back of her throat when he nips her bottom lip—her fingertips touching the skin just above his belt. He squeezes her thigh and pulls her closer, pressing his hip to hers.

She whines again into the kiss as she feels him through his slacks. “Please,” she doesn’t know what she’s asking for, but Gale knows, and he will take care of her. She does know that for sure. His lips press along her neck as he moves his hands, fingers curling into the waistband of her panties. Her brain catches up just enough for her to blush and be shy as he pulls them down her legs, and they join the pile of clothes on the ground.

Winnie tries to press her thighs together, but his body is back between her legs and hands on her thighs before she can close them. She looks up at Gale through her lashes; his eyes are trained on her most intimate place, and he licks his lips before he swipes his thumb slowly through her wetness. She sucks in a sharp breath and bites her bottom lip.

She watches as Gale’s hands move from her body to unbuckle his belt—her eyes don’t leave his hands. His fingers get his slacks button undone, then the zipper down, and his thumbs curl into the waistband. Her eyes flick back up to his face. Trepidation curling around herself; she has never seen a man naked—let alone in this sense.

He’s already watching her as he pushes the fabric down just enough to his thighs. She spreads her thighs a bit more as he moves closer. Winnie’s brow creases slightly in confusion when he spits in his hand; her eyes follow his hand of their own volition.

Her lips part slightly as she sees his hand wrap around himself—working the spit up along the length to the angry red tip. She doesn’t have any other knowledge to compare him to but doesn’t know how he will fit himself inside her.

She watches as he continues working his hand up and down himself for a moment before he pushes closer to her. The tip runs through her wetness a few times before catching on her opening.

Winnie places her hands on his shoulders as he captures her lips in a passionate kiss. She barely kisses back when he starts pushing into her, letting out a soft whine. His hands squeeze her thighs as he keeps pressing in.

She bites her lip to distract from the pain she feels—she is confused as she remembers overhearing some of the gals talking about sex. Why would they like this, she thinks. Gale lets out a groan when his hips finally press against hers, burying his face in her neck. She runs a hand from his shoulder to the back of his neck, tangling her fingers in his hair. She makes one whispered request, “Please start slow.”

His lips drag across her neck, making her shiver. “I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs as his hips slowly pull back. The drag of him inside her isn’t too painful, just a little uncomfortable. He pushes back into her wetness. He repeats this motion several times, and she realizes it isn’t unpleasant.

Gale kisses and sucks at her neck as he keeps moving slowly for her. His hips stutter when a soft moan escapes her lips—fingers digging into her thighs. “Gale,” she says breathlessly—admitting shyly, “feels good.”

He moans lowly and bites her neck, his thrusts picking up a bit of speed. Winnie digs her nails into his scalp and shoulder, arching her back a little—causing her to moan again. The angle makes it feel even better. Each of his thrusts adds to the feeling growing in her lower belly, pure pleasure. She can’t help the quiet moans and mewls Gale is drawing from her.

He breathes heavily against her neck as he keeps going—she assumes he feels as good as she does when he grunts in her ear. His hands are gripping her thighs tight like he’s afraid she’ll disappear, but she doesn’t mind so much as she clings to him as well.

“Gale!” She cries out when the feeling in her stomach reaches a peak. Her spine arches more, and she throws her head back. Her thighs try to close around his hips, and he keeps thrusting into her. She pants softly as she regains some mental capacity. Gale is thrusting into her at an even faster speed, then he lets out a couple of moans as his hips stutter, and she feels him twitch inside of her. She breathes and runs her fingers through the head at the back of his head.

Gale pulls back from her neck and presses his lips to hers in a slow kiss. His vice grip of her thighs loosens, and he rubs them. He moves his lips away and carefully pulls himself from her wetness. Winnie looks down at herself, a little confused by the sticky white substance that has started to come out of her.

She looks up at Gale and smiles sheepishly, unsure if she should get off the crate now. He blinks down at her a few times, his brow creases, and a frown spreads on his mouth as he realizes something. Winnie sits up as he rushes to push his slacks up and pick up his shirts from the ground.

“Did I do something wrong?” She asks, feeling a lump grow in her throat. He tugs his undershirt on then the button-up. He searches quickly for his tie, grabbing it along with his sheepskin.

“No. I did.” He grumbles, shaking his head. He can’t even look at her. “I’m sorry, Winifred.” He leaves the tent as quickly as he can move.

Her full name feels like a slap on the face. She swallows the lump in her throat—noticing more of the sticky white stuff coming from herself, and feels the sting of tears in her eyes. She gets off the crate and searches for her panties, pulling them on along with her cardigan. Winnie doesn’t let the tears fall as she returns to the base and her quarters—her walk is long enough that her sadness fades and turns to indignation. Her mind races with her actions tonight; she gave in too easily to her want for Gale. She scolds herself for giving him her virginity. Her Catholic guilt begins to swallow her whole.

Once inside her barrack, she changes into pajamas and crawls into her rack—thankful her bunk mates are out tonight. She glares up into the dark finally angry with Gale, until sleep finds her.

#ahhhhhhhhh it’s finally here guys #i hope y’all like it #and i hope you guys love winnie as much as i do #the sex is soooo vanilla because gale has barely any experience #he’s a quick learner tho 😈#summer kisses winter tears #yes the title is an elvis song bite me #mota au #john’s little sister au #gale cleven x oc #gale cleven x winnie egan #gale cleven

24 notes · View notes

loksthegreat · 8 months ago

Text

Wylas Manderly showing princess Haleen the ship he built her as a wedding gift so she can always visit her mother in kings landing when she misses her

#asoiaf oc #hotd #asoiaf #digital art #asoiaf fanfic #asoiaf art #fanart #asoiaf fanart #a song of ice and fire #house of the dragon #got #game of thrones #hotd art #he named it ‘the pale lady’ after Haleens favorite story too….#dress is inspired by that one gorgeous inspiration pic someone send me for Haleen ages ago #hope you like it :)#had to add sleeves tho it’s winter in white harbor after all

36 notes · View notes

blxkstar · 7 months ago

Text

"The Night's Watch is the only thing standing between the realm and what lies beyond"

I made a playlist for the Night's Watch. Please check it out!

We've been guarding the Kingdoms for eight thousand years.

Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night's Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.

26 notes · View notes

jitteryjive · 1 month ago

Text

the shifter twins wish you happy holidays and a safe december!!! and to keep warm (or cold) wherever you are ❄️

#this was such a fun piece to do i miss coloring them!!!#and it was a bit of a challenge to put them in a cold blue environment but they survived! happily strolling now 😊#if you’d like the energy of this piece in song form listen to the andrews sisters’ cover of winter wonderland #oc stuff #crime express #my art #winter art #artwork #ruth dextrose #blu portobello #the shifter twins #rubberhose #1930s #toon

13 notes · View notes

ibendotcom · 15 days ago

Text

little song I wrote last night

8 notes · View notes

rewcana · 2 months ago

Text

winter's lullaby

just wrote this song today after taking a walk in the cold

it's rough cause i just wrote it but i like how it came out regardless ^x^

lmk what u think!

lyrics & chords below cut

The mugwort is shriveled

On the side of the road

I suppose that’s how you know

That the chill is setting in

C G

This is where winter begins

Am G

It’s taking longer now

For the frost to bite

It’s taking longer now

For the grass to die

Winter waves goodbye

Before its crystal hues touch the ground

And i dearly miss the sound

Of the winter’s lullaby

C Em

Litter lines the streets

G Am

Smog clogs the sky

D G

Cold wind kisses my cheeks

Em C

And i yearn for the winter’s lullaby

Am G

It’s taking longer now

For the frost to bite

It’s taking longer now

For the grass to die

Winter waves goodbye

Before its crystal hues touch the ground

And i dearly miss the sound

Of the winter’s lullaby

As a child

I climbed atop snow piles

Now decades later

Am G

It melts before it touches the ground

And I dearly miss the sound

The silence

The white coating the brown

The stillness

The magic surging all around

Am G

It’s taking longer now

For the frost to bite

It’s taking longer now

For the grass to die

Winter waves goodbye

Before its crystal hues touch the ground

And i dearly miss the sound

Of the winter’s lullaby

And in my life

I watched it die

And though i cry

It does nothing

And we all know why

And it does nothing

To bring back our winter lullaby

Am G

It’s taking longer now

For the frost to bite

It’s taking longer now

For the grass to die

Winter waves goodbye

Before its crystal hues touch the ground

And i dearly miss the sound

Of the winter’s lullaby

Am ��

Winter’s lullaby

Say goodbye

To the winter’s lullaby

Am C Em G

Oh oh oh oh oh oh

11 notes · View notes

damneddamsy · 3 months ago

Text

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part vi)

a/n: today on your early dose Stark Fluff, it's drugs against humanity. claere is going nuts and cregan brings out dopes like the bad bitch he is

Cregan Stark had grown accustomed to the sounds of Winterfell at night—the rustle of trees in the godswood, the howling winds against the walls, and the shifting of ice and snow as the old castle settled deeper into the frost. But the nights had changed.

Now, something far more alarming stirred within these walls.

He felt it more with each passing night, a part of him slipping further away, drawn into a darkness he couldn’t touch or see. It wasn’t the wind or the groaning wood that unnerved him anymore. That part of him, the part that was running far away, was her. His wife. It was Claere.

He watched from the bed for the second time that night, helpless and exhausted, as she drifted through the room, her movements ghostly, as if she were caught in a dream she couldn’t wake from. Her nightly habits had always been strange, but now they were something else entirely—more frequent, more dangerous, more haunting. Even her dragon, Luna, seemed to mirror the chaos inside her, her bellowing growls sounding off deep into the night.

Claere strode near the window, her eyes half-lidded, whispering words he couldn’t fully understand. She was distant, more so than usual. Her usual nightly rituals—her waking, her wandering, her mumbling. Some nights, she’d slip from his arms, barefoot and silent, wandering out into the biting cold of Winterfell’s courtyards.

Now, it was tears. It was ripping at her hair, thinking too hard. It was weeping, it was crying to stop whatever it was she saw in her eyes. It was desperation that left him powerless to ease. It was as if the sharp thorns that grew on this beautiful rose had turned inward, pricking her deeper every time she flew past the Wall.

Tonight was no different. He watched her move, a pale figure in the dark, and he knew what was coming. He remembered how, not long ago, she’d spoken to the children of Winterfell.

"Dreams are just that," she had said to the little ones, her voice calm and reassuring, "and nightmares, even less. They’re simply our own little mysteries, and they are only yours to unravel."

He had marvelled at her then, the way she bent to their level with a gentle smile, easing their fears with the strength of her presence. But now, her own nightmares haunted her, and whatever they were, they seemed to be unravelling her instead. Perhaps she didn’t even realize, how deeply it was breaking her.

It was like the thrill of the hunt, he thought. That intoxicating rush, the chase that consumed you whole. But then, always, there came the bitter part—the kill. The blood on the snow.

Claere had become a stranger in the dark, unreachable, caught in some distant place. The parts of her that made her her—her clever wit, her regal grace, the way she’d laugh, rare but sincere—those parts he cherished. But these wakeful nights, the bitterness that crept in when she was somewhere else, chasing shadows… it hurt him more than it seemed to hurt her.

Cregan propped himself up, running a tired hand over his face, trying to push away the exhaustion. He wanted to go to her, to pull her back into the warmth of their bed, to soothe whatever haunted her. But he knew better. Whatever hunted her, it was out of his reach.

As he rose from the bed, her murmuring grew louder, more frantic, her voice sharp as if echoing from some far-off place. He strained to catch the words.

“Baelor… Baelor… Baelor…”

The name sent a shiver through him, a wave of dread tightening in his chest. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard her mutter it, always in broken whispers, her gaze distant, as if she were chasing some ghost. But the way she said it now, like a chant, filled him with icy fear.

“Claere,” he called gently, stepping closer to her. “Please come back to me, love. It's much too late.”

She didn’t respond. Her steps became more erratic, her body moving with a sudden urgency as she wandered near the hearth. And then, he saw it.

The gleam of steel.

A knife, small but sharp, shimmered in the dim light, clenched in her hand. Before he could react, he noticed the handmaiden who had entered the room moments before, carrying a basin of water. She stood frozen in place, the knife pressed dangerously against her throat.

Claere’s voice, cold and distant, barely above a whisper: “It must be done… don’t see, don’t see…”

“Claere!” Cregan’s voice rang out, sharper than he intended, his heart pounding in his chest. He took a step forward, trying to stay calm, though fear surged through him. “Claere, no. Look at me. Put the blade down.”

She didn’t move. The handmaiden trembled, her wide eyes locked on Cregan, her breath shallow as the blade pressed against her skin.

“Claere, listen to me,” Cregan urged, his voice softening as he edged closer. “It’s not real.”

"We have to save her." She blinked, a flicker of something—recognition, perhaps—crossing her clouded gaze. But the knife stayed where it was, unmoved.

“It’s not real,” he repeated, his hand inching closer, slow, controlled, deliberate. “You’re safe. You’re here with me.”

For a moment, the room seemed to freeze. Cregan’s hand reached the hilt of the knife, and with a swift, practised motion, he knocked it from her grip. His other arm wrapped around her waist, holding her away and safely as the blade clattered to the stone floor.

The handmaiden wheezed, stumbling back, clutching her throat, but Cregan’s focus remained on Claere. Her breathing was shallow, her body trembling, as if she were still lost in her head. He turned to the terrified girl.

“Leave us,” he commanded her, his voice firm. “And speak of this to no one.”

The handmaiden nodded quickly, pale and shaken, and fled the room without a word.

Cregan knelt with Claere on the floor, his hands gently cradling her face, worry etched in every line of his expression. “My love?”

But she didn’t respond, her eyes still distant, lost somewhere beyond the room. Slowly, her breathing steadied, but it wasn’t from clarity. She blinked, her gaze slipping away from his and drifting again into the haze of her mind. Her lips parted, a faint murmur escaping.

“Baelor… Baelor…”

Cregan’s grip tensed, his heart aching. He called her name again, softer this time, his voice almost pleading, but she didn’t hear him. Instead, her eyes fluttered closed, her knees buckling, her body sagging against him as the fight drained from her limbs. The murmurs softened, trailing off into silence.

He held her for a moment longer, hoping for some sign that she was waking, that she was returning to him. But there was nothing. She had fallen back into sleep as easily as if nothing had happened, the nightmare fading from her mind as quickly as it had come.

Cregan sat there, his hands still around her, utterly powerless. He wanted to shake her awake, to demand answers, to pull her back to the present where she belonged, but it was no use. Claere had slipped away again, disappearing into whatever dreamscape she was trapped in, leaving him alone with the memory of the blade at the handmaiden’s throat.

Slowly, he lifted her into his arms, carrying her back to the bed. She didn’t stir, her face peaceful in sleep, as if the madness that had gripped her moments before had been nothing more than a passing wind. He laid her down, pulling the furs over her, but he couldn’t shake the unease that ate at his composure.

She was here, but not truly.

Cregan sat beside her, holding her hand, grounding her, watching her for what felt like hours, the fire crackling softly behind him. His thoughts churned, but there was nothing he could do. Whatever darkness had taken root in Claere, it was beyond his reach, and it terrified him more than anything he had ever faced.

He brought her hand to his lips. "I will fix this. I will."

He wanted to save her, to fight whatever hunted her in her dreams. But how could he fight something he couldn’t even see? Something she didn’t even know was haunting her?

The thrill of the hunt, he thought bitterly, was nothing compared to this. Because this time, the prey was slipping further and further from his grasp, and he was left wondering if he’d ever be able to catch it before it was too late.

Cregan stood in the maester's chamber, the dim light of the drooping candles casting long shadows on the stone walls. The old man, Maester Kennet, sifted through an array of vials and dried herbs, his face unnoticeable. Cregan's fingers drummed lightly on the wooden table, his voice low and tense.

“Tell me again,” he said, his gaze sharp. “Nightshade. What does it do?”

The maester turned, his expression cautious, wary of the question’s significance. “In small doses, two or three drops, the essence of nightshade induces sleep, m'lord. A peaceful slumber. It can calm the most troubled mind, relieve pain… but—”

“And in larger doses?” Cregan interrupted his voice harder now, almost daring the maester to say it.

Kennet hesitated, his fingers brushing against the edges of a small, dark vial. “In larger doses, ten or more drops, nightshade brings death. Quiet, painless, but certain. A drop too much and there is no waking.”

Silence stretched between them.

Cregan's face tensed as he stared at the vial on the table. He wasn’t certain what he was searching for in the maester's words—reassurance, perhaps, or maybe a way to justify what he was considering.

“Have you given it to her?” Cregan’s voice was soft, almost a whisper now, but there was a dangerous edge to it.

The maester’s eyes widened slightly, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “I would not dare, my lord. Never nightshade. Only milk of the poppy, to ease her unrest when the... red flower blooms.”

Cregan exhaled, though the tension remained. He ran a hand through his hair, staring down at the table, deep in thought.

“And if… I were to ask for it?” Cregan's voice was firm, though his eyes reflected the storm raging within.

Kennet met his gaze, his voice steady but careful. “You must know, my lord, that such a decision is not one taken lightly. Nightshade should be used only in direst need.”

Cregan nodded, his mind already racing, calculating the risks. He seized the cold vial into his palm.

"Thank you, Maester Kennet," he muttered, pushing away from the table, his heavy boots echoing as he made for the door.

But as he reached for the handle, the maester spoke again, softer now. "If I may, Lord Stark… be sure it's true peace you seek for her—and not an escape from what torments her mind."

Cregan paused, his hand tightening on the door, but he did not look back. Without another word, he left the chamber.

Claere had never known peace, not truly, especially when she roamed between dreams and reality, but tonight it felt close—close enough that she could almost pretend. As she brushed her hair in smooth strokes, she dreamed, not of long battles or falling dragons, but of the man she loved, the man who had somehow become her sanctuary in this strange place.

Her mind wandered, against her will, carried on the ebb of the flames, and she thought of him. Of Cregan. Of his coarse hands on her skin, of his lips that caressed the hollow of her neck, the way he had looked at her the last time they’d lain together, right where she sat—eyes so grey, full of unspoken love. She felt her heartbeat quicken slightly at the memory. His strength, the way his arms enveloped her, the rough edge of his voice when he spoke her name. His touch, at once tender and snug, had left its imprint on her skin, lingering long after they’d parted.

Her hand paused mid-stroke. The fire blurred, and suddenly, in the flames, she saw it—a flash, vivid and sharp. A single drop of green, fell through a murky sea, kindling in a flash, spreading like wildfire. It was quick, but it seared into her mind, the image stark against the warmth of the room. Her breath hitched, and then, as quickly as it had come, the vision vanished.

Before she could think more about it, the door creaked open, and Cregan strolled into the room, his presence filling the space and banishing the image from her mind.

"Dreaming again, sweetling? Of me?" he teased softly. His voice was deep and rough-edged, but there was a warmth in it that was meant only for her. He crossed the room, laying a kiss gently atop her head, his lips brushing the crown of her silver locks.

Cregan had made the room their own, pushing the chairs and tables aside, creating a nest of furs by the fire—a place where she had found warmth, her favourite corner of Winterfell. He had known. Always thinking of her comfort, even when she didn’t ask for it.

"Only a little," she murmured, her eyes following him as he moved across the room with a relaxed grace. He had the makings of a great king, should he ever be interested in a throne.

"A little," he scoffed. "You wound me."

"The battle scars of love," she said to which he laughed under his breath, shaking his head.

He held a pitcher, which he set down near a low stool without explanation. She didn’t ask. He always brought something with him, whether it was news, wine, or small comforts. She observed him fondly, though her face betrayed none of it—nervous, shy on the aspect. Still, she could not say why. Maybe it was the ease with which he began to unfasten his leather coat of plates, down to his tunic and breeches, his moves deliberate.

"The lords have been as excruciating as ever," he started with a chuckle. "More talk of trade routes through the Neck, and their precious grievances over wildling sightings. As if they’ve forgotten winter's nearly here."

Claere nodded, her lips twitching in the faintest shadow of a smile. She’d always liked listening to his tales of council and governance, though she cared little for the politics of it. It was the way Cregan spoke—his dry northern humour, the way he managed to find levity even in the mundane.

"And how was your day?" he asked, his voice softer now, as he kicked off his shoes with his feet and settled beside her on the rug with a tired grunt. He nestled closer, his head resting gently against her neck, inhaling her scent.

"Uneventful," she replied, though her mind drifted briefly to her flights with Luna. "The expected. Luna is weary. I haven't flown her beyond the Wall in a while."

"Mm," he hummed as he poured a goblet from the pitcher. The liquid was pale, almost like milk, thin as it filled the cups.

"And what of your mind?"

She stiffened slightly but kept her gaze on the fire. "'Tis... there."

"As your lord and saviour, I have just the solution for you." He offered the full goblet to her with a knowing smile. "This is said to help with disturbed slumber. I know you’ve had trouble resting lately."

She gave it a cautious sniff. It was newly warmed milk, cow's milk. A rare drink in these parts.

"Have I?" she asked, uncertain.

"You’ve been waking up more," he rumbled, kissing the side of her cheek. "I want you to rest well."

She glanced at him, questioning. "You notice too much."

"Too little, I think. Drink up."

Claere stared at the cup, her gaze lingering on the pale liquid as it rippled in the goblet. She wasn’t convinced. Her body had grown weaker in recent days, a weariness she hadn’t expected, but she had chalked it up to Luna—her growing hunger, the long flights beyond the Wall to hunt. Sleep had never been a burden, at least, not that she had noticed. Yet, as she looked into the cup, something stirred within her.

The milk rippled again, and for a fleeting moment, she saw it—a drop of green, bright and burning, swallowed into the depths of the liquid. It was quick, just a flicker, but a shiver slithered up her spine. The room's amber flames shimmered on the surface of the milk, and her mind whispered the possibility. Simply sweetened by a touch of the dark.

She looked up at him, her gaze lingering on his face, and her expression unchanged. Cregan, with his furrowed brow and his earnest eyes. Always trying to protect her, even from things he could not understand.

She smiled. Without another word, she lifted the goblet to her lips, her eyes never leaving him, and took a sip.

Cregan stood at the foot of the bed as Claere lay beneath the thick furs, her chest rising and falling in the peaceful rhythm of deep sleep. For days now, she had slept soundly, without the restless tosses and turns, without walking off her nightmares that had plagued her nights. Her face, so often marked by tension and distant thoughts, now seemed softer, almost serene.

He should have felt relief. This was what he had wanted, wasn’t it? For her to rest, for her to have peace. This was wrong, undreamt of as her husband, but right for her.

But as he watched her, the small vial of nightshade hidden in the folds of his tunic felt like a lodestone towing him down. His gaze lingered on her pale face, framed by the loose strands of silver-gold hair. She looked untouched by the turmoil they both carried, unaffected by the darkness.

But the peace was an illusion. And he knew it.

He couldn’t keep giving her this. He couldn’t keep feeding her nightshade like some remedy for the battles she fought within herself. It wasn’t a solution; it was a reprieve—a brief, cruel reprieve. One that couldn’t last.

Cregan’s jaw clenched as he thought of the future. Of waking her each night to pour another dose down her throat. Of watching her slowly become dependent on it, her mind slipping further away as the poison dulled her to everything, even to him. The thought twisted his stomach. He would lose her—slowly, painfully—if he let this continue.

His hand instinctively tightened around the vial in his tunic. No. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t let it come to that. But what choice did he have? He had promised her rest, and this was the only way he could give it to her. He couldn’t bear to see her suffer.

But this wasn’t a cure. It was just another form of losing her.

Claere stirred in her sleep, a soft breath escaping her, and Cregan’s breaths stuttered at the sight of her. He moved closer, kneeling by her side to watch her more closely. His rough hand brushed against her cheek, the warmth of her skin a fragile reminder of her mortality. For a fleeting moment, she leaned into his touch, her lips parting in a sigh. It was a small comfort, but not enough to dispel the storm that raged inside him.

He couldn’t keep her like this. And yet, the alternative terrified him.

Cregan stayed by her side a moment longer, his hands closed around hers as if he could protect her from whatever nightmares awaited her when the nightshade was gone.

The peace was already crumbling, and there was no way to stop it.

The great hall was lit by the blazing hearth, the winter winds pressing against the castle like an unrelenting spectre. Cregan Stark sat at the head of the table, flanked by his bannermen, but the eyes of the room were not on him—they were on her.

Claere sat quietly, composed but pale, her hands resting in her lap, her hair still tousled from dragon riding, shadows hollowing her face.

Luna, her enormous pearly white mount, lay somewhere beyond the gates, scarred, bleeding and restless. The White Dread had returned her rider upon sunup with half-healed claw marks, three jagged rents, almost eight feet long, from which blood still dripped, hot and smoking. No one dared ask what could have possibly hurt such a fearsome creature, but the question hung in the air like a curse.

Cregan’s heart was embittered by their accusations. The council chamber felt chiller, the stone walls pressing in with a suffocating sense of scrutiny. The eyes of his lords were upon her, and Claere—regal, unyielding—sat at the end of the long table, facing their silent judgment like a queen before a court of circling wolves.

He had to take it. He had to sit here and endure their suspicions, their whispered concerns that had now turned into open accusations. For months, he had watched her slip out of his reach. He’d seen the change, the strain. The sleepless nights, the moments where she seemed absent even in his arms.

And it was the Wall—always the Wall.

He could feel their tension, and hear the whispers that had been brewing in Winterfell far before her frequent trips beyond the Wall. This was simply an excuse to question her outright. His lords, fiercely proud of their Northern roots, were growing uneasy with the mystery that clung to her—a woman who had brought a dragon into their snow-covered world, who disappeared for days without word or explanation. Her dragon was another shadow looming over their fears of the unburnt girl.

At last, Lord Manderly, ever bold, cleared his throat. His voice, heavy with suspicion, echoed through the hall.

"Lady Claere," he began slowly, "the Wall is a frontier, a line not crossed without purpose. Yet, you venture beyond it as if it were nothing but an open gate. We hear tales—wild tales—of your presence there, of the wildlings who speak of you and your dragon. We must know these truths you hide, my lady."

Claere turned her head slightly, her gaze still focused out the window, seemingly unfazed by their words. When she finally spoke, she was calm; too much.

“I have no dealings with the wildlings,” she said simply, her eyes unmoving. “My oaths are sworn to Lord Stark and his kingdom.”

Another lord, Ser Edric of White Harbor, leaned forward, his tone sharper. "And yet you leave for days without a word, to wildling lands, where dangers lurk that even your dragon cannot burn away. What is it you seek out there?"

Cregan could feel the tension rise like a storm gathering on the horizon. They were not wrong to ask, yet their suspicions clawed at him. She had given them no reason to doubt her loyalty, and yet here she was, standing trial in all but name.

Claere’s gaze remained far away as if their questions were of little consequence to her. “Luna hunts,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, though her words cut through the room like steel. “The land beyond the Wall offers her ample prey. As it has been said before.”

“Prey?” Lord Manderly’s lips curled in distaste. “And what of you, my lady? What is it that you hunt in those frozen wastes?”

Her response was cool, cryptic. "I hunt peace. I wonder what is it you hunt, my lord. Fear? Is that your game?"

The lords exchanged glances, a ripple of discontent stirring around the table. The tension thickened the air heavy with their growing distrust.

Cregan’s jaw tightened as he watched the scene unfold, his fists clenching beneath the table. They had no right to speak to her like this, no right to question her like she was some criminal. But he also knew their concerns—feared them as deeply as they did. It wasn’t just about her flights; it was about the unknown. Claere, in all her mystery, had unsettled them, and her dragon—Luna—had made it worse.

But it wasn’t just them. It was him, too. He’d watched her grow more distant, watched her lose herself in those trips, in her sleepless nights, chasing shadows he couldn’t touch. It was hurting her, and yet she didn’t see it. Or wouldn’t see it. Perhaps this would at least make her see.

“I’ve heard some tell,” a third voice piped up—Lord Glover this time, his expression grim. “The wildlings speak of a pact. A pact with the dragon queen, they say. Is there truth in it, my lady? Do you make alliances beyond the Wall?”

Claere didn’t flinch, didn’t shift in her seat. Her eyes flicked over the gathered lords briefly, then back to the window.

"The wildlings speak of many things," she said flatly. "None of which concern you."

Her words, while calm, were a dismissal, and it only stoked the fire in their hearts. The murmurs grew louder, the lords exchanging glances, their suspicions deepening. They were growing restless, their unease turning to frustration.

Cregan, sitting at the head of the table, felt his control slipping away. His love for her warred with the practicality of the situation. He could not openly defend her, not when she gave them so little.

His wife was the blood of Old Valyria, a dragonrider, something far removed from the North's hardened ways. His lords, steeped in centuries of mistrust for anything beyond the Wall, wouldn’t understand her motives, her need for escape, for the open skies. But now, her silence was feeding their fears.

"I've made up my mind," Cregan announced, his voice as cold as the winter winds outside.

The council's eyes mulled heavily upon her, yet she didn’t flinch. Cregan’s frustration burned hotter in his chest, not only for the lords who had questioned her so harshly but for her—her silence, her refusal to let him in.

"There will be no more flights beyond the Wall."

Claere’s head turned sharply, surprise flickering in her eyes for the first time. Her voice was feeble with disbelief. "You would chain us here... my lord?"

Her use of the title stung more than anything else. He fisted his hand under the table, forcing himself to remain calm.

"You’ll fly where it is safe, past the Kingsroad southward and no more than two leagues beyond the Long Lake," he said, his tone firm, brooking no argument. "And Luna will be trained to survive on light fare until winter passes."

The council remained silent, uneasy but compliant under his regime. They knew better than to defy the Warden of the North in his own hall.

Claere said nothing more. She merely sat, poised and still, her eyes far away, her hand resting on her side. And that’s when he saw it—something out of place, something wrong. Her posture stiffened, and she winced, ever so slightly, her hand pressing discreetly against her side.

Cregan’s gaze dropped, his heart seizing in his chest. A dark stain spread beneath her ribs, seeping through the fabric of her gown.

Blood. Fresh. A gash, raw and bleeding.

He rose abruptly, the scraping of his chair against stone cutting through the tense air. The lords fell silent, their eyes turning toward him.

"My lords," Cregan said, his voice tight, cold with command. "This discussion is at an end."

"But, Lord Stark—" Manderly began, his brow furrowing.

“I have concluded this issue,” Cregan cut him off, his voice hard as ice. His gaze never left Claere. "We will speak of this no longer."

The room fell into an uneasy quiet. The lords glanced between one another, but none dared speak. They could see the fury brewing beneath his calm exterior, the unspoken warning that questioning him further would not end well. They knew better than to press their lord when his tone carried such finality.

She met his gaze briefly, and for a moment, he saw something in her eyes—a flicker of pain, maybe even gratitude. But then she turned away, her silence louder than any words.

The fire crackled softly in their chambers, yet its warmth did nothing to melt the cold that hung in the air between them. Cregan stood by, watching with tense silence as the maester deftly bound the wound at Claere’s side. Kennet's creased face was patient as he worked, his hands sure. Claere’s eyes, distant and focused on the fire, cringed a little every time a stitch pulled at her skin. The scent of herbs and poultices thickened the air, but it did little to mask the weight of what lay unsaid.

“The blade missed the bone. It will heal,” the maester said, his voice measured, though a lingering curiosity was beneath his tone. “What caused this, my lady?”

For a moment, Claere said nothing, her gaze fixed on the flames. Finally, her voice came, distant, almost disinterested. “Wildlings,” she said. “They tried to set a few wild bears on Luna, the size of giants. She barely made it off the ground.”

The maester frowned, clearly puzzled. “I meant your wound, my lady.”

"Oh." Claere blinked, as though only just remembering herself. "I’m not certain.”

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his anger simmering just below the surface. Before he could speak, the maester finished his work, offered a low bow, and quietly took his leave.

The door shut with a quiet thud, leaving only the two in the tense, suffocating silence. The flames crackled away, but even the warmth of the fire couldn’t thaw the ice that had settled between them.

Cregan stood near the table, his eyes fixed on Claere’s rigid form. She sat by the fire, her posture stiff, her eyes as unreachable as the day they first met, as if the conversation that had just transpired in the council chamber was far beneath her. But he knew better—knew the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands curled ever so slightly around the arms of the chair. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t even anger, not the kind one could easily name.

"Look at you," he breathed, trying to find the words, "why didn’t you tell me you were harmed?"

For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t answer. Then, without turning to look at him, she spoke, her voice flat. "It’s nothing worth mentioning."

Nothing worth mentioning. She had returned from beyond the Wall, bleeding, wildlings’ rusted spears having drawn her blood, and she spoke of it as if it were a scratch from a thornbush. The anger inside him simmered, barely contained. He wanted to shout, to demand answers, but he knew better than to meet her coldness with heat. It wouldn’t reach her.

“Must have been one of their spears,” she added, her voice still detached, as if she was recounting something mundane, something far from her.

Cregan’s fists clenched. His tolerance, already frayed, began to slip. “Is that all it is to you?” he demanded, his voice tight. “Another scrape? Another wound that means nothing?”

Cregan's fists clenched at his sides, the fury rising again. He couldn't stand it—the indifference, the coldness. Those savages had dared to harm her, and yet she sat here, speaking as though none of it mattered. As though he didn’t matter.

He paced for a moment, his frustration mounting, unsure how to breach the distance between them. She had been like this for days—withdrawn, inaccessible, slipping from him like sand through his fingers. Though necessary in his eyes, these imposed restrictions drove her further away.

Finally, unable to bear the silence, he spoke. "Are you angry at me?"

Claere’s head turned slightly, eyes still distant, as if she were staring through him rather than at him.

"My anger serves no purpose, not in a world like this," she replied, her tone calm, controlled—maddeningly controlled. There was a chill in her voice that made Cregan bristle, a coldness that wasn’t there before.

He wasn’t convinced. "Don’t lie. Not to me."

Claere’s gaze flickered, but she didn’t respond immediately. She remained composed, her hands folded in her lap, the very portrait of poise. Yet Cregan could discern it—the simmering rage beneath her calm, the quiet fury she never allowed herself to voice. Not where others might see.

"I didn’t think I’d need to ask permission to breathe," she finally said, her voice smooth but carrying an edge that sliced through the quiet room. Her eyes met his, and though her tone was even, there was a sharpness to it that felt like a blade slipping between his ribs.

"Or to eat, perhaps. To walk outside these walls. To ride my dragon. To be free, even for a moment."

Cregan’s jaw clenched. "I've allowed you plenty."

The familiar helplessness returned, gnawing at him. He had always loved her independence, her strength, but now it was dangerous, reckless even. She didn’t see it—or worse, maybe she did, and just didn’t care.

A brief silence fell between them, only the soft crackle of the fire filling the space. Claere seemed to brood for a moment, her eyes so far removed again, staring into the flames. When she spoke next, her voice was measured, as if she was treading on thin ice.

“What is the essence of nightshade like, Cregan?” she asked, her gaze now turning back to him, her violet eyes piercing. “Does it taste sweet like molasses? Bitter like wine?”

Cregan felt his blood turn to ice. Her question, so casual yet so sharp, made his breath falter in his chest. He stared at her, searching her face, praying that this was some cruel jest, some distant, detached observation of the world as she often made. But there was no humour in her gaze, only a cold, unnerving certainty.

"You knew?" His voice came out in a rough whisper, disbelief and a creeping dread flooding his veins. How long had she known? Why had she not said anything?

Claere looked at him, unflinching. Of course, she knew.

“Yet you endured it in silence.” His voice was rough, almost pleading now. “What if someone... I had meant to poison you?”

“If that’s what you wanted,” she said, her voice soft but deadly, “I’d drink the whole vial.” She took a breath, her eyes never leaving his. “I’d gladly sleep forever.”

Her words crushed him. Horror and heartbreak twisted a spear into his stomach. The thought of her slipping away like that, of her cold body lying still in his arms, shook him to his core. It was too much—far too much. There was no threat in her voice, no malice—only resignation, like the notion of death no longer held any fear for her. And that terrified him more than anything.

Claere rose from her seat, crossing the small space between them, her steps slow and deliberate. When she stopped in front of him, faces apart from him, her eyes were the entire night sky split in two.

"So why won't you do this for me?" she whispered.

Cregan stared at her, his chest tightening, raising all the fury, fear, and helplessness. His fists clenched at his sides, the frustration he had kept bottled up for so long now threatening to spill over.

“This isn’t about control or freedom, Claere,” he said, his voice harsher than he intended. He began pacing, the tension in the room rising with every step. “This is about keeping you alive. You vanish for days, you come back bleeding, and you expect me to stand by and say nothing? Do you think I want my council breathing down my neck, calling for your head?”

For the first time, Claere’s calm façade cracked—just barely. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowing. But when she spoke, her voice remained eerily calm.

"You think I’m not capable of protecting myself against any of it?"

“This isn’t about your capability!” he thundered, his voice echoing off the corridors.

The sudden, uncharacteristic power of it startled her, and for the briefest moment, her eyes widened. Cregan had never raised his voice to her before. He had always been measured, always mindful. But now, her standing there, behaving like a nobody, it was too much.

“It is fucking breaking me,” he said through gritted teeth, his voice trembling with barely contained rage and something deeper—raw, aching pain. “It breaks me to see you slipping away from me. To watch you turn into someone I can’t reach. Every time you return from beyond the Wall, I am losing you all over again. You come back, but not all of you does. And I—”

"'Tis I who risks this," she interrupted, her voice cutting through his like a sharp breeze.

“No,” he bit back, stepping closer to her, his face inches from hers now. “This is about us. About you disappearing into the shadows, about me waking every night to an empty bed, wondering if you’ll return, or if one day it’ll be a lifeless corpse they bring back to me.”

She stared at him, and for the first time, he saw it—the crack in her armour. A flicker of something in her eyes. It was brief, barely noticeable, but it was there. She was listening, even if she wouldn’t admit it.

"I will not stand for this," he said, his voice quieter now but no less intense. His chest heaved with his words. "You may not be angry, Claere, but I am. I am livid."

Claere's gaze dropped to the fire, her lips pressing into a thin line. Silence fell between them again, and that silence—her silence—was what infuriated him the most. The distance, the way she kept herself apart from him, even now, even here when they were alone.

“Say something, love,” he pleaded, his voice softening, the desperation creeping in now. "Fight me. Argue. Anything, please."

Claere’s gaze lifted to him, her expression impassive, composed once more. She seemed to gather herself, the crack in her armour sealed as if it had never existed.

"As you command, my lord," she said, her tone formal, aloof to his affection. “No more flights beyond the Wall. No more risks.”

Her formal tone, her distant acceptance, grated at him like a blade against stone. It wasn’t anger he saw in her anymore—it was something worse. It was resignation. The very thing he feared most. She was shutting him out, retreating into herself, all while pretending to offer him what he’d asked for.

"It's not like that, love. I only want your peace again," he whispered, almost a plea, reaching out to touch her hand. She moved away to tuck her fingers into her skirts, turning her cheek to him.

"I have not slept well in a few days," she told him. "I'd like to rest now."

The rejection pricked deeper than he cared to admit once her words settled in. They were subtle, but they cut deeper than he’d expected. She didn’t argue, didn’t fight—just turned away, pulling further from him with that calm, elusive composure.

“Claere…” he whispered, but her eyes were still on the fire, her hands tucked into her skirts. As though she were shielding herself from him.

“I'd like to rest,” she repeated, quieter, final.

He watched her for a long moment, heart heavy, before nodding once. With a quiet sigh, Cregan turned and left the room, the door closing softly behind him.

thank you for reading! more to come later!

a question for my loveliest people: do you think Cregan was right to feed Claere nightshade and control her whereabouts? what could he have done instead?

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

169 notes · View notes