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astrxq · 3 days ago

Text

Through the Snowfall

cregan stark x reader

words: 19k

notes: You return to Winterfell after years spent in the South, where you and Cregan Stark grew up together but eventually drifted apart. As duty and duty-bound marriage proposals weigh on Cregan, the unspoken love between you slowly reignites, thawing years of silence.

Your heart pounded in your chest as the horses pulled the carriage closer to the castle. You had been away for so long – far too long – and now, standing before the very gates that had once been your home, you felt both the weight of nostalgia and the uncertainty of what awaited you inside.

As the carriage came to a stop, the familiar figures of Winterfell’s servants approached, offering their assistance.

You had not seen him in years. Not since that summer, when you were both just children with the world at your feet. So much had changed since then. You had gone south with your family, settling far from the North’s relentless winter, and Cregan had grown into a man – one bound by duty and responsibility. The boy you had known, the one who had held your hand and whispered secrets beneath the moonlight, was no longer here.

At least, that’s what you tried to convince yourself of.

You took a steadying breath and stepped down from the carriage, your boots crunching softly in the snow beneath you. The gates slowly creaked open, and there he was, standing just beyond them.

Cregan stood tall, his cloak of thick fur sweeping around his legs, and his dark eyes – those eyes that had once been so full of mischief – were now cold, hard with the weight of his title, his responsibilities. The boyish grin that used to play on his lips was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was the quiet, stoic man who had taken his place as Warden of the North. His features were sharper now, the jawline more defined, the muscle in his arms and chest more pronounced. He had grown into himself in ways you hadn’t expected.

But there, beneath it all, was still Cregan.

He had not seen you yet, his gaze fixed on something distant, and for a moment, you allowed yourself to study him. It felt wrong – too intimate – but you couldn’t stop. You remembered the way his face would soften when he laughed, how his eyes would light up with excitement when he talked about the future. But those things seemed far gone now. This man, the one standing before you, was not the same as the one you had known. He was colder, harder, distant. The weight of the North had clearly shaped him.

Your heart twisted in your chest, a pang of longing mixed with the ache of uncertainty.

Before you could find the answers to any of the questions running through your head, Cregan’s sharp gaze flickered to you, and his expression softened – just the faintest of shifts. His eyes lingered for a moment, as though trying to place you. You felt a sudden rush of warmth, a recognition that burned through you in a flash.

There you were, standing in front of him, not the woman you had become, not the years that had passed between you. No. You were the girl he had once known, the one who had laughed with him in the snow, who had stolen kisses beneath the weeping branches of the godswood. You were the one who had left, but never truly gone.

His lips parted, but no words came out at first. It was as if he had forgotten how to speak, how to address you after all this time. He stepped forward slowly, his boots leaving heavy imprints in the snow, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

He breathed, your name escaping his lips like a prayer, soft and reverent in the cold morning air. The way he said it – it was as if he had been holding onto it all these years, waiting for the right moment to let it go. His voice was deeper now, rougher around the edges, but the way he shaped the syllables of your name remained unchanged.

The sound of it made your chest tighten, memories flooding back like a tide you couldn't control. Summers spent racing through the godswood, winters huddled by the great hearth, sharing stories and dreams. The first time he had called your name in that special way, just before he kissed you beneath the heart tree, both of you young and foolish and full of hope.

"My lord," you managed to reply, the formality feeling strange on your tongue. It wasn't what you wanted to say – not really – but it was what was expected. You were no longer children who could speak freely, who could ignore the weight of titles and responsibilities.

Something flickered across his face at the formal address – pain, perhaps, or disappointment. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the mask of the Lord of Winterfell. "Welcome home," he said, his voice steady now, controlled. "It has been far too long."

Home. The word echoed in your mind, bringing with it a surge of emotions you weren't prepared for. Was it still home? Could it be, after all this time?

"Yes," you agreed softly, "it has."

The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken words, with memories neither of you dared to voice. You could feel the eyes of the servants upon you, watching this reunion with barely concealed interest. They remembered, of course they did. The whole castle had known of the friendship between the young lord and you, had whispered about the possibility of more.

But that was before. Before duty called. Before you left. Before he became the man who stood before you now, wrapped in furs and responsibility.

"You must be tired from your journey," Cregan said finally, breaking the tension. "Allow me to show you to your chambers." He gestured toward the castle, and you noticed how his movements had become more refined, more measured. Gone was the impulsive boy who would grab your hand and run through the corridors without a care.

You followed him through the familiar corridors, each step echoing against the stone walls. The silence between you was deafening, filled only by the sound of your footsteps and the distant murmur of castle life. It wasn't supposed to be like this. In your dreams of returning to Winterfell, you had imagined easy conversation, perhaps even laughter. Instead, there was this – this suffocating quiet, this careful distance.

Your mind wandered to the letters that had once bridged the gap between you. In the beginning, they had been endless pages filled with everything and nothing. Cregan would write about his growing responsibilities, his fears, his hopes. You would tell him of the South, of the strange customs and the even stranger people. Every word had felt like a lifeline, keeping you connected despite the distance.

But then the letters grew shorter. His responses took longer to arrive. Your own words became careful, measured, as if you were both suddenly aware of the growing chasm between your lives. The last letter you had received was barely a page long, filled with polite inquiries about your health and family. You had stared at it for hours, trying to find traces of the boy you had known in those formal lines.

You hadn't written back.

Now, watching his broad shoulders ahead of you, you wondered if he had waited for your response. If he had looked for your letter among the ravens that arrived each morning, the way you used to look for his. The thought made your chest ache.

"The castle hasn't changed much," Cregan said suddenly, his voice echoing in the stone corridor. He didn't turn to look at you as he spoke, but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand tightened almost imperceptibly on his sword belt. "Though I suppose you'll find some things different."

"Some things are bound to change," you replied softly, your words carrying more weight than you intended. You saw him falter slightly in his stride, just for a moment, before he continued walking.

"Aye," he agreed, his voice rougher now. "They do."

Your feet slowed as you caught sight of the intricate pattern on the wall – a tapestry of sorts, sewn with meticulous care. The deep, dark blues and grays of Winterfell’s colors danced against the stone, a striking contrast to the cold walls. Stark sigils intertwined with threads of silver, the banners and colors that had defined this place for generations.

It was beautiful in its own way. Not grand or flashy, but solid.

You stopped, reaching a hand out to trace the design with your fingers. The fabric was worn, the edges frayed in places, but the overall pattern was still as strong as ever. It reminded you of the very essence of Winterfell – rough around the edges, but still standing, unyielding in the face of time.

"Beautiful," you murmured, more to yourself than to Cregan. Your fingers lingered on the edges of the stitched lines, feeling the texture beneath your touch.

Cregan's footsteps slowed, and you could sense him watching you, though his gaze remained ahead. His tone was casual when he spoke, but you heard the faintest edge to it. "The women in the kitchens were mumbling that Winterfell has lacked a woman's touch for far too long," he said, his voice dropping slightly, as if he were uncertain whether to continue.

You raised an eyebrow, glancing at him now, though he still hadn’t turned to face you. There was an odd, almost sheepish quality to his words, something that didn’t quite fit with the man you had known. "They said this was an attempt to make Winterfell feel less..." He hesitated, as though searching for the right word, his hand tightening on his sword belt. "Rocky, I suppose."

You chuckled softly, the sound unfamiliar in the stone silence of the hall. It felt strange to laugh here, in this place that had once been so full of warmth and laughter, but something about the idea of Winterfell being made to feel less “rocky” made the edges of your mouth twitch upward.

"Less rocky," you repeated, your eyes flicking over the tapestry once more. "Well, it does have its charm, I think. I can see what they were trying to do."

Cregan’s lips twitched, the first flicker of a smile you had seen on his face since you had arrived. The small, fleeting change made your chest tighten with something you couldn’t quite place. The tension that had settled between you – so thick, so charged – seemed to shift ever so slightly. Just enough for you to catch your breath.

"You’ve always had a way of seeing things in a different light," Cregan murmured, his voice quieter now. He finally turned, his gaze meeting yours, a brief flicker of something you couldn’t define in his eyes. It was gone before you could grasp it, hidden behind the stoic expression he had perfected over the years.

You felt a sudden warmth spread through your chest, an ache that wasn’t painful but still lingering, soft and unyielding.

"Just a matter of perspective," you said, your voice low, before your gaze returned to the tapestry. Your fingers lingered for a moment longer before you let them fall.

Cregan didn’t respond right away. Instead, he let the silence stretch again, this time a more comfortable one. And for the first time since you had set foot in Winterfell, you felt as though you could breathe.

You passed the entrance to the great hall, and memories flooded unbidden into your mind. The feast days of your youth, when you and Cregan would steal extra sweets from the kitchen and hide beneath the tables, giggling as the adults searched for you. The winter nights when you'd sit side by side before the great hearth, sharing stories and dreams while the snow fell outside. The last feast before you'd left, where Cregan had barely spoken two words to you. You remembered how he'd sat at the high table, his face a mask of stone, while you'd picked at your food and tried not to cry.

Neither of you had known how to say goodbye, how to bridge the growing distance between you. It had been easier, perhaps, to say nothing at all.

And then the letters had come. His first, and miraculously, your own, arriving near the same time. Both of them apologies, scrawled in the uncertain hands of youth. He’d written of regret for not saying goodbye, of how his words had caught in his throat when the time had come. You’d said much the same, weaving a wry joke about your shared failure into the letter, trying to mask the sting of leaving.

Now, walking these same halls with him, those memories felt sharp as a blade. The silence between you was different this time – heavier, laden with years of unspoken words and buried feelings. Your footsteps echoed against the stone floors, a steady rhythm that matched the beating of your heart.

"Your father writes that you've settled well in the South," Cregan said suddenly, his voice carefully neutral. He didn't look at you as he spoke, his eyes fixed ahead.

"I suppose," you replied, matching his measured tone. "Though it never quite feels like home."

He glanced at you then, something flickering in his dark eyes. "No?" There was an edge to his question, one that made your breath catch.

"No," you said softly. "The South is... different. The people there, they don't understand..." You trailed off, unsure how to explain that everything there felt too bright, too loud, too shallow. How you missed the quiet strength of the North, the honor that ran deep as roots in frozen ground. How you missed him.

"What don't they understand?" Cregan asked, his voice lower now, almost gentle.

You stopped walking, turning to face him. The torchlight cast shadows across his features, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the intensity in his gaze. "The North," you said simply. "What it means to be of the North. To have its blood in your veins, its winds in your dreams."

Something shifted in his expression then, a crack in his carefully maintained facade. "You always did understand," he murmured, so quietly you almost missed it.

The words hung between you, delicate as frost on a window pane. You remembered how he used to say that – 'you understand' – whenever you'd find him in the godswood, wrestling with some new responsibility his father had placed on his shoulders. You'd sit together beneath the heart tree, and you'd listen as he spoke of his fears, his doubts, his dreams. You had understood then, and somehow, despite the years and distance, you still did.

The rest of the walk to your chambers passed in relative quiet, but it was a different kind of silence now. Less strained, though still careful. Each step felt like walking through memories – some sharp and clear as ice, others soft and blurred like snow falling at twilight.

Your chambers, when you reached them, were exactly as you remembered. The same heavy wooden furniture, the same thick furs on the bed, the same view of the courtyard through frost-kissed windows. Someone had already lit a fire in the hearth, and its warmth reached out to you like an old friend's embrace.

"I hope you'll find everything to your satisfaction," Cregan said, standing in the doorway. His frame nearly filled it, and you couldn't help but remember how you both used to slip through these same doors as children, playing hide and seek in the endless corridors of Winterfell.

"Thank you," you replied, turning to face him. The firelight cast shadows across his features, softening them somehow. For a moment, you caught a glimpse of the boy you had known, hidden beneath the lord's stern facade. "It's... exactly as I remember."

His eyes met yours, and something flickered in their depths. "Not everything changes," he said quietly, and there was a weight to his words that made your heart skip a beat.

Before you could respond, he straightened, his expression shifting back to that careful neutrality. "The evening meal will be served in the Great Hall. I..." he paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I would be honored if you would join us."

"Of course," you said, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened at the invitation. It was nothing more than courtesy, you told yourself. The Lord of Winterfell doing his duty to a guest.

He nodded, his hand resting briefly on the doorframe. For a moment, it seemed as though he might say something more, but instead, he simply inclined his head and turned to leave.

"Cregan," you called out, surprising yourself. He stopped, his back still to you. "I... it's good to see you again."

He remained still for a long moment, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his hand clenched at his side. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost rough. "And you, my lady. And you."

Then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the crackling fire.

***

The next morning arrived with a gentle knock at your door. The sound pulled you from your thoughts – you'd barely slept, your mind replaying the conversation in the godswood over and over again.

"Come in," you called, sitting up in bed. The door creaked open to reveal a young woman with warm brown eyes and a sweet smile. She couldn't have been more than eighteen, her movements quick but graceful as she bustled into the room.

She bobbed a quick curtsy. "Good morning, my lady. I'm Mira. Lord Stark assigned me to be your handmaiden during your stay."

There was something warm and genuine about her smile that immediately put you at ease.

Your heart fluttered at her words. Of course he would be – Cregan had always been thoughtful in these small ways, even when you were children. Some things, it seemed, hadn't changed.

"Thank you, Mira," you said, watching as she moved to open the heavy curtains. Morning light spilled into the room, making the frost on the windows sparkle. "You don't need to curtsy every time, though. I'm not..." You hesitated, unsure how to explain that you weren't really anyone of importance here, not anymore.

Mira turned to you with a knowing look that seemed beyond her years. "Lord Stark said you might say that," she said, a small smile playing at her lips. "He also said I should ignore it."

You couldn't help but laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. "Did he now? And what else did Lord Stark say about me?"

"Nothing directly, m'lady," Mira replied, moving to your wardrobe to select a dress. "Oh, these southern fabrics are beautiful," she exclaimed, running her fingers over one of your dresses. "Though you might want something warmer for today. Lord Stark mentioned he'd be showing you the grounds himself." There was a knowing glint in her eye as she said this, though she tried to hide it by busying herself with your hair.

"Did he?" you asked, trying to keep your voice neutral. Your heart, however, had other ideas, picking up its pace at this news.

"Oh yes, my lady. Quite insistent about it too." Mira’s fingers were gentle as she worked through your hair, braiding sections in the northern style. "Begging your pardon, but... well, he's never taken such interest in showing guests around before. Usually leaves that to the steward, he does."

You caught her eye in the mirror, and she blushed, realizing perhaps she'd said too much. "Not that it's my place to say, of course."

"It's alright, Mira," you assured her, watching as she expertly wove your hair into the intricate northern style. Her words had sent a warmth spreading through your chest, despite your attempts to temper your expectations. "The castle can be quite confusing for those who aren't familiar with it."

"Oh, but you are familiar with it, aren't you, my lady?" Mira said, her fingers never pausing in their work. "The older servants, they speak of when you were here before. They say..." she hesitated, then continued more softly, "they say you used to know every corner of Winterfell, just as well as Lord Stark himself."

You swallowed hard, memories flooding back – of hide and seek games that had taken you through every secret passage, of races through the corridors, of quiet moments in forgotten corners where you and Cregan would share dreams of the future.

"That was a long time ago," you said quietly, though your heart ached at the truth of it.

Mira hummed thoughtfully as she finished with your hair. "Time doesn't always matter as much as we think it does," she said, with that same wisdom that seemed far beyond her years. "Especially not within these walls."

She moved to the wardrobe again, pulling out a dress of deep blue wool, thick and warm, with delicate silver embroidery along the sleeves. "This one, I think. The color..." she smiled slightly. "Well, Lord Stark has always favored blue."

Your cheeks warmed at her words, remembering how Cregan had once told you, in one of his early letters, that blue reminded him of the day you'd first kissed – how you'd been wearing a blue ribbon in your hair, how it had come loose when he'd pulled you close.

As Mira helped you dress, you couldn't help but wonder what this tour of the grounds would bring. Would it be formal and distant, like your first meeting at the gates? Or would there be moments, like in the godswood last night, where the walls between you seemed to crack, just slightly?

"There," Mira said finally, stepping back to survey her work. "Perfect." She paused, then added with a slight smile, "Lord Stark won't know what hit him."

"Mira!" you exclaimed, but you couldn't help laughing. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and for a moment, you felt like a girl again, getting ready for a feast where you knew Cregan would be watching. The handmaid’s youth seemed to catch onto you.

"He’ll be waiting in the courtyard," she said as she gathered up the discarded linens and fabrics.

With that, she slipped out of the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts – and your racing heart. You moved to the window, the cool glass pressing against your palms as you gazed outside. The morning sun sparkled on the fresh snow, turning it to diamonds, and in the courtyard below, you spotted him.

Cregan stood with one of his men, his dark cloak billowing slightly in the breeze. Even from this distance, his commanding presence was unmistakable. Yet, it wasn’t his authority that held your attention – it was the way he kept glancing toward the entrance to the keep, as though waiting, hoping… for you.

The thought sent another flutter through your chest, both thrilling and terrifying. You lingered at the window for a moment longer, watching the way the sunlight caught in his hair, the easy strength in his posture as he gave quiet commands to his men. This was Cregan as you had always imagined him growing into: steady, capable, and deeply rooted in the land he ruled.

What you hadn't imagined – what you couldn't have known – was how it would feel to see him like this, to be on the outside looking in. Once, you had known every expression that crossed his face, could read his thoughts in the set of his shoulders. Now, watching him from above, you felt both achingly close and impossibly far away.

Taking a deep breath, you turned from the window. The dress Mira had chosen was perfect – warm enough for the winter air, but fitted in a way that made you feel more confident than you had since arriving. You smoothed your hands over the fabric one last time, trying to calm the nervous energy that seemed to hum beneath your skin.

The walk down to the courtyard felt both too long and too short. Each step brought you closer to him, and with each step, memories seemed to rise from the very stones beneath your feet. Here was where he had caught you when you slipped on the ice one winter morning. There was where you had hidden behind a pillar, trying not to laugh as he searched for you during one of your games. Every corner held a piece of your shared past, and you wondered if he felt their weight as heavily as you did.

When you finally stepped out into the courtyard, the cold air bit at your cheeks, but you barely noticed it. Cregan had turned at the sound of your approach, and the look in his eyes when he saw you made your breath catch in your throat.

For a moment – just a moment – his carefully maintained facade cracked. His eyes widened slightly, his lips parting as though he had forgotten whatever he had been about to say. You saw his hands clench at his sides, then relax, as though he was physically stopping himself from reaching out.

"Good morrow, my lord" you said softly, proud of how steady your voice sounded despite the way your heart was racing.

"Good morrow," he replied, and though his voice was controlled, there was a warmth to it that hadn't been there yesterday. His eyes lingered on your hair, and you wondered if he recognized the northern style, if he remembered how he used to tease you about your southern braids.

The man he had been speaking with quietly excused himself, though neither of you really noticed his departure. For a moment, you just stood there, the morning sun painting everything in soft gold, making the frost sparkle like scattered diamonds around you.

"You look..." Cregan started, then seemed to catch himself. "I hope you slept well?"

"Well enough," you answered, though in truth, sleep had been elusive, your mind too full of him, of memories, of the way he had looked at you in the godswood. "Though some things haven't changed – I can still hear the droplets at night."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "The dripping pipes," he said, a trace of amusement softening his voice. "I’d forgotten how loud they can be.” He paused, his brows drawing together slightly. "I'll see it so they’re fixed. You should be able to rest without such distractions."

"Oh, there's no need for that," you said quickly, waving a hand in dismissal. "There are surely more pressing matters for the Lord of Winterfell than a bit of dripping water."

Cregan’s eyes narrowed slightly, his expression thoughtful. "Perhaps," he replied, his voice even, though there was a flicker of something – determination, maybe – in his tone. "But you’ve only just returned, and I’d rather your stay be... comfortable."

Your cheeks warmed at his words, and you found yourself studying the frost-dusted cobblestones at your feet. It was a small thing, this concern over a leaky pipe, but it felt like more. Like a reminder of the boy who had once made you a crown from pine branches because you’d lost the ribbon in your hair.

"I’ll manage just fine," you said softly, meeting his gaze again.

He regarded you for a moment longer, then inclined his head. "As you wish," he said, though you didn’t miss the way his lips pressed into a thin line, as if he wasn’t entirely ready to concede the matter. "But if it keeps you up again, you’ll tell me."

You nodded, though you knew you wouldn’t. The dripping didn’t matter – not really. What mattered was this, standing here with him, feeling the frost-kissed air between you and the weight of all the unspoken things you could not bring yourself to say.

"Shall we?" Cregan gestured toward the path that led around the castle walls. As you fell into step beside him, you noticed how he shortened his stride to match yours – another small thing that spoke of memory, of habit.

"The grounds have changed somewhat since you were last here," he said, his voice taking on that careful neutrality again. "We've expanded the glass gardens, added new training yards for the guards."

"And the old oak?" you asked before you could stop yourself. "The one by the east wall – is it still standing?"

Cregan's step faltered slightly. You both knew why you were asking – it had been your spot, once upon a time. Where you'd meet in the early mornings, where you'd carved your initials into the bark one summer afternoon.

"It is," he said softly. "Lost a few branches in last winter's storms, but the old thing's stubborn. Refuses to fall."

A smile tugged at your lips. "Some things are like that," you murmured. "Too stubborn to give in, even when the world tries to break them."

His eyes met yours, dark and intense. "Aye," he agreed, his voice rougher now. "Some things are."

You walked in silence for a moment, the snow crunching beneath your boots. The morning air was crisp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and woodsmoke.

"Do you remember," you started, then laughed softly, shaking your head. "Gods, I feel like that's all we've done since I arrived. Remember this, remember that..."

"Is that so terrible?" Cregan asked, his tone lighter than you'd heard it yet. "Remembering?"

"No," you admitted, watching your breath cloud in the cold air. "Just... different. When I was in the South, I tried so hard not to remember. And now..."

"Now?"

You gestured vaguely at the castle walls, the snow-covered grounds, at him. "Now it's like every stone has a memory attached to it. Every corner holds some piece of... of us."

Cregan was quiet for a long moment, and you worried you'd said too much. But when he spoke, his voice was soft, almost vulnerable. "I never tried not to remember," he admitted. "Perhaps I should have. Might have made things easier."

"Easier isn't always better," you said quietly, remembering all the times you'd convinced yourself that forgetting would be easier, only to find yourself dreaming of northern winters and dark eyes filled with laughter.

He turned to look at you then, really look at you, and something in his expression made your heart skip. "No," he agreed. "It isn't."

The wind picked up, sending a few loose strands of your hair dancing. Without thinking, Cregan reached out, his fingers brushing your cheek as he tucked the wayward strands behind your ear. The touch was fleeting, gone almost before you registered it, but it left your skin tingling.

"I..." he started, then stopped, his hand dropping to his side. "Your hair – the style. It suits you."

You touched the braids self-consciously. "Mira did it. She seems quite skilled."

"She is. Though I suspect she had an easier task than most, given her subject." The words seemed to slip out before he could catch them, and you saw a faint flush color his cheeks.

"My lord flatters me," you said, trying to keep your tone light despite the way your heart was racing.

"Cregan," he said suddenly, almost fiercely. "Please. When we're alone, at least – I can't bear to hear you call me 'my lord' again."

The raw honesty in his voice caught you off guard. "Cregan," you repeated softly, and you saw something in his expression crack, just slightly. "Old habits are hard to break, I suppose."

"Some habits," he said, his voice low, "are worth breaking. Others..." He trailed off, his eyes finding yours again, and the intensity of his gaze made your breath catch.

The moment stretched between you, the cold air around you seeming to warm under the weight of his words. You opened your mouth to respond, though what you would say, you weren’t entirely sure. But before the words could form, he stepped back, breaking the connection.

As you walked beside him, you found your attention drifting from his words about the castle grounds to Cregan himself. You couldn't help but study him, drinking in all the ways time had changed him. The boy you'd known had grown into something else entirely – something that made your breath catch and your cheeks warm despite the winter chill.

There was a scar now, thin and silver, that curved along his jaw and disappeared beneath his beard. You wondered about its story, about what battles or trials had marked him while you were away. His hair, longer than you remembered, was pulled back in a neat bun at the nape of his neck, though a few strands had escaped to frame his face. You remembered how it used to fall in his eyes when you were younger, how you'd always wanted to brush it back.

A servant hurried past with a bundle of firewood, and you couldn't help but notice how Cregan towered over him. He'd always been tall, but now... The thick furs draped over his broad shoulders made him seem even larger, a true northern lord in every sense. You watched as he gestured toward the battlements, explaining something about recent reinforcements, and the way his muscles moved beneath his clothing made heat rise to your cheeks.

Gods, you needed to stop this line of thinking. You turned your face away slightly, hoping the cold air would cool your burning cheeks. You had no business noticing how his size made your mouth go dry, how his deep voice sent shivers down your spine that had nothing to do with the winter chill.

"The glass gardens have doubled in size," he was saying, his deep voice rumbling through the morning air. "We can grow enough vegetables now to–" He stopped suddenly, catching you staring. "Is something wrong?"

You felt heat rush to your cheeks, caught in your obvious appreciation of him. "No, nothing's wrong. I just..." you fumbled for words, trying to ignore the knowing glint in his eye. "The scar. On your jaw. I was wondering..."

His hand went to it almost unconsciously, fingers brushing over the mark. "Ah. A disagreement with a wildling raiding party two winters ago. Nothing too dramatic, though the maester feared it might leave a mark."

"It suits you," you said before you could stop yourself, then immediately felt your face flame hotter. Gods, what were you doing? Commenting on his scars like some swooning maiden?

But Cregan's lips twitched, almost smiling. "Does it now?"

You looked away, suddenly very interested in the frost patterns on a nearby wall. "I only meant... that is..." You took a breath, trying to gather your scattered thoughts. "You look well. The years have been... kind."

His low chuckle made you look back at him, and the warmth in his eyes sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold. "Kind isn't the word most would use," he said, his voice softer now. "But thank you."

A gust of wind swept through the courtyard, and you couldn't help but step closer to him, seeking shelter from the biting cold. He shifted instinctively, his broad frame blocking the worst of the wind, and suddenly you were very aware of how close you were standing. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, to catch the scent of leather and pine that clung to his furs.

"You're cold," he said, his voice rough. It wasn't a question.

"A little," you admitted, though in truth, the heat rising in your cheeks could have warmed all of Winterfell.

He moved as if to remove his cloak, but you quickly shook your head. "Don't. I'm fine, truly. Just... adjusting to the North again."

His eyes searched your face for a moment, and you saw something flicker in their depths – concern, perhaps, or something deeper. "We should head back inside," he said finally. "I've kept you out here too long."

"I don't mind," you said quickly – too quickly perhaps, given the way his eyebrow arched. "That is... the tour is lovely. I'd like to see more of what's changed."

"And what hasn't?" he asked softly, and you knew he wasn't talking about the castle anymore.

You met his gaze, feeling your heart thunder in your chest. "Yes," you whispered. "That too."

He was quiet for a long moment, just looking at you, and you found yourself holding your breath, waiting for... something. Whatever this tension was between you, it felt like a bowstring pulled taut, ready to either snap or sing.

A servant hurrying past with an armful of firewood broke the moment, and Cregan stepped back slightly, though his eyes never left your face. You immediately missed his warmth, the shelter of his broad frame against the wind.

"My lord," the servant bobbed a quick bow as he passed, and you saw Cregan's jaw tighten at the title.

"The godswood," he said suddenly, his voice low enough that only you could hear. "Do you remember the path we used to take? Behind the heart tree?"

Your breath caught. Of course you remembered – it had been your secret route, a hidden trail that led to a small clearing where you could be alone, away from watchful eyes and whispered expectations.

"Yes," you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.

"Would you..." he paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Would you walk it with me? After the midday meal, perhaps?"

Your heart leapt at the invitation, even as your mind warned you to be careful. This wasn't like when you were children, when stolen moments in secret places held no consequences. You were both different now, bound by duty and expectations.

And yet...

"Yes," you said again, watching as something like relief flickered across his features. "I'd like that."

He nodded, and you caught the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "Good. That's... good."

Another gust of wind swept through the courtyard, and this time you couldn't suppress a shiver. Cregan's expression immediately shifted to concern.

"Come," he said, gesturing toward the keep. "Let's get you inside before you freeze. I won't have it said that the Lord of Winterfell let his guest turn to ice on her first proper day back."

You fell into step beside him, noticing how he angled his body to shield you from the wind as you walked. It was such a natural gesture, so unconsciously protective, that it made your chest ache with familiarity.

"I'm hardly so delicate," you protested, though you couldn't help but smile at his concern. "I did grow up here, you know. The cold isn't foreign to me."

"No," he agreed, his voice softening. "But you've been in the South for so long. The North's winters have grown harsher since you left."

"And its lord more protective, it seems," you teased gently, then immediately wished you hadn't when you saw the way his expression shuttered slightly.

You continued walking, Cregan pointing out changes to the grounds – new stables here, reinforced walls there – when something caught your eye. Hidden partly behind an old oak tree was a wooden swing, its ropes frayed and rusted chains creaking softly in the wind. Your heart clenched at the sight of it.

"Oh," you breathed, halting mid-step. "It's still here."

Cregan followed your gaze, and you saw something flicker across his face – memory, perhaps, or regret. "Aye," he said quietly. "Though it's seen better days."

You walked toward it, your fingers trailing over the weathered wood. "You made this for my tenth nameday," you said softly. "Spent weeks on it in secret, if I remember correctly."

"Nearly took my thumb off with the saw," he admitted, a hint of amusement coloring his voice. "Father was furious when he found out I'd been sneaking tools from the forge."

Without thinking, you settled onto the swing. It creaked ominously under your weight, the chains groaning in protest. Cregan stepped forward quickly, concern etching his features.

"Careful," he warned. "It's not as sturdy as it once was."

As if to prove his point, one of the chains gave an particularly loud groan, and you quickly stood, a nervous laugh escaping your lips.

"I think it’s had its last ride," you said, brushing your hands over your skirts, as if to dust away the lingering memory of it. But your smile faltered when you saw the look on Cregan’s face – not amusement, but something deeper, heavier.

You couldn’t stop your eyes from catching on the faint scar that curved along his jaw. It was subtle, but now that you’d noticed it, you couldn’t look away. It hadn’t been there before.

“You didn’t tell me about the scar,” you said softly, breaking the quiet.

Cregan stiffened slightly, his hand brushing against his jaw as if reminded of its presence. He didn’t stall, but his expression darkened, and his voice, when he finally spoke, was tight.

“It had been months since we last spoke,” he said, a sharp edge to his tone. “When would I have told you?”

The words hit harder than you expected, and you faltered, your breath catching in your throat. He glanced at you then, his expression softening, regret flickering in his eyes.

The silence that followed was heavy, laden with all the letters that hadn't been written, all the words that hadn't been said. You shifted your weight, suddenly unsure where to look or what to do with your hands.

But Cregan, ever the diplomatic lord, didn't let the awkwardness linger. He cleared his throat softly and gestured toward a nearby archway. "The kitchens have been expanded," he said, his voice deliberately lighter.

He began walking, offering his arm so you could step around the swing to step beside him once more.

You were grateful for the change in subject, embarrassment creeping up your neck at having mentioned the letters – or lack thereof. Of course he hadn't written to you about the scar. The easy intimacy you'd once shared in your correspondence had faded long before that.

"The kitchens can feed twice as many now," Cregan continued, his voice steady and controlled. "Though Old Nan still complains they're too small when feast days come around."

A smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. "Old Nan's still here?"

The mention of the old septa that raised you brought a grin to your face.

"Aye. Still terrorizing the kitchen staff with tales of grumkins and snarks." There was warmth in his voice now, the tension from moments before beginning to ease. "She asked about you, you know. When she heard you were coming."

"Did she?" You tried to ignore the way your heart fluttered at the thought that people had spoken of your return, that they had remembered you.

Cregan nodded, ducking slightly as you passed under a low archway. "Said the castle hasn't been the same since you left. Too quiet, according to her."

You laughed softly, though the sound held a touch of sadness. "I doubt one person's absence could make such a difference."

He stopped then, turning to face you with an intensity that made your breath catch. "You'd be surprised," he said quietly.

The godswood was quiet when you reached it, the kind of silence that seemed to press against your skin, ancient and knowing. Snow crunched beneath your feet as you made your way to the heart tree, its red leaves rustling softly above.

Without hesitation, you made your way to the base of the heart tree, your boots crunching softly in the fresh snow. The spot was as familiar to you as breathing – how many afternoons had you spent here, talking and dreaming and simply being? You gathered your skirts and settled down, the thick wool protecting you from the cold ground as you straightened your legs out before you.

Cregan remained standing, his tall frame casting a long shadow in the filtered sunlight. His eyes were on you, dark and unreadable, and for a moment, you felt like that young girl again, looking up at him with a heart full of dreams neither of you could quite voice.

You patted the ground beside you, a silent invitation. His lips quirked slightly – the ghost of a smile – and he let out a long breath, as if releasing something he'd been holding onto. Then he lowered himself to sit beside you, his movements careful and measured, like he was afraid of breaking something fragile between you.

He sat close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, yet far enough that your shoulders didn't quite touch. Always careful, always maintaining that proper distance. But here, in the sacred quiet of the godswood, even that small space between you felt charged with possibility.

You leaned your head back against the heart tree, turning to study his profile. The weak winter sunlight filtered through the red leaves above, casting dappled shadows across his features. He must have felt your gaze because his lips curved into a smile – not the careful, measured expression of Lord Stark, but something softer, more genuine. Something that reminded you of the boy who used to sneak lemon cakes from the kitchen just because he knew they were your favorite.

"What?" he asked, his voice quiet in the sacred silence of the godswood. He turned his face to you.

"Tell me about Winterfell," you said softly. "About you. I want to know everything I've missed."

He was quiet for a moment, his fingers absently playing with a fallen leaf. "Where would you like me to start?"

"Anywhere," you replied. "Everything. The castle, the people... you."

Cregan let out a breath, his smile turning slightly rueful. "It's strange, isn't it? How many years we wrote to each other, sharing every detail of our lives, and now..."

"And now we're practically strangers," you finished when he trailed off.

"No," he said quickly, turning to look at you properly. "Never strangers. Different, perhaps, but not..." He shook his head, searching for words. "You could never be a stranger to me."

The intensity in his voice made your heart skip. "Tell me then," you urged gently. "Tell me about the man you've become."

He was quiet for another moment, considering. "It's not very exciting, I'm afraid. Most days are filled with ledgers and petitions, training yards and council meetings. The North demands much of its lord."

"And does its lord ever get to breathe?" you asked, noting the way his shoulders seemed to carry an invisible weight.

A soft laugh escaped him. "Sometimes. In moments like this." He glanced at you, then quickly away. "The godswood... it's still the only place where I can truly think. Where I can just be Cregan, not Lord Stark."

"Is it very different?"

"More than I expected," he admitted. "Father tried to prepare me, but..." He shook his head. "There's always something that needs attention, someone who needs guidance or protection or justice. The responsibility of it all... sometimes it feels like drowning."

"And yet you swim," you observed quietly.

He smiled slightly. "What choice do I have? The North needs its Stark."

"And what does Cregan need?"

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and you saw him stiffen slightly. For a moment, you thought he wouldn't answer. But then he turned to look at you, really look at you, and there was something in his eyes that made your breath catch.

"What I need..." he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. "What I need hasn't changed much since we were children."

"And you?" he asked softly, shifting slightly to face you better. "What has life been like in the South?"

Your fingers found their way to your hair, twisting a loose strand that had escaped Mira's careful braiding. It was an old habit, one you'd never quite broken, and you noticed Cregan's eyes following the movement.

"You still do that," he said, a gentle warmth in his voice. "When you're thinking."

You dropped your hand, surprised. "Do what?"

"Play with your hair." His smile grew softer, more reminiscent. "You used to do it during lessons with Maester Walys. Drove him half mad, watching you twist your hair instead of paying attention to his histories."

A laugh bubbled up from your chest. "Gods, I'd forgotten about that. Though in my defense, his lessons on the Andal invasion were dreadfully dull."

"As I recall, you preferred the stories about the First Men and their battles," Cregan said, his eyes twinkling with remembered mischief. "Especially the bloody ones."

"Still do," you admitted, then sighed, your smile fading slightly. "Though there wasn't much call for such tales in the South. It was all... different there. Prettier, perhaps, but..."

"But?" he prompted when you trailed off.

"Softer," you said finally. "Everything was softer. The winds, the words, even the people. My septa spent three years trying to teach me proper Southern graces – how to sit, how to speak, how to be a proper lady." You rolled your eyes, remembering the endless lessons. "She was horrified when she found out I knew how to use a bow."

Cregan's laugh was deep and genuine. "I remember teaching you. You were a terrible shot at first."

"I got better!" you protested, playfully indignant.

"Aye, after you nearly took my eye out with that first attempt," he teased, and for a moment, it was as if no time had passed at all. You were just you and he was just Cregan, sharing jokes beneath the heart tree.

"The South sounds... peaceful," he said after a moment, though there was an odd note in his voice.

You looked at him thoughtfully. "It was. Beautiful and peaceful and utterly..." you searched for the right word.

"Boring?" he suggested, raising an eyebrow.

"Empty," you corrected softly. "It was empty."

A comfortable silence fell between you, broken only by the whisper of wind through the heart tree's leaves. You could feel Cregan shifting beside you, as if wrestling with something he wanted to say. His fingers drummed against his knee – another old habit you remembered from when he was nervous.

Finally, he cleared his throat, his voice taking on that formal, lordly tone he seemed to use as armor. "I trust your time in the South was... that is..." He stopped, started again. "Were you... did you find..." He let out a frustrated breath, and you could see him struggling to find the right words.

"Are you trying to ask if I'm betrothed, Lord Stark?" you asked, unable to keep the hint of amusement from your voice. The sight of him – the formidable Lord of Winterfell – stumbling over his words like a green boy was oddly endearing.

A flush crept up his neck, but he met your eyes steadily. "Yes. That is... I merely wondered if anyone had... if you had found someone worthy of your hand."

You almost laughed at the formality of his phrasing, but something in his expression – a vulnerability you rarely saw anymore – stopped you. "Almost," you admitted softly. "Once."

You saw his jaw tighten, though he tried to keep his face neutral. "Almost?"

"Mm. A second son of some noble house or other. Kind enough, I suppose, but..." you wrinkled your nose at the memory. "Dreadfully dull. Could talk for hours about horse breeding and nothing else. Father arranged it, thinking it would be a good match."

"But it wasn't?" Cregan's voice was carefully controlled, but you could see the tension in his shoulders.

"No," you said simply. "I couldn't... it wasn't what I wanted. Who I wanted." The last part slipped out before you could stop it, and you quickly looked away, focusing on a patch of snow near your feet. "Thankfully, Father listened when I told him I couldn't go through with it. Sent the poor man away with apologies and a fine horse as consolation."

You felt rather than saw Cregan relax beside you, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The rigid set of his spine softened, his breathing seemed easier, and his hands unclenched from where they'd been gripping his knees.

"That was... kind of your father," he said finally, his voice much lighter than before. "To consider your wishes."

"It was," you agreed, chancing a glance at him. The relief on his face was poorly concealed, and something warm bloomed in your chest at the sight of it. "And you? Has the Lord of Winterfell found himself a lady yet?"

Cregan's laugh was soft, almost self-deprecating. "No," he said quietly. "No lady yet."

"The northern lords must be pressing you," you observed. "An heir is important."

"Aye," he agreed, but there was something in his tone – something that made you look at him more closely. "Duty demands it."

You watched him carefully, noting the way he avoided meeting your eyes. The silence stretched between you, heavy with unspoken things. A snowflake drifted down, landing on the sleeve of his fur cloak, and you found yourself watching it melt.

"And what do you want?" you asked softly. "Beyond duty?"

Cregan turned then, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. For a moment, it seemed like he might say something – something important, something that would change everything.

But the moment passed.

"The North needs its lord," he said finally, the carefully constructed walls sliding back into place.

You knew better than to push. But something in you – the part that had always known him best – recognized the deflection for what it was.

You couldn't help yourself. "I bet there are plenty of ladies who'd be eager to become the Lady of Winterfell," you teased, nudging his shoulder gently.

Cregan rolled his eyes, but there was a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Hardly," he said, trying to sound dismissive.

"Oh, come now," you pressed, leaning closer. "A handsome lord, strong, kind, with that scar making you look..." You paused, choosing your words carefully. "Roguish."

He blushed – actually blushed – the color rising from his neck to his cheeks. "Roguish?" he repeated, sounding half-embarrassed, half-amused.

"Handsome," you clarified, watching the flush deepen across his cheeks. "Very handsome. Any lady would be lucky to have you."

Cregan ducked his head, a rare vulnerability breaking through his usual composure. "You're teasing me," he said, but there was a softness to his voice that suggested he was enjoying it.

"Not teasing," you insisted. "Truly. You've become..." You paused, searching for the right word. "Impressive."

His eyes met yours then, dark and intense. "Impressive," he repeated, something unreadable in his tone.

"The scar especially," you added, unable to resist. "Makes you look like a proper man. Experienced."

A low chuckle escaped him. "Is that so?"

You nodded, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the furs you were wearing. "Absolutely."

Cregan laughed, the sound deep and rich, but it carried a faint note of disbelief. "You’ve a silver tongue, you know that?" he said, shaking his head.

"Your father always said so," Cregan continued, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "In his letters, he mentioned That it was one of the northern qualities the maesters hadn’t managed to weed out of you."

Your smile faltered at his words, the lightness in your chest giving way to a cold weight. Cregan had been exchanging letters with your father. And not to you.

For a moment, the quiet stretched between you, filled only by the sound of the wind brushing through the trees. The warmth you’d felt before seemed distant now, replaced by something far colder, deeper.

You forced a smile back onto your lips, though it felt thin and brittle, you could feel the tension creeping into your own tone. "I didn’t realize my father had written to you so much."

Cregan shrugged, his gaze fixed ahead as though the snow-covered path held answers he didn’t want to give voice to. "He worried for you. Wanted me to know you were well."

You forced yourself to stay composed, even though you felt like you were unraveling with each passing moment. "I see," you replied, your voice quieter than before, barely more than a whisper.

Cregan’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary, his expression unreadable, before he let out a soft breath and looked ahead once more. The snow had begun to fall more heavily now, dusting your hair with a thin layer of frost, and you felt its bite despite the warmth of your cloak.

The tension between you both hung thick in the air, but Cregan’s attention shifted to the road ahead. "The wind’s picking up," he murmured. "Perhaps we should head back inside. You’ve got snow in your hair."

You brushed a hand through your hair absently, the cold snowflakes falling in delicate clusters against your skin. "It’s nothing," you said, though you were grateful for the suggestion. The chill was creeping into your bones, and you knew it would be better to seek warmth.

"I have court matters to attend to," he continued, his voice now more businesslike, though there was a hint of hesitation in his words, as though he wanted to be certain you were well before leaving. "You should get some rest by the fire. You’ll need to warm up properly."

You nodded, despite the lingering weight of the unspoken words between you. "I’ll be fine. Go take care of your business, Cregan. I’ll make my way back."

He hesitated, glancing at you once more, but then seemed to make up his mind. "I’ll escort you back to the castle," he insisted, his tone firm, though there was something softer beneath it – a reluctance to leave you alone in the cold.

"You’re needed elsewhere," you replied, though it came out sounding weaker than you’d intended. "You don’t need to worry about me."

"I’d feel better if I did," Cregan muttered, the frustration in his voice soft but there, like he couldn’t help himself.

The simplicity of his request caught you off guard. You nodded again, your chest tightening at the thought of him staying when he clearly had things to attend to. "Alright," you said quietly. "Thank you."

The two of you began walking back toward the castle, your steps crunching softly in the snow, the weight of your shared silence once again settling over you. The distance between you felt palpable, but there was a quiet, unspoken comfort in his presence – just enough to keep you from feeling entirely lost in the cold, both outside and within.

By the time you reached the castle doors, the snow had gathered in thick layers on your shoulders, and Cregan’s expression had softened, though his lips were set in a line of determination. "I’ll see to it that you’re properly warmed," he said, though it wasn’t quite an order – it was a promise, quiet and steady.

You gave a small nod, allowing yourself a moment to lean into his offered care, even if you couldn’t fully bring yourself to acknowledge the ache still pulling at your heart. "Thank you, Cregan."

As you parted ways, you couldn’t help but feel the absence of the earlier warmth between you both, but perhaps, in time, that too would return.

***

The evening had settled over Winterfell, soft and quiet. You sat before the looking glass, your nightgown a pale shimmer against the stone walls. Mira's fingers worked deftly through your hair, weaving a loose braid that would keep it from tangling during the night.

"You're fidgeting, my lady," Mira said softly, her hands never stopping their careful work.

"Am I?" you replied, watching your fingers twist together in your lap.

She hesitated, then added quickly, "Begging your pardon. It's not my place to comment."

You turned, meeting her eyes in the mirror. There was something in her gaze – a kindness, an openness that invited confidence. "No," you said quietly. "It is your place. If anyone's."

“I... I think I might need a friend." you added.

She met your eyes in the mirror, her expression kind but respectful. "If my lady wishes to speak, I am here to listen."

A soft laugh escaped you – more a breath than a sound. "I'm not certain I even know how to explain it."

You took a deep breath, watching Mira's hands continue their careful work. "Things feel different now," you began slowly. "We were children when I left. Practically strangers now. I worry we won't..." You trailed off, unsure how to finish the thought.

Mira's eyes sparkled with something between mischief and understanding. "The older staff tell stories," she said, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "About you and Lord Stark when you were young."

"Oh?" you prompted, curiosity getting the better of you.

She grinned, finishing the braid with a practiced twist. "Old Martha in the kitchens says Lord Stark was unbearable after you left. Sulked for months. Would hardly speak to anyone, spent all his time in the training yards or studying maps. As if working himself to exhaustion might stop him from thinking about your absence."

Your heart clenched. "That sounds like him. Always trying to hide his feelings behind duty."

"Not very successfully," Mira added with a knowing look. "The servants could see right through it. How he'd ask about every letter that came for you, how he'd stare at the ravens as if willing them to bring word of your return."

You turned fully now, facing her. "And what do you think?" you asked softly. "About all of this?"

Mira's smile was knowing, far beyond her young years. "Some stories are written in the stones of Winterfell," she said. "And some bonds aren't so easily broken."

The candle flickered, casting shadows across the stone walls. Outside, the wind whispered against the windows, carrying with it the promise of another cold northern night. And in that moment, surrounded by the weight of memory and possibility, you felt something shift – subtle, but undeniable.

The Great Hall was nearly empty when you arrived, save for the handful of servants preparing for the midday meal. Cregan was already seated at the high table, a stack of ravens and correspondence spread before him. As you entered, he looked up, immediately rising to his feet.

Your breath caught. Such a formal gesture – and yet, there was something in the way he watched you that felt anything but formal.

He had deliberately placed your plate directly beside his, a clear and intentional choice that made your heart race. The other seats remained conspicuously empty, leaving just the two of you.

"I hope you don't mind," he said, gesturing to the seat. "I thought we might discuss the estate while we eat."

But his eyes said something entirely different. They spoke of something more – of memories, of unspoken words, of a connection that hadn't been severed by time or distance.

You sat, acutely aware of how close you were. Close enough to see the slight furrow of his brow as he glanced down at his correspondence, close enough to catch the familiar scent of leather and woodsmoke that had always been uniquely his.

"Ravens?" you asked softly, nodding toward the papers.

"Always," he replied, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "The North never sleeps."

Cregan's fingers brushed against the ravens almost absently, sorting them with a practiced movement. You noticed how his hands had changed – no longer the soft hands of a young lord, but strong, calloused from years of sword training and managing the vast Stark lands.

"Troubling news?" you asked, watching him carefully.

He glanced up, something soft passing across his features. "Nothing we cannot manage," he said, pushing the papers slightly away. His focus shifted entirely to you – a deliberate choice that made your breath catch.

Cregan's attention shifted, a deliberate softening in his demeanor. "The cook prepares an excellent northern mushroom soup," he said, his voice careful, almost tentative. "Would you like me to have some brought out?"

The request was simple, but there was something underneath it – a desire to bridge the distance between you, to create a moment of shared experience. You noticed how he watched you, waiting, his fingers absently tracing the edge of a raven's parchment.

"I would love that," you replied, matching his careful tone.

A servant appeared almost immediately, as if summoned by some unspoken command. The soup arrived steaming, rich with the earthy scent of wild mushrooms gathered from the forests surrounding Winterfell. Cregan waited until your bowl was placed before you, a small gesture of courtesy that felt both familiar and strange.

"Do you still prefer it with a touch of dried thyme?" he asked, reaching for a small herb container near the table's center.

The question surprised you – a moment of intimate knowledge that seemed to slip through the carefully constructed walls between you. How could he remember something so small, so insignificant?

"You remember," you said softly, more a statement than a question.

His hand paused, hovering over the herbs. For a moment, vulnerability flickered in his eyes – the briefest glimpse of the boy you had once known.

The soup was indeed excellent. You took a careful sip, appreciating the warmth that spread through you. "The kitchens have been busy, I see," you commented, glancing around the nearly empty hall.

Cregan nodded, a slight smile touching his lips. "There's always work to be done. The harvest preparations are nearly complete, and we're discussing trade agreements with the eastern holdfas

"Challenging negotiations?" you asked, genuinely curious about the day-to-day complexities of running Winterfell.

He leaned back slightly, his posture relaxing. "The Mormont representatives drive a hard bargain. But fair. They always know exactly what they want."

A comfortable silence settled between you. Not the charged, uncomfortable quiet of earlier, but something softer. More natural.

"Have you tried the new apple preserves?" Cregan asked, gesturing to a small dish near the bread. "The orchards have been particularly good this year."

You reached for a piece of bread, spreading a thin layer of the preserve. The sweetness burst across your tongue – tart, with just a hint of cinnamon. "Delightful," you murmured.

He watched you, something warm in his eyes that had nothing to do with formality. Just two people, sharing a meal, finding their way back to something that felt like friendship.

The hall's quiet was suddenly interrupted by a young servant bursting through the doors, a raven clutched in his trembling hands. "My lord," he called, breathless, "a message from the Southern houses."

Cregan's posture stiffened, his hand instinctively reaching for the parchment. The servant, clearly nervous, began reading with rapid, almost frantic speed.

"Lord Stark, House Blackwood proposes a most advantageous marriage alliance. Their daughter, Lady Roslin, comes with a dowry of–“

But Cregan wasn't listening. His eyes had darted to you, a flash of panic crossing his features.

The words hit you like a physical blow. Betrothal. Marriage. The very things you had discussed in the godswood days earlier, when Cregan had spoken of duty and legacy with such careful restraint.

Your chest tightened, a sudden and unexpected ache spreading through your lungs. The memory of that conversation in the godswood came rushing back – the way he had spoken about the responsibilities of his position, the need to secure the Stark line. You had listened, understanding but not wanting to hear.

Now, watching Cregan's reaction, something shifted.

His panic was not subtle. It radiated from him in waves – a desperate, almost violent rejection of the proposal. His eyes darted to you repeatedly, as if checking, measuring your response. The servant's words dissolved into background noise, drowned out by the thundering of your own heartbeat.

You watched a muscle jump in Cregan's jaw, saw how his hand clenched into a fist on the table. The movement was quick, controlled, but underneath lay something wild. Something that spoke of a emotion far more complex than simple aristocratic disinterest.

"Enough," Cregan said sharply. "That will be all."

The servant blinked, confused. "But my lord, the details of–“

"I said. That. Will. Be. All." Each word was clipped, controlled, but underneath lay something else. Something that made the servant immediately bow and retreat

The silence that followed was deafening.

You cleared your throat, attempting to lighten the moment. "Another potential bride?" The words came out more strained than playful, an uncomfortable edge cutting through your attempted humor.

Cregan's response was deliberately casual. "Just another proposal," he said, reaching for his goblet. "Nothing of consequence."

But something in his tone didn't quite match his words. You studied him carefully, noting the way his fingers gripped the goblet just a fraction too tightly.

He looked at you then, something sharp in his gaze. "He should not have read such details in front of a lady," Cregan said, redirecting the conversation with practiced ease. "It was inappropriate."

Yet his fingers still gripped the edge of the table, betraying an emotion his voice refused to acknowledge.

A muscle twitched in Cregan's jaw – the only hint of the emotion roiling beneath his carefully constructed surface. "Winterfell requires careful consideration," he said finally, his voice low. "Any alliance must serve the North's interests."

You leaned back, watching him. The words were precise, calculated. But something underneath them vibrated with an energy that spoke of something more complex than mere political strategy.

"Of course," you replied, your own voice matching his careful tone. "A lord's duty is never simple."

His eyes flickered to you – a quick, almost imperceptible movement. For just a moment, something raw and unguarded passed between you. Something that had nothing to do with lords, duties, or alliances.

Then it was gone, buried beneath layers of propriety and carefully maintained distance.

A servant approached, interrupting the charged silence. "Shall I clear the plates, my lord?"

Cregan nodded, his attention already drifting to the stack of correspondence that still waited. But his fingers, you noticed, had stopped tracing the edges of the parchment.

You leaned forward, a sudden urgency in your voice. "What do you want, Cregan?" The question hung between you, more loaded than simple curiosity.

He went very still. The kind of stillness that spoke of years of control, of emotions carefully locked away. "Want?" he repeated, as if the word was foreign to him. "It doesn't matter what I want."

"But it does," you pressed. "Duty cannot consume everything. There must be something beyond these walls, beyond these endless responsibilities."

Cregan's laugh was soft, without humor. "Wanting something doesn't make it possible. Marrying someone you see as a friend, a confidant, a love – it isn't fair if those feelings aren't returned." His eyes met yours, raw and unguarded for just a moment. "Not to her. Not to anyone."

You straightened in your seat, his words echoing in your ears. Her. There was someone. Some lady who had captured his attention, maybe even his heart.

Your throat tightened, though you forced yourself to maintain composure. A small, unsteady smile curved your lips. "So there is someone." The observation was light, playful even, but your heart wasn't in it.

Cregan froze, a faint blush creeping up his neck and spreading to his cheeks. He opened his mouth, perhaps to deny it, to clarify, but no words came. Instead, he fumbled for his goblet, his fingers trembling slightly as he took a long sip.

His reaction only confirmed your suspicion. You leaned back in your chair, trying to ignore the dull ache settling in your chest. Had it happened while you were away? Had she been here all along?

"I see," you murmured, doing your best to sound unaffected. "I suppose it's no surprise. A man like you, Cregan... well, you'd be difficult not to love." The words were meant to sound teasing, but they came out softer, more wistful than you'd intended.

The blush rising to his cheeks told you everything you needed to know. Your chest tightened further, but you pressed on, determined to hide the sting of the revelation.

"I should have guessed," you said, your voice gentler now. "Someone must have caught your attention while I was away."

Cregan’s brows knit together, his confusion flickering across his face, but you didn’t notice. You were too busy willing your tone to stay even, your smile to remain steady.

"I hope she’s kind," you said quietly, your gaze dropping to your hands. "You deserve someone good, someone who sees you as more than just Winterfell’s lord." You forced a laugh, though it sounded fragile to your own ears. "I’m sure her feelings are mutual. After all, who wouldn’t love you, Cregan?"

When you dared to look up again, his expression gave you pause. He was staring at you, his eyes wide, his lips parted in shock. There was a flicker of something raw there – something you didn’t understand.

You shifted uncomfortably, misreading the look on his face. "Don’t look so surprised," you joked softly, hoping to dispel the tension. "You’ve always been easy to love."

His mouth opened as though to argue, but no sound came out. He shook his head slightly, the words caught somewhere between his mind and his tongue.

You misinterpreted the gesture as embarrassment, and it only solidified your assumption. Your heart ached at the thought that he had found love in your absence, but you swallowed it down, determined not to let it show.

"Truly, Cregan," you said with a small, bittersweet smile, "I pray she makes you happy."

For a moment, he looked as though he might correct you, as though he wanted to say something – anything. But before he could say so, a servant returned to refill his goblet, breaking the fragile tension between you.

The interruption left the conversation unfinished, and Cregan seemed almost relieved for the escape. He straightened, clearing his throat, and turned his attention to the correspondence before him.

"Perhaps we should speak of lighter things," he muttered, his voice tight.

You nodded, forcing a smile and willing your heart to steady itself. But as you turned your gaze to the snowy window beyond, you couldn’t help but wonder. Had you not left Winterfell all those years ago... could it have been you?

***

The chamber was quiet save for the faint crackle of the hearth. Mira moved around the room with practiced ease, tucking the sheets and fluffing the pillows. You sat at the edge of the bed, absently combing your fingers through your hair, lost in thought.

Mira glanced at you, her brow furrowing. "You’re awfully quiet tonight," she said softly, her tone edged with curiosity.

You blinked, startled from your reverie. "Am I?" you murmured, your voice distant even to your own ears.

She hummed in response, smoothing the blankets with care. "I’m used to you chatting my ear off about this or that. You’ve barely said a word since dinner."

You offered her a weak smile, one you knew didn’t reach your eyes. "Just tired, I suppose."

Mira paused, hands stilling on the sheets as she studied you. Then, as if deciding not to press, she turned to the hearth. "At least you’ll have some peace tonight. The pipes won’t be keeping you awake anymore."

You frowned slightly, confused. "The pipes?"

"The ones you always complained about," she said, glancing over her shoulder with a knowing smile. "The awful rattling that kept you up at night? Lord Stark ordered them fixed. Must’ve had the builders working day and night; the noise is finally gone."

The words hit you with an unexpected weight. He’d done that... for you? You fought the urge to frown, your fingers curling tightly around the comb.

"That’s..." you started, but the words caught in your throat. Instead, you forced another weak smile. "That’s kind of him."

Mira nodded in agreement, clearly oblivious to the turmoil stirring inside you. She gave the sheets one final tug before straightening with a satisfied nod. "There. All ready for you."

You thanked her quietly, slipping under the covers as she bustled about, tidying the rest of the room before leaving you alone with your thoughts.

The quiet was oppressive now, no longer punctuated by the familiar rattle of the pipes. You lay in bed, staring up at the canopy, your hands fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. Every time you closed your eyes, the events of the day replayed in vivid detail—Cregan’s hesitation, his blush, his confusion. The weight of the word her.

With a frustrated sigh, you turned onto your side, clutching the sheets in your fists as if the fabric could somehow anchor you. Your mind wouldn’t quiet. The absence of the pipes’ metallic groan only amplified the thoughts swirling in your head.

Was it possible he truly cared for someone? Had she been here, right under your nose? Or perhaps he’d met her during your absence. The ache in your chest tightened, an unpleasant mixture of longing and regret.

The sheets twisted with your movements, and you pushed them aside, only to pull them back moments later. Sleep continued to elude you, as did the answer to the question you couldn’t bring yourself to ask.

The hours stretched on, the fire dimming to embers. You lay still, your hands gripping the blankets as you stared into the shadows of the room.

The ache in your chest grew unbearable, a knot tightening in your throat as you fought back a sob. You hugged your pillow close, burying your face in its softness. The fabric smelled faintly of Winterfell – of cold pine, frost-bitten stone, and something warmer, something unmistakably him. It was the scent of home, and it only made the ache sharper, cutting deep into your very core.

Your mind drifted to a time when the world had felt simpler, before duty and distance had complicated the bond between you. You had been six-and-ten, with a blue ribbon woven through your hair that day – a gift from Cregan himself, given with the playful claim that it made you look like the proper ladies from the love stories you adored.

He had tugged at it gently, his grin boyish and mischievous. "Look at you," he’d teased, his voice low enough to make your cheeks burn. "All dressed up like some lady in a tale. What do they call them? The ones who make knights lose their senses?"

You’d rolled your eyes, though your face was aflame. "You’re being ridiculous, Cregan. It’s just a ribbon."

He had leaned closer then, his voice dropping further. "Do they kiss in those stories of yours?"

Your breath had hitched, your face impossibly warmer. You’d nodded shyly, unable to meet his eyes.

"Then you must know how to do it," he said, his grin turning into something softer, more uncertain. "Right?"

You had barely managed to stammer out a response before he added, his tone barely above a whisper, "You could show me."

It was a suggestion that had hung between you, daring and unspoken. Cregan had waited, his eyes locked on yours, and you’d felt the world narrow to just the two of you.

Finally, your trembling hands had reached up, your heart racing in your chest as you leaned closer. His lips had been warm, soft against yours, the faintest brush that left you breathless and giddy all at once.

"I think I understand now," he’d murmured when you pulled away, his voice thick with something new, something you hadn’t yet named.

He had grinned then, you had laughed nervously, unsure of how to respond, but something about the way he said it stayed with you. Even now, the memory lingered, vivid and bittersweet.

Despite the now-silent pipes, sleep remained elusive. You tossed and turned, the quiet somehow more deafening than the previous metallic rattling. Each time you closed your eyes, images flickered – Cregan's blushing face, the hint of a woman he might love, the unspoken tensions of the day.

The hearth's embers glowed dimly, casting long shadows across the room. Hours passed, marked only by your restless movements and the occasional distant sound of a castle settling. Your mind churned with questions, with memories, with the painful possibility that Cregan's heart belonged to someone else.

The next few days passed in a blur of whispers and hushed conversations. Cregan was conspicuously absent, his presence reduced to fleeting shadows in the corridors of Winterfell. The servants spoke in low tones about the mounting pressures of winter – folk from distant holdings coming with requests, urgent matters of land and survival that demanded the Lord of Winterfell's constant attention.

You caught glimpses of him – a pale face passing quickly down a corridor, the hem of his fur cloak disappearing around a corner. When your paths briefly crossed, his eyes seemed distant, preoccupied. Dark circles had begun to form beneath them, speaking of sleepless nights and endless responsibilities.

On the fifth day, you heard the kitchen staff discussing the lord's missed meals. "Hasn't taken proper food in days," Old Martha muttered, her weathered hands kneading bread dough with practiced movements. "Working himself to the bone, he is."

The corridors were quiet as you made your way to his study. Servants moved with hushed efficiency, careful not to disturb the lord's work. When you reached the heavy wooden door, you hesitated, the wrapped cakes warm in your hands.

A sound from inside – something between a sigh and a frustrated grunt – made you knock softly.

"Enter," came the response. Weary. Distracted.

Cregan sat behind a massive oak desk, surrounded by maps and correspondence. Candles burned low, casting long shadows across his face. He looked up, surprise flickering in his exhausted eyes.

"I thought you might be hungry," you said softly, setting the cakes down beside a stack of ravens.

For a moment, he said nothing. Then, the faintest smile touched his lips – so brief you might have imagined it.

Cregan devoured the first cake in three quick bites, his hunger evident. Crumbs scattered across the correspondence, but he seemed beyond caring. The second cake disappeared almost as quickly, though this time he paused mid-bite.

"Forgive me," he said, looking slightly embarrassed. "I should have left one for you."

His fingers brushed the remaining crumbs, a gesture so vulnerable it made your heart clench. The candles flickered, casting shadows across his weary face. Exhaustion lined his eyes, etched into the corners of his mouth.

"I'm not hungry," you assured him softly. "You needed them more."

He looked up then, truly looked at you – and for a moment, the mask of the Lord of Winterfell slipped. You saw the boy you had known, vulnerable and real, beneath the weight of his responsibilities.

"Thank you," he murmured, and the words held more meaning than a simple acknowledgment of pastries.

"I'll get more," you said, your voice soft but firm. "The kitchens are worried. They'd be more than happy to prepare extra for you."

Cregan's eyes flickered to you, a mixture of exhaustion and something deeper – vulnerability, perhaps. You moved closer, taking a seat near his desk, unable to ignore how the candlelight caught the sharp lines of his face, softening them despite his obvious fatigue.

"You look terrible," you murmured, the words coming out more tenderly than you intended.

A ghost of a laugh escaped him. "Always so direct," he said, but there was no bite to the words. His hand, strong and calloused, hovered near one of the lemon cakes.

"When was the last time you slept?" you asked, leaning forward. "Truly slept, not just dozed over these endless documents?"

He didn't answer immediately. The silence stretched between you, filled with the soft crackle of candles and the rustle of parchment.

"The North doesn't rest," Cregan said finally, "and neither can its lord."

You reached out – almost without thinking – and touched the back of his hand. "Even lords need to rest," you whispered.

"I apologize," Cregan said softly, his eyes meeting yours. "For not seeking you out this week. The preparations for winter..." He trailed off, gesturing to the scattered documents. "I've had no free time."

His voice carried a weight of genuine regret, something deeper than mere politeness. You saw the exhaustion in his eyes – not just physical, but something that ran much deeper. The burden of lordship, of responsibility, etched into every line of his face.

He glanced at you, his hand reaching out to yours.

Cregan's hand lingered beneath yours, his rough skin warm despite the chill in the room. His fingers curled slightly, as if reluctant to let go. For a moment, he studied your face, his gray eyes softening in a way that made your heart ache.

"You need to rest," you whispered, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. "This isn't sustainable, Cregan. The North can’t thrive if its lord collapses."

His lips quirked into a tired half-smile. "The North has seen worse, and so have I."

You shook your head, resolute. "That doesn’t mean you have to shoulder it alone."

Cregan’s gaze fell to your joined hands, his expression shadowed with something you couldn’t quite name. "Stay," he said quietly, the word almost swallowed by the low crackle of the fire. "If you’re here, I’ll rest later, I promise. But I can’t leave this unfinished."

You hesitated, torn between pressing him and yielding to his request. "You’ll rest if I stay?"

He nodded, the motion small but earnest. "I just–" He paused, taking a breath. "I just need to finish reviewing these accounts. Winter's coming faster than we expected, and the stores–"

You stopped him with a gentle squeeze of his hand. "I’ll stay," you said, rising from your seat. "But I’m holding you to that promise."

The faintest smile returned to his lips. "Of course you are."

You glanced around the room before pulling a chair closer to his desk, settling beside him. The firelight painted the space in shades of amber and gold, casting long, flickering shadows that seemed to dance on the stone walls. The papers spread before him were marked with hasty notes and calculations, the weight of Winterfell’s survival laid bare in ink.

"Why do you do all this yourself?" you asked after a moment, watching as his quill moved swiftly across a sheet of parchment. "Surely you have a steward or a squire to help."

Cregan glanced at you, a faint furrow appearing between his brows. "I trust my people, but some things..." He sighed, setting the quill down for a moment. "Some things, I feel, need my own hand. If I make a mistake, it’s on me, not them."

You tilted your head, considering his words. "And if you work yourself into the ground? What then? Who will lead Winterfell?"

His lips pressed into a thin line, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he turned back to his work, his silence speaking volumes.

"You’re stubborn," you murmured, leaning back in your chair.

A soft laugh escaped him, surprising in its warmth. "You’ve known that for years."

The quiet that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. You watched him work, the steady scratch of his quill and the occasional rustle of paper filling the space. Every so often, you’d ask a question or make a comment, and he’d respond, his voice low and steady.

"You’re good company," he said after a while, his tone almost wistful.

You smiled faintly. "Someone has to keep an eye on you."

Cregan’s hand paused mid-stroke, and he looked at you, his gray eyes heavy with an emotion you couldn’t quite name. "I appreciate it," he said softly. "More than you know."

You nodded, feeling a warmth bloom in your chest despite the cold that seemed ever-present in Winterfell. "I know," you replied, just as softly.

For the first time in days, Cregan’s shoulders seemed to relax, if only slightly. And though he returned to his work, the lines of exhaustion on his face didn’t seem quite as deep.

The flicker of firelight played across Cregan’s profile as he returned to his work, quill scratching softly against the parchment. You shifted in your chair, leaning back to watch him in silence for a moment. Despite his focus, you could see the tension in his jaw, the set of his shoulders as though bracing for the weight of another crisis.

"You know," you began lightly, your tone purposefully casual, "when we were younger, I thought being Lord of Winterfell meant sitting by a roaring fire all day, drinking spiced ale and ordering people around."

Cregan huffed a quiet laugh, though his eyes remained on the paper in front of him. "It’s not quite so glamorous," he murmured, dipping his quill into the inkpot.

"You don’t say." You crossed one leg over the other, resting your elbow on the arm of the chair. "I used to imagine you perched on the high seat, glaring down at people like one of those stern kings from the old stories."

He glanced up at you briefly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Did I look the part?"

"Not remotely," you said, grinning. "You were lanky back then, all knees and elbows. Hardly the imposing lord you are now."

That earned a real laugh, low and warm, though his quill never paused. "I don’t recall you being particularly regal yourself," he said, his tone teasing. "Always running about the grounds with your skirts hitched up, trying to climb trees with the boys."

You gasped in mock offense. "I was adventurous!"

"You were a menace," he countered, his eyes briefly flicking up to meet yours. The faint smile on his lips softened his usual stern demeanor, and for a moment, you saw the boy he used to be.

"I wasn’t that bad," you protested, though you couldn’t suppress your smile. "And for the record, I never fell out of a tree, unlike a certain someone."

Cregan shook his head, his attention returning to his papers. "That wasn’t a fall–"

"Of course it was," you said, leaning forward, your smile widening. "And the bruise on your back that lasted for weeks was what? A badge of honor?"

"I was defending my territory," he said, feigning seriousness. "You shouldn’t have dared me to climb higher."

"I didn’t think you’d actually do it," you shot back, laughing softly. "You were always so eager to prove yourself."

Cregan’s smile lingered, though his eyes remained focused on the page in front of him. The steady rhythm of his quill filled the silence that followed, but you could tell he was listening, the subtle way his head tilted in your direction giving him away.

"You’ve always been like that," you said after a moment, your voice quieter now. "Taking on more than you should, trying to carry everything yourself."

His quill paused briefly, and he glanced up at you. For a moment, you thought he might argue, but he said nothing, returning instead to his work.

The hours stretched on, the only sounds in the room the faint crackle of the fire and the relentless scratch of Cregan’s quill. His hand moved steadily, though every so often, you noticed him flexing his fingers, rolling his wrist as if to stave off cramps.

You’d long since run out of things to say, your stories and observations dwindling into companionable silence. Reclining in the large chair near the fire, you twisted a strand of your hair idly between your fingers, a book resting forgotten on your lap. The words on the page blurred as your gaze kept drifting back to him, his broad shoulders hunched over the desk, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Eventually, even his steady movements began to slow. The lines he wrote became less precise, his head dipping forward briefly before jerking upright again. You watched as his hand faltered, the quill slipping from his grasp to roll across the desk.

“Cregan,” you murmured softly, but his only response was a faint, sleepy exhale.

Pushing the book aside, you rose and crossed the room quietly. He’d fallen asleep where he sat, his chin resting against his chest, the exhaustion of the past days finally overwhelming him.

You hesitated for a moment, standing over him, taking in the quiet vulnerability etched into his face. The fur-lined coat draped over his broad shoulders seemed heavy, pulling him further into his slumber. You couldn’t leave him like this – not slouched over his desk with papers and ink threatening to stain his hands and face.

“Cregan,” you whispered again, a little firmer this time. He stirred slightly, his head shifting but not lifting, his breath still slow and even.

Carefully, you reached for the edge of his coat, tugging at it gently. “Let me help,” you murmured, even though he was barely awake to hear you.

He made a faint sound, somewhere between a sigh and a groan, as the weight of the coat slipped from his shoulders. His hand rose sluggishly, as though to stop you, but his movements were slow, clumsy with exhaustion.

“Shh,” you said softly, reassuring him. “Just sleep.”

He relaxed again, his arm falling limp to his side as you folded the heavy garment and set it aside. The firelight danced across his features, softening the hard lines of his face, and for a moment, you allowed yourself the indulgence of staring. His hair fell slightly over his forehead, his lashes dark against his cheeks.

You retrieved a blanket from the nearby chair, shaking it out and draping it carefully over him. His shoulders rose and fell in deep, steady breaths, and when the blanket settled around him, he shifted, leaning slightly into the warmth.

You stepped back, watching him for a moment longer. This was a side of him few ever saw – unguarded, peaceful, free from the burdens he carried so stoically.

The papers scattered across the desk caught your eye, maps and letters blending into a mess of ink and parchment. Gently, you moved them aside, stacking them neatly so he wouldn’t wake to chaos. As you worked, his voice, low and rough with sleep, startled you.

“You don’t have to stay,” he murmured, his eyes still closed.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you replied softly, smoothing the blanket over his shoulders. “Not tonight.”

A faint smile ghosted across his lips, and he sank further into the chair, his head tilting to rest against the high back. His trust, so rarely given, felt like a fragile gift, and you vowed silently to guard it well.

But then your gaze drifted back to the desk, to the maps and letters you’d stacked neatly. Though they no longer formed the chaotic sprawl they once had, they still told the story of his tireless dedication to his people. You couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt for sitting idle while he worked himself into exhaustion.

You moved quietly to the desk, careful not to disturb him. His quill lay where it had rolled, a small blot of ink marking the wood. You picked it up, turning it over in your fingers before setting it aside.

You took a deep breath and reached for a fresh sheet of parchment. Your penmanship wasn’t as firm and practiced as Cregan’s, but it would do. Carefully, you began drafting words, drawing on the knowledge you’d gleaned over years of watching your family and Winterfell’s stewards handle similar matters.

The work was steady, methodical, and strangely satisfying. You found a rhythm in the scratch of the quill, the gentle dip and lift as you shaped words across the page. When you paused to stretch your fingers, you glanced at Cregan, still deeply asleep, and felt a quiet sense of pride.

Hours passed this way, with you answering letters, organizing correspondence, and marking key points on the maps spread across the desk. The fire had burned lower by the time you reached the last of the documents, and your eyes were heavy with fatigue, but the pile of completed work was a small victory.

As you set down the quill for the final time, you leaned back in the chair, letting out a long sigh. The room was silent now, the hearth’s embers glowing faintly. You turned to look at Cregan, still draped in the blanket you’d placed over him.

Gathering your own blanket from the chair by the fire, you settled back into the seat near the desk. The weight of the evening tugged at your limbs, and as your head rested against the chair’s back, you let your eyes close, the peaceful quiet of the room lulling you into a dreamless sleep.

When morning came, the first rays of pale winter light filtered through the high windows, painting the room in soft gold. Cregan stirred before you did, his brow furrowing as he blinked against the light. His gaze fell first to the neatly stacked papers on the desk, then to you, curled in the chair with the blanket wrapped tightly around you.

For a moment, he simply watched, his expression unreadable. Then, a small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. Rising from his seat, he moved quietly, tucking the blanket more securely around your shoulders before turning to the desk.

His hand brushed over the stack of completed letters, and his smile grew, this time tinged with something deeper – gratitude, perhaps, or something he didn’t yet have the words to name.

***

The days stretched on in a quiet rhythm, each one a seamless continuation of the last. The work he had to clear piled up slowly but steadily, and you remained by his side, helping in ways that became second nature to you. Cregan's exhaustion never fully left him, but his gratitude for your presence was unmistakable in every quiet glance and every word of thanks.

One evening, as you sorted through the last of the papers, you glanced up to find him standing near his desk, his movements slower than usual. He was watching you with a softness in his eyes that made your chest tighten, though you couldn’t place why.

“I’ve never properly thanked you,” he said, his voice low, almost as though he were speaking to himself. “For everything you’ve done. For being here.”

You shook your head, the words ready on your lips to tell him it had been nothing, that it hadn’t been a bother, but before you could speak, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small box. He held it out to you, his fingers brushing against yours for the briefest moment as he placed it in your palm.

A breath caught in your throat as you opened the box, revealing a silver necklace, simple yet striking in its beauty. The pendant was shaped like a jewel – graceful, lifelike, its features finely crafted. It was a gift that spoke volumes, and for a moment, you found yourself at a loss for words.

“I…Cregan, you don’t have to do this,” you began, your voice soft, almost shy. “I haven’t done anything to deserve–”

But he shook his head, a steady, quiet determination in his gaze. “You have. You’ve done more than anyone else would. Please, let me show you how much it means to me.”

You looked at the necklace again, the glint of the metal catching the firelight. You knew it was something important to him, something he wanted to give.

“Will you… put it on for me?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

Cregan’s eyes softened, the edges of his lips lifting just slightly as he nodded. Without another word, he moved behind you, his presence solid and comforting, the space between you shrinking with every step.

You felt a shiver stir in your spine as his fingers brushed through your hair, pushing it aside with an ease that belied the tremor in his touch. His breath, warm and slow, fanned over your neck, and for a moment, you felt entirely suspended in time, the world outside fading to nothing.

His fingers, though steady, trembled slightly as he reached for the clasp at the back of your neck. The weight of his touch, the gentleness with which he handled you, stirred something deep within you.

The necklace settled against your skin, the pendant cool and delicate against your warmth. He paused, his fingers lingering for a heartbeat longer than necessary, tracing down your arms with such care that it made your breath catch in your throat.

He didn’t stop there. His hands moved lower, tracing the curve of your waist, pulling you toward him in a fluid, natural motion. You couldn’t help but let your body lean into his, your back gently meeting his chest as his arms encircled you, drawing you closer.

The proximity made your heart race, the feeling of his warmth sinking into you, of his breath coming in shallow gasps against the back of your neck. His fingers tightened, holding you against him with an almost desperate tenderness.

“I missed you,” he whispered, his voice thick with the weight of years. “All these years… I’ve thought of you, always. Every choice, every turn I took, you were there in my mind, in everything I did.”

You closed your eyes, feeling the rawness of his words seep into your very bones. You didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know what to say. So, you turned slightly in his arms, your movements slow, almost uncertain.

When your eyes met his, there was nothing but the quiet understanding between you – the unspoken weight of everything that had come before, the years lost, the space that had once been between you now filled with something unshakable.

“Cregan” you mumbled, feeling drunk under his gaze.

Cregan’s grip on you tightened, his thumbs caressing your waist with a desperation that made your heart thrum erratically in your chest. Every inch of him pressed so close to you that you could feel the heat of his breath against your skin, stirring the fine hairs on your neck, sending shivers down your spine.

You felt him lean in, the whisper of movement before the softness of his lips brushed against your temple. It was a fleeting kiss, gentle, but it carried the weight of everything he hadn’t said in all the years you’d been apart. He lingered for just a breath longer than necessary before he shifted, his lips grazing your forehead in a tender, aching caress.

His lips were dangerously close to your ear now, the words slipping out of him like they had been trapped for far too long.

“You have no idea…” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion, the rawness of it making your breath hitch. “I’ve been waiting. Yearning for you. For this. For so long, I thought I’d never have the chance to tell you how much I’ve missed you, how much I’ve thought of you every damn day since you left.”

The words hung in the air, vibrating with an aching honesty. His fingers, trembling just barely, traced down your waist once more, as though grounding himself in the reality of having you so close – of having you back. He inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling against your back, a steady rhythm broken only by the uneven, ragged breaths he couldn’t quite stifle.

“I never stopped,” he breathed against your skin, his voice raw, the words shaking in a way that left no room for pretense. “Never stopped thinking of you… hoping.”

You could feel the thrum of his pulse beneath your fingertips, the way his body betrayed the quiet control he always exuded. He was on the edge – teetering on the verge of something too big to contain.

And still, his hands held you, his touch reverent and soft, as though he feared that if he held you too tightly, you might disappear again. But his voice, filled with so much raw emotion, was the only thing that seemed to hold you in place now.

Cregan's breath was ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly with the weight of his words. He didn’t pull away, keeping you pressed against him as if grounding himself in the moment, in you.

“I prayed,” he whispered, his voice low and raw, almost as if he hadn’t said the words out loud in years. “Every damn night, I prayed you’d come back to me. That I’d see you again.” His hands tightened around your waist, his touch like a quiet plea. “I hated not writing to you. I thought... I thought I was intruding on your life. Your days were moving forward without me. And I didn’t want to burden you with my silly updates, my silly thoughts. You deserved more than that.”

His voice faltered slightly, as though the years of regret were finally surfacing, one painful word at a time. He inhaled shakily, and in that breath, you felt the storm within him – years of loneliness, of yearning. You felt the weight of his absence as much as you felt the yearning now.

Shaking your head, you pulled away just slightly, enough to look up at him. His gaze was soft, searching, like he wanted to see every corner of you, to memorize every inch. “No,” you murmured softly, your voice trembling, “You wouldn’t have intruded, Cregan. It was... it was also me. I stopped writing, too. I–”

He cut you off before you could continue, his voice sharp with a quiet intensity.

“No,” he said, the word firm yet gentle. “I won’t let you apologize for that. I should have fought harder. I should have been better.”

His hand moved up, cupping your face gently, his thumb brushing the line of your jaw. “But we’re here now,” he whispered, his nose nuzzling softly against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet, intimate space between you.

You held your breath as his face hovered near yours, the proximity making your heart race faster than you could control. His nose rubbed gently against yours, a tender, almost desperate gesture that made everything inside you tighten. It wasn’t just a kiss he was searching for – no, it was a connection, something deeper. Something he had longed for, too.

Before you could open your mouth, before you could argue against him or even properly collect your thoughts, his voice broke through, raw and full of an ache you could feel deep in your chest.

"Please," Cregan breathed, his grip on your waist tightening almost imperceptibly, as if he feared you might slip away if he didn’t hold you just right.

His forehead pressed gently against yours, his eyes closed as he let out a ragged breath. "Be mine. Be my wife."

The words were a quiet plea, as though he had been holding them in for so long they had become the very air he breathed. The desperation in his tone was unmistakable, the weight of his years apart from you crashing into the room, suffocating the space between you both.

“I’ve lived all this time without you, but I can’t... I can’t do it anymore,” he continued, his voice breaking, softer now, but no less desperate. “I can’t go on pretending I’m fine. I need you, by my side, with me.”

The world around you seemed to still, and in that stillness, his words hung in the air, vibrating with everything unsaid, with all the years of silence, of waiting, of hoping. His thumbs brushed over your sides, his hands moving slowly, reverently, as though he was trying to make sure you were real, that you were there.

His eyes met yours then, open and wide, full of emotion, of vulnerability, of something deeper than anything either of you had said before.

“Please,” he whispered again, his lips almost trembling with the weight of his longing. “Say yes.”

Your words were lost, choked in the rawness of the moment, but it didn’t matter. You reached up, your hands trembling slightly, but steady enough to cup the roughness of his jaw. Your fingers lingered there, as if memorizing the feel of him, before sliding down to his neck. You could feel the warmth of his skin beneath your touch, the thrum of his pulse beneath your fingertips.

And then, without thinking, you tangled your hand in his hair, pulling him down to you with a sudden, desperate need that mirrored his. His breath caught in his throat, a soft exhale escaping him as his lips finally met yours.

The kiss was slow at first, tentative, as if neither of you could quite believe this was real, as though the years apart had made both of you afraid to believe it could be so simple. His lips moved against yours in a delicate, reverent rhythm, and for a moment, the world outside seemed to vanish entirely.

He let out a low, guttural moan at the contact, his hands tightening around you in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. The sound seemed to echo in the quiet room, raw and filled with all the longing that had been kept at bay for far too long. You could feel his body tremble against yours, the warmth of him seeping through the space between you, desperate, desperate for this closeness.

Without a word, he moved, backing you gently toward the desk, his hands never leaving the curve of your hips as he guided you. His lips never left yours, the kiss growing deeper, more insistent, more consuming with every passing moment. As his hands cupped your face, pulling you to him, his movements were sure, as though this was where he was always meant to be – right here, right now, between you.

The desk pressed against the backs of your legs, the cool wood contrasting sharply with the heat of his body against yours. Your breath hitched, a soft exhale escaping you, and your lips parted just enough to speak.

“I thought… I thought you’d found someone else,” you whispered against his mouth, the words tumbling out in a fragile breath. “I thought that night would take me away… take me away from everything.”

His lips moved against yours, a soft but urgent reassurance, before he pulled away slightly, his eyes searching yours with a mix of vulnerability and anguish. "No," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "It couldn’t ever be anyone else." He kissed you again, quick and urgent, as though trying to erase the gap the years had made between you.

When he pulled back again, he was still so close, his forehead resting against yours, his breath ragged and uneven. He looked at you, his eyes dark with something that went deeper than desire, something that spoke of all the pain and longing he’d carried in silence.

“I felt sick,” he confessed, his voice barely a whisper, but the words cut through the air between you like a blade. “When you told me about your father… about the man he almost married you to – someone who wasn’t me.”

His hands cupped your face, his thumbs brushing along your cheekbones as if he needed to feel you, as if he was trying to convince himself that this was real, that you were here, that he was here with you.

"I couldn’t breathe," he continued, his voice faltering for a moment before he found the strength to finish. "I couldn’t bear it. All that time, I was praying... praying that I could have you back, that I could have this with you."

His lips found yours again, urgent and desperate, the kiss breaking only when the need to breathe became too great. His hands still roamed, never straying far from your waist, your hips, as if afraid of letting you go.

You pulled away just enough to catch your breath, the air between you heavy with the intensity of the moment. A soft, playful smile tugged at the corner of your lips, the tension in your chest giving way to a warmth that spread through your veins.

"You fixed the draining pipes," you said softly, your voice laced with amusement, though the smile on your face remained genuine.

Cregan froze for a moment, his brow furrowing in confusion before his lips quirked in a slow, knowing smile. "What?" he murmured, still breathless, as if struggling to connect your words with the whirlwind of emotions and touches that had just passed between you.

“The pipes," you repeated, your fingers grazing lightly over his chest, trailing downward to his broad shoulders. "The ones that didn’t let me sleep. You fixed them." You chuckled, the sound light and teasing.

His lips twitched as he stared down at you, his eyes still dark with unspoken emotions, but there was a softness there too – a warmth that mirrored the one blooming in your chest. "Ah," he said, his voice low but with a hint of amusement now, "so that’s what you're thinking about now?"

You raised an eyebrow, the playful spark in your eyes matching the teasing tilt of your lips. With a laugh, he let his head fall on your shoulder.

His weight, warm and solid against you, felt like a grounding presence, a reminder that you were no longer drifting, no longer alone in the silence that had once kept you apart. You could still feel the gentle tremor in his hands, the lingering pull of his need, but now it was different, softer somehow – gentle, like the quiet after a thunderstorm.

"You’ve always been impossible," you murmured, your voice teasing, but there was a softness beneath it that only he could hear, only he could understand.

He lifted his head from your shoulder, his lips curling into that familiar half-smile that still managed to take your breath away. "Only for you," he replied, his voice thick with affection, a trace of humor threading through the rawness that still clung to his words.

The silence was no longer heavy with unspoken words, but filled with the promise of what was to come. And as he held you, as his fingers brushed against your skin in the most tender of ways, you realized that this, at long last, was home.

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drgnflyteabox · 27 days ago

Text

red ochre [4]

series masterlist previous || part four -> orchil || part five -> kermes

pairing: viking goap x fem! nun reader summary: double-edged swords, field trips, and wolf figurines w.c: 4.2k tags/warnings: religious & sexual guilt / shame, stockholm syndrome, inner turmoil, suicidal thoughts (minor), violent thoughts, oral (f), dubcon/noncon, stockholm syndrome, reader says "stop" / "no" but johnny continues, reader has some puritanical ideas about sex (virtue, virginity) but shes a nun so give her a break, power imbalance, thoughts of death/afterlife, self hatred, "little" used affectionately not as a size indicator lol

You wake up to the sound of a childs’ babbles the next morning, disoriented and confused - had sister Margery taken in another orphan girl to raise up in the convent? The softness of the bed beneath you betrays your confusion, rocking you slowly into reality as you blearily open your eyes.

Johnny sits at the table, cooing to a baby on his knee. He bounces them as they make sounds, soft happy ones that contrast with his muscles and scars and hair. In your observation of him you think about how a man so coarse-looking could be so soft to lay against, how he could go from sweet to firmer than stone in a moment. How his hands held you down not two days past, and soothed the skin that still ached as you shifted in bed now.

A conflicted series of emotions had risen in you since, and though something had calmed inside you, the primary tide was a pervasive sense of shame and it tended to overpower everything else.

“Who's that?” Johnny says, his voice high-pitched. “Is that my wife?”

He's cooing to the child, but still you burn and twist with too many things to dwell on lest you go mad.

Simon is nowhere to be found, but that's not been unusual in these winter mornings.

“Who's this?” You murmur, sitting up. Your woolen shift is warm, a soft red colour dyed by one of the village women that Johnny told you he'd traded for specially. Red ochre, he’d said, fingering the cloth. A beautiful muted red kind of colour.

A little like dried blood.

“Gaz's bairn,” Johnny says. “His house is gettin’ invaded by some rowdy boys, and the lasses’ are at the river.”

He must see the confusion on your face, because he adds, “boys are gettin’ ready for a hunting party.”

The baby shrieks, clapping clumsily as Johnny lifts a carved wooden toy up to them. He crinkles his eyes, looking between you and the baby. You want to discourage whatever thoughts he's having, so you stand and move to the fire, away from his wandering blues.

“Should I make something?” You don't dare look at him.

“So sweet of ye,” Johnny hums. “The baby eats eggs.”

You nod.

As you steadily become more awake, thoughts begin to cloud your mind.

Guilt is strange; it spreads like a plague, tainting anything you've decided to take some control of. Cooking, chores, talking cautiously with the men or allowing your heart to soften. The poison has grown from your first peak, spreading outward from your core and into your mind, leaving you worse off.

Simon hadn't done anything else, nor had Johnny. You'd cooked them lunch and breakfast, asked for sewing equipment for mending and receiving it promptly after. From Gaz's woman, Johnny had said. She says hello. Any contact outside of Johnny or Simon hadn't once crossed your mind, especially not since having sat on Simon's lap at the feast like a prize.

But you were a prize, a stolen woman, taken to wife. However you spun the narrative it was hard to get past that fact and harder still to get past that it might fulfill something inside you that nothing else could or could've. That perhaps you were tainted, and the taking had been because they saw it in you somehow. Sniffed the false servant of God as you worked, not anything by coincidence but guided by some instinct that told them you were just as bad.

Your little book, the one you missed dearly, the one piece of physical evidence that damned you.

Though God had never spoken to you back, you'd imagined in the convent that when you passed he'd simply show you the blasphemous, lustful evidence of your filthy mind and send you to burn.

Now you knew that He wouldn't have to do that. You'd simply burn without any chance, damned worse now by your treacherous cunt.

“-nun? Where's my little nun gone?” You turn, startled. The eggs are crisp, and darkening by the second.

You hurry to pull them out of the hot fat as Johnny watches you, still cooing and bouncing.

“Sorry,” you slide him a nearly burnt egg. “Can the baby still eat them?”

“Should be fine,” he tears the egg with his fingers, offering tiny pieces.

It's hard, but not too tough or burnt. Just browned, fried and crispy. You wonder if this could count as a sin, how nearly wasting food would weigh against coming on the fingers of a viking heathen.

The hopelessness gets you sometimes, gets you as you try to sleep and in moments like these. What option do you have? Adapt, or what? Sure, it's probably better to take advantage of their lack of extreme violence and make your predicament as best as possible, especially without an escape route and without the strength to fight them.

You feel watched, judged, observed on all sides. Giving in and navigating how to be a viking wife might be better than resisting forever, but the unseen eye of divine judgement and its gaze rests heavily on you. In fact, it's like it seeps into you through your skin and connects with the shame to compound both feelings.

“There she goes again,” Johnny says, but you hear him this time.

“I'm here,” you say. The baby smacks their lips, enjoying the egg despite its texture.

“No ye aren't,” his blue eyes are piercing, cutting through the fog of unease. “Ye getting all worked up again? I better not catch ye out back again.”

You shake your head, though he's right to think that way. Cleansing yourself has been on the back of your mind, not only the holy kind but what they can bring you with a different kind of force.

There's the sprout of desire that's grown bigger and bigger, as if some dry seed had always resided inside you and they had watered it back to life.

“I'm not,” you finally say, though too much time has passed and it's clear Johnny doesn't believe you.

The door opens and you're saved by the interruption. A new anxiety forms as multiple people enter, curling suddenly like a hook. Simon, Gaz, Gaz's wife and Price step in.

“Tyra,” Gaz says. “Where's my little Tyra?”

The baby shrieks again, reaching her hands out. You see the resemblance to both Gaz and her mother now, seeing them up close again. She claps for Gaz, her mother behind him and smiling at you gently.

“How are ye, Kari?”

“I'm well, thank you,” Kari says. She's always so soft, so glowy every time you see her. No wonder Gaz has scooped her up, you think you'd have also planted a baby in her belly if you were both able and a viking. Such thoughts sometimes arrested you at random in the convent, admiring the other women and dismissing them as silly.

You try not to put more weight into them now, as it doesn't serve your predicament.

But still, you admire Kari.

“And you?” her eyes soften.

“Well,” you parrot. There’s no way to explain how unwell you really are - or how your well-ness is causing that unwellness. It's confusing enough for you.

“She's settling in,” Simon says. He's trading looks like Price, whose beard is becoming a little overgrown.

Gaz takes Tyra, who babbles happily. For a moment it's like this place isn't all evil and temptation, but also love and care. It's easy to get lost in the image of Gaz and Kari making kissy faces to Tyra, who is unknowing of the world and happy to be in it.

They don't linger long. There are words exchanged that you don't pay attention to, hands clapped and Tyra kissed goodbye. You learn that she's nearly two, still a baby but getting bigger. Price teases the couple about their next as they leave, making Kari laugh a hearty laugh that fills you with warmth.

It evaporates a little when you're left with Simon and Johnny and silence, the atmosphere changing to something unfamiliar. This boundary you'd crossed with them has left you someplace awkward, with you mostly lost in your head.

Simon is good at getting you out of that space, but he's been gone often since the incident and Johnny's intensity tends to push you further inward.

He comes up behind you, now, and sets his heavy hands on your shoulders.

“She been like this all day?” He asks Johnny, who hums affirmatively.

Simon leans down, lips brushing the top of your head, hands squeezing your shoulders, before he pulls you backwards into his torso.

“Your god speaking to ya?” He asks.

“No,” you say honestly. “He's silent.”

“Silent, eh?” There's a chuckle, then two. They're heathens, you remind yourself. Heathens.

“Lamb, why don't ye spend some time with the wee lady Tyra?” Johnny scoots forward on the bench, touches your knee, smiles.

“Might do you some good,” Simon agrees. “‘specially since we're goin’ on a hunt.”

You pause.

“A hunt?”

Johnny nods.

“I'll be stayin’ behind,” he says. “Watch our little nun.”

Simon finally sits behind you, hands sliding from your shoulders to the softness of your upper arms, still squeezing.

“It's past time,” Simon says quietly behind you. He explains the yearly hunt, the walrus in the right location, the ivory they will sell and the oil they will gain for use. There's a whisper of something there, maybe longing, maybe not. You can't tell, not with his aloofness. He's closed off as a default, but he rubs your arms like he's comforting you and you decide to take it as such.

There's nothing left for you to say, so you just nod. You're still trying to resist taking on an intimate role, a wifely role, something that will make them think you've given up. You haven't yet, you might not. You have options, even if they're unpleasant or permanent.

A shiver passes through you. That isn't what you want. You're stuck, but you have to rationalize: it isn't what you thought it would be.

You've felt good. You feel good now. The remaining pain comes from the twisting, growing shame that slowly turns in a circle and ensnares your insides.

That, and the taking. It still feels unfair, feels wrong. If you think on it too hard you start to feel like a thing, not a person.

Johnny seems regretful that night, a mix of pride and love for Simon warring with his need to stay home with you. He sleeps in the middle, leaving you near the wall and opting to join hands with Simon through the night. These moments humanize them to you as well – to your distress, and to your softening.

They love each other in the way you've seen some of the villagers love each other, in the way that love is universal; it's a little different, because they're different, but it's tender nonetheless.

Love is luck, you think. Luck enough to find someone to be tender with in a world that is hard to live in, that is so utilitarian, so survival dependent.

Simon leaves the next morning with a group of hunters. Price leads the pack of them, slapping the backs of some of the younger ones who for them it'll be their first or second winter hunt, encouraging them. It's a mixed group with both men and women, younger and older, seasoned and green.

You stand beside Johnny at the door, watching the group move through the village until they are gone. Johnny tells you that they’ll ride horses, but they’re further out. Lest we smell the horse shite, he laughs. Got enough on our plate with Si. The joke has a thread of longing in it.

You’ve never been truly alone with either of them, you realize. Sure, a few hours here and there, but never for the days that Simon plans to be gone. Never slept alone with either of them.

Simon has been somewhat of a buffer, even if he’s the one who initiated the incident and carried it out. He balances the infinite well of restlessness Johnny has.

It’s frightening and comforting all at once. For one, you don’t feel like a bug pinned by its wings, even if that means you’re even more anchor-less than before. Simon is solid despite his surliness, and without him to steady the dynamic you worry.

“Ah dinnae know what to make,” Johnny bemoans. He wants to prepare some kind of gift as a surprise. “Already got too many statues.”

“Statues?” you ask, tilting your head towards him.

“Aye,” he nods, moving to a far corner of the house. He produces a little leather pouch, then little carved wooden figurines. One of them is a wolf, the other a bird.

“You made this?” you take one delicately in your hand, as if it would break. Statues, he said. They’re cute, clearly having been made with care.

Turning the wolf in your hand, you admire the polished shine of the wood.

“Aye,” he says again. “Si’s got too many.”

He spends a portion of the day puttering about, stoking the fire, sharpening various tools. You can’t tell if he’s restless because Simon is gone, or if you hadn’t noticed his restless nature as much because Simon was his outlet.

An urge rises in you, that screaming urge you know more intimately than anything else, awakened and restless like a hungry beast – it stirs as Johnny stokes the fire, crouched and with his back to you.

The only way to go if not out is in and you won’t. Push him in, you think. If you want out, push him in.

But you won't. There’s darkness at the core of you to be sure, but not that kind of darkness. Not the kind both he and Simon are steeped in. Violence, sadism maybe.

That would make you the other side of the coin.

The same swirling pattern of thoughts plague you even as Johnny serves you fish and more turnip for dinner, even as he pulls you into bed for that night and wraps himself around you.

You want to kick. To scream. To have a fit. Some insane, perverse fit; something that would have earned you an exorcism or an execution in the village. These thoughts come unbidden to you as you try not to feel the grasp of Johnny’s hand to your waist, nor the scruff of his beard on your throat.

Your identity has shifted, already. You aren't dead inside, not anymore. Not hoping for some outer force to take you away.

An outer force has taken you, and now you wrestle with the ramifications on your spirit.

It's unclean now, surely. But hadn't it always been?

Hadn't you willed this?

Happy faces appear in your mind. Kari. Tyra. Gaz. Price. Johnny. Simon is too hard to read, but the way he treats Johnny is enough to convey some kind of contentment.

And then the look at breakfast. The baby. Johnny’s gentle cooing, his attention. Simon’s hands squeezing you, reassuring you.

They contribute to the degradation of your spirit, to each rend of the glue that has held you together since first consciousness.

You try to hold onto the fear from before. Their words from before – behave and we won’t kill you. Does that still apply? Are you still under an ever present, looming threat? Were they only trying to get you moving?

Some part of you shudders to realize that it doesn’t feel that way. Even when they had sprung it on you to marry you, you hadn’t felt the same mortal fear as when they had absconded with you.

No, it had been hurt. Disappointment. The fear had shifted with your identity, staying present but becoming unfamiliar.

The you that they had taken was unfamiliar too. She’d have never built snowmen, nor ground her pussy into the hand of a viking and relaxed into another’s hold as you are now.

You wanted to live, you think. Even then.

A couple days pass. Johnny finally finds a suitable enough gift for Simon, a double edged blade he’s carving and sharpening.

The sight of it makes something tighten in your chest, so you avoid looking at it.

Between you both, it’s less awkward than you worried about. You come to a different understanding of him, one that comes from watching his independence without Simon. They truly do fit together, you think. Complement each other.

What about you? Are you here for them to have other options? A cunt, you think crudely. Something that gets wet without extra effort, something easy. You’ve certainly not made it hard. The thought puts you in another stink, frowning down at the pair of linen summer pants you’d found and started to mend.

“What’s this face ye got on?” Johnny steps up to you, setting the heavy blade on the table, and sitting.

You don’t speak, you just sew. Are you just a womb? Is that it?

“Awe, lamb,” he leans forward, hands finding the tops of your thighs and leaning on them. “So sour.”

When you still don’t respond, he reaches to take your sewing. You lose some bearing and prick him with the needle, frissy that he’s trying to take you out of your ruminations.

Provocative.

“Och,” he waves his hand, then laughs. “Prickly, are we?”

He forces the fabric from your hands, squeezing your hand until it opens with the needle and thread. You make some kind of irritated sound, like a growling cat, still half in reality and half in your mind.

“Ye’ve been stuck,” he pokes your forehead. “Stuck here, eh? Let me fix that.”

And then you’re pulled up to your feet, steered to the bed, and pushed before you can adapt.

“Simon’ll have’tae forgive me,” he murmurs. You’re sat on the edge, looking down at him with a frown.

“What-” you make a strange, caught off guard squeaking sound as he pushes you by the shoulders, lifting the edge of your dress.

“Sh,” he says sharply. “Should’a done this days ago.”

“Wait- don’t-” you slam your knees shut, trying to sit back up. Something sharp you can’t name explodes outwards from your chest, sharp spikes pricking your lungs and your heart, twisting.

Your struggle is mostly futile, though it’s easier that Simon isn’t here. Your arms flail, your legs scoot you away up the bed.

“Noo-” you try again. Your fear stems mostly from the uncertainty of what he’ll do, of the fear that he’ll steal the last true thing you have; your virtue.

“Relax,” he strong-arms you into lying down, arms crossed at your chest and his huge hand keeping them pushed down.

He positions himself parallel to you, replacing his hand with his bigger knee, his face right where he wants it.

“Ye should’ve asked me, lamb,” he murmurs, then kisses the hair above your pussy. Your stomach tightens, breath coming out in strained gasps from the combined weight of his knee and your shame.

You’re wet.

“I won’t smack ye if I don’t have tae,” he says. His hands rub up your hips, then your thighs, before coming up to your pussy and spreading your lips open.

Your clit strains in the open air, a cool breeze from the gaps in the door making it jump. He watches for a moment, cruelly, listening to the sound of your laboured breathing.

Then he dives in, tongue first. Because of the angle, his tongue dips down towards your hole while his lower lip catches your clit, making you gasp.

“Let me,” he hums, pauses. “Let me take care of ye, lamb.”

And God, he does. Johnny licks over you like a starved man, sucking your labia before flicking the tip of his tongue over your clit again as sounds come out of you like someone is pounding a fist into your chest.

He slurps your wetness obscenely, using his fingers to scoop whatever leaks from your hole as best he can and bringing them to his mouth to suck clean. He murmurs fervently about how good you taste, how he can smell the desperation from you.

“So neglected,” he sucks the wetness from your hair, even. “Forgive me.”

He’s talking to your cunt again, leaving you trembling against the bed and tightening, tightening, rising, rising–

He stops.

You damn near scream, but the sound gets trapped where he’s still putting his weight on you.

“I’m gonnae move, and yer gonnae stay right there all sweet for me, aren’t ye?” he turns to look at you, and though you can hardly see him you nod.

He lifts off, making you grunt involuntarily, then switches positions so he’s on his hands and knees nearly on top of you.

“Open those legs,” he says. Leans down to kiss your sternum over the fabric of your dress. “Let me ease yer mind.”

You can feel yourself falling further from grace, but God help you – you open your legs.

Johnny keeps eye contact as he slides down, getting on his stomach with those piercing blue eyes cutting through you.

When his mouth touches your cunt again, you feel yourself start to shake, growing more insane by the second. His tongue touches your hot, swollen flesh, dragging wetly against everything sensitive. He’s like an animal, you think. A heathen. No wonder these people have not seen God’s light. No wonder it does not reach here.

Something so sinful, so good, couldn’t possibly exist in the puritanical world you’d been taken from.

God, you think again, body twisting against the sheets, is this really what they kept from us?

“Please,” you cry out. Please stop? Please continue? It’s a plea for more than just Johnny, more than God. It’s a question that burrows deep in your mind and begs you to understand yourself, to untangle, to feel and release.

And oh, you’re breathing, breathing in, breathing in perhaps for the first time in your life. You wrench his hair in your fists, uncaring, screaming into the cold winter afternoon without a care. Your back arches, tilting your cunt further into his face, legs straining, gushing. Blood rushes in your ears, deafening you, once again turning the world into a small point where you can neither hear nor see.

All you can do is feel, ride, undulate. This is that fit you’d wanted earlier, it’s some insane hysteria, some sin that feels like ecstasy.

Your nipples tighten, stimulated by the chill of the air and the scratch of your woolen dress. Your peak is maddening, drawn-out and pushed further by Johnny’s lips suctioned around your clit and sucking in hard.

The moment you truly finish, when the stimulation turns to discomfort, you release his hair and push at his head.

“Stop,” you gasp. “Stop it.”

He doesn’t. His hands find your thighs, holding you open, running his tongue from your clit and then piercing it into your hole. His nose rubs on you, and though tears spill from your eyes you grind into it, crying for him to end it.

“One more,” he grunts.

“No,” you moan. Then you peak again, mouth open in a silent scream and eyes screwing shut, the fusion of sharp, near-painful pleasure and actual, overstimulated pain brings you a climax you could have never imagined of on your own.

You weep again as he pulls away, feeling raw and tender.

Boneless.

You wake in the middle of the night bundled and in both furs and arms. You’re pleasantly sore, pulsing a little still between your legs where Johnny’s thigh keeps you company. He’s so warm, so comfortable, that it’s easy for you to fall back asleep.

You wake again in the early morning, so early that the light of dawn hasn't yet breached the cabin.

Johnny snuffles behind you. Nose on your shoulder, hands migrating to rest just below your breasts.

“Mmmlamb,” he murmurs.

Your muscles are heavy, still. Weighed down with relaxation. It's true that you had gotten worked up, and that his actions had helped. You don't find any shame, not now. You've found a rare pocket of respite.

Simon is due back in a day or two unless there are extenuating circumstances. A winter storm, maybe. Or an errant predator.

What would life look like if he never returned? It’s an uncomfortable thought. You’re still on the edge of how you feel, teetering between extremes, but you rely on them both for survival.

Where could you go? Even when you’d ran, the plan had been borne of heart, not mind. Without Simon or Johnny, you’d be in a terrible precarious situation.

Without Simon permanently? You weren’t sure.

You very slowly extricate yourself from Johnny’s arms, sliding out of bed and into the cold air. The fire is just coals, so you add a few pieces of wood and stoke it for the day. In the dark, you can see the reflection of the fire in the sword Johnny had left on the table.

You pad to it, staring, curious and afraid. It looked orange from the fire, only darker. It looked like your beautiful red ochre dress, your blood dress.

You reach your fingers out and stroke along the blade, breathing shallowly in the dark.

Dawn breaks.

#Johnny's mouth🤝hitachi magic wand #sorry this took a while #nun finally gets her pssy ate<3 #she deserves it #this chap is very johnny-heavy #someone get him brown eye contacts please he's scaring the nun</3 #soap x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #john mactavish x reader #johnny mactavish x reader #ghoap x reader #cw dubcon #cw noncon #18+ mdni #red ochre

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rafestify · 3 months ago

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Love Letter — Rafe Cameron

Summary : A calming day at the beach is ruined by Topper and Kelce, but it ends with Rafe teasing Sweet!Reader about the love letter she wrote for him.

Rafe Cameron x Sweet!Reader

Warning : Swearing (english is not my first language)

A/N : pure fluff oh my god this one is so cute! and this one is based on a request :) enjoy!

On days like this, when the sun dipped low and the world felt softer, it had always been me and Rafe’s favorite place—our secluded spot on the beach, hidden from the world, where only the ocean bore witness. Just us, lying close on the warm sand, the gentle sound of waves mingling with our quiet laughter and whispered dreams. The sky above shifted in color, fading from blue to hues of pink and orange, casting a warm glow across his face. I found myself watching him as he spoke, captivated by the light in his eyes, the way his smile curved in a way that was only for me. We talked about everything and nothing, losing track of time, our voices blending into the soft rhythm of the tide. His hand brushed mine, and we both pretended not to notice, but the warmth lingered, a silent promise, a wordless bond.

In those stolen moments, it felt like the world was ours. Just the two of us, lying there, our hearts open, our secrets laid bare, the ocean surrounding us like a gentle embrace, holding every whisper, every shared look, close. There was a peace, a rightness in being there together, hidden from everyone else, a perfect stillness that only we understood. The world faded away, and in its place, it was just me and him, lost in each other and this quiet paradise.

As we lay there, tangled in the warmth of the sand and each other’s company, I suddenly remembered my purse sitting in the car. It had something I wanted to share with him, but I’d forgotten it in the rush to get there. With a slight smile, I sat up, brushing the sand off my arms. “Hold that thought,” I said, playfully tapping his arm as I got to my feet. “I just realize I left my purse in the car.” Rafe raised an eyebrow, watching me with a smirk. “Need some help carrying it?” he teased, his eyes alight with that mischievous glint I knew all too well.

“I can handle it,” I chuckled, starting to walk up the beach, but his gaze lingered, and I felt a flutter of excitement building in my chest. I knew he would still be there, waiting in that same easy way he always did.

The walk to the car was short, but with every step, I could feel my heartbeat quicken, the anticipation building for what I was about to show him. Inside my purse, there was a small, folded paper—a note I’d written to him ages ago, back when things were simpler, but also when my feelings felt bigger than words could hold. I’d tucked it away, waiting for a moment like this.

When I got back to our spot, my steps slowed as I noticed Rafe was no longer alone. Topper and Kelce had joined him, the three of them deep in conversation, laughing and talking about God knows what. I stood back a little, close enough to see them but hidden enough that they didn’t notice me. There was something in their posture, the way Topper leaned in with that smug smirk, and Kelce rolled his eyes, that made me hesitate. I clutched the note tightly in my hand, feeling a twist of uncertainty I hadn’t expected.

“Man, I still can’t believe you’re wasting so much time with her,” Topper laughed, nudging Rafe with his elbow. “I mean, it’s not like she’s anything special. She’s just… around, you know?”

Kelce snorted, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, Rafe. It’s like you’re trying to be her hero or something. Doesn’t exactly scream you, you know? Why are you even bothering? Everyone knows she’s just another pretty face who’s gotten way too comfortable hanging around us.”

My heart sank as their words hit me, a stinging ache spreading through my chest. I glanced at Rafe, hoping, maybe, he would say something to shut them down, to defend me, to prove that this connection we shared was real. But he stayed silent, staring down at the sand. I couldn’t quite read his expression, but his silence felt louder than any words could. Topper continued, his voice low but laced with arrogance. “Honestly, you could do so much better, man. She’s just… I don’t know, a little too soft. Always trailing after you like some lost puppy. Doesn’t it ever get old?”

I bit my lip, my fingers tightening around the note until the paper crumpled. The words I’d written for Rafe felt suddenly too vulnerable, too exposed, like they were a foolish dream I’d clung to. I didn’t know why I thought things could be different—that somehow, with him, I’d found something real. It was naive, maybe, to think that he saw me the way I’d come to see him. Kelce’s laugh grated in my ears as he slapped Rafe’s shoulder. “Guess it’s good to keep her around for a while, right? A little entertainment until something better comes along?”

I swallowed, the taste bitter, and a coldness settled in. I backed away slowly, not wanting to hear anymore. I realized, painfully, that maybe they were right—or at least, that Rafe’s silence meant he didn’t disagree. The note I’d been so excited to share with him felt heavy in my hand. I stood there for a moment longer, my heart sinking, watching as Rafe’s face twisted with something dark and intense. He leaned forward, cutting off Topper mid-laugh with a voice low but unmistakably angry. I couldn’t make out exactly what he said, but I could see the sharpness in his eyes, the firmness in his tone, and something about it made Topper and Kelce’s smirks falter.

They looked at each other, clearly surprised, and after a moment, Kelce cleared his throat awkwardly, his gaze shifting to the ground. Topper scoffed, rolling his eyes, but I caught him muttering, “Man, you’re pussy whipped,” before turning and giving Rafe a parting shove on the shoulder, a bit harder than friendly. As they walked off, I could hear the murmur of their disbelief fading with each step until the only sound left was the ocean crashing softly against the shore. Rafe watched them go, shoulders tense, hands curled into fists at his sides. For a second, he just stared at the sand, and then he exhaled, running a hand through his hair as if to shake off whatever tension was still lingering. He hadn’t seen me yet, and I could see a slight slump to his shoulders, an almost unguarded vulnerability that I didn’t often see.

Taking a deep breath, I walked back toward him, my earlier hurt still there but softened by the way he’d sent them off. I sat down beside him, close enough that our arms brushed, and he turned, finally noticing me. There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes, but he quickly softened, his gaze lingering on mine, almost as if he were searching for something.

“You heard all that, didn’t you?” he asked quietly, his voice almost a whisper.

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Most of it,” I admitted, feeling the weight of everything I overheard but trying to keep my voice steady. “I didn’t mean to, but—”

He shook his head, an apology shadowing his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said, his tone raw. “I didn’t know they’d talk about you like that. I should’ve…” He trailed off, frustrated, and for a moment, he clenched his jaw, looking away. “It’s okay,” I said softly, reaching over to place my hand on his arm. “You didn’t have to say anything. But… thank you for standing up for me.”

He glanced down at my hand, then back up at me, his gaze softening even more. “I didn’t like the way they talked about you. You’re more than that, you know?”

My heart fluttered at his words, and I felt the hurt slowly dissipating, replaced by something warmer, deeper. We sat there for a moment in silence, our hands brushing in the sand, the unspoken bond between us stronger than any words they could’ve thrown my way. The waves rolled gently in the background, like a silent promise, and for the first time since I overheard them, I felt truly at peace.

We sat in silence for a moment, the waves crashing rhythmically behind us. Rafe’s words from earlier echoed in my mind, slowly easing the hurt that Topper and Kelce’s comments had left. I glanced down at the crumpled paper still clutched in my hand, my pulse quickening with both nervousness and anticipation. This felt like the perfect moment to share what I’d written.

Taking a deep breath, I smoothed out the paper and held it out to him, a little shyly. “Rafe, there’s something I wanted to show you,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. He tilted his head, his brow furrowing in curiosity. “What is it?”

“It’s just something I wrote a while back,” I explained, biting my lip. He took the paper from my hand, his fingers brushing against mine, sending a thrill through me. As he unfolded it, I watched his expression shift, curiosity transforming into intrigue. “Is this a love letter?” he asked, his eyes flicking back to mine, a playful smirk forming on his lips.

“You wish,” I replied, trying to sound casual, though my heart was racing. “More like a confession, actually.”

Rafe glanced down, his eyes scanning the lines I had written, a grin spreading across his face as he read. I watched, my stomach fluttering nervously, until he reached a particular line that made his smile widen into a full-blown smirk.

even though he can be a dickhead sometimes, he's a hot dickhead for sure xx

He looked up at me, his expression a mix of amusement and mock indignation. “A dickhead, huh? Is that what you think I am?” he teased, leaning closer, a playful glint in his eye. I couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling up as I felt a rush of warmth. “What can I say? You did have your moments, you know.”

“Moments?” he echoed, feigning offense as he crossed his arms dramatically. “I’ll have you know I had many moments! Just asked Topper and Kelce!”

I rolled my eyes, trying to suppress another giggle. “I’d rather not ask them anything,” I replied. “But it was true! You could be really infuriating sometimes. But—” I paused, searching for the right words, “it was part of what made you, well, you. And I liked you for it.”

His smirk softened into something genuine, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “So, I was hot and infuriating. That’s a compliment I could get behind.”

I leaned back, crossing my arms playfully. “Don’t let it go to your head, idiot.” I smacked his arm playfully. “Too late,” he replied with a cocky grin, puffing out his chest as if he was suddenly all-knowing. “But I appreciate your honesty. And just for the record, I think you're pretty hot too.” I felt my cheeks warm again, and I couldn’t help but smile back at him. “Oh, do you now?” I asked, arching an eyebrow playfully. “Is that your way of trying to win me over?”

“Maybe,” he said, leaning in slightly, his expression shifting to a more serious tone. “It’s the truth. You light up a room, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t notice.” His sincerity caught me off guard, and I glanced away, feeling a flutter of shyness mixed with pride. “I don't believe you,” I said skeptically, unable to completely shake off the doubt.

“Oh, you want me to prove it to you, huh?” Rafe asked cockily, an impish grin spreading across his face.

Before I could respond, he closed the distance between us, his lips brushing against mine. The kiss started off soft, tentative, as if he was gauging my reaction. My heart raced, caught off guard by the intensity of the moment, but I quickly melted into it, the warmth of his body drawing me in. As the kiss deepened, he tilted his head slightly, his fingers threading through my hair, holding me in place as if he never wanted to let go. The world around us faded, and it was just the two of us, surrounded by the sound of waves crashing softly against the shore. I could taste the salt in the air and the sweetness of his breath, and everything felt electric. When we finally pulled apart, both of us breathing heavily, I looked into his eyes, trying to decipher the emotions swirling within them.

“Okay, maybe that was a little convincing,” I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper, still tinged with surprise.

“Just a little?” Rafe smirked, clearly pleased with himself. “I was aiming for ‘totally convinced.’” I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help the smile tugging at my lips.

As we sat there, surrounded by the fading light of the day and the gentle sound of the ocean, I realized that this moment was only the beginning—a spark of something deeper and more exhilarating than I had ever expected. And as I looked at Rafe, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of excitement for what was to come, ready to embrace every challenge, every kiss, and every moment we had together.

likes and reblogs are appreciated 🪷

#rafe cameron #outer banks #netflix #drew starkey #rafe cameron imagine #rafe obx #rafe outer banks #rafe cameron fic #rafe #rafe cameron obx #rafe x reader #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron fluff #rafe cameron fanfiction

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resentful-reads · 2 months ago

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“Is there a limit to how much good one should do?”

~ Once Stolen by D.N. Bryn

#resentful reads #once stolen #d.n. bryn #these treacherous tides #book 1 #ttt:os #bookblr #book quotes #book excerpt

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moonlitstoriess · 4 months ago

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Bound in Silence- Rhysand x fem!Reader part 2

A/n: 8.7k words! Phew! This was definitely a rollercoaster of emotions but, I hope you guys enjoy it!💕

Part 1 here

After surviving her fall, Y/n embarks on a path of healing while Rhysand begins to realize the truth about their bond. As Rhys grapples with guilt and confusion, Y/n must learn to rebuild her life. But when their paths cross again, Rhys will need to fight for her forgiveness, hoping to mend what was once broken.

She shouldn’t have survived.

The wind had howled in her ears as she plummeted from the cliff’s edge, the ground rushing up to meet her, a cold, hard end she had welcomed. The pain, the heartbreak—it had been too much, too consuming. But as the world around her blurred, she felt a sudden, violent impact, not against solid ground, but against something softer—brush and sand.

When she opened her eyes, it was not death that greeted her but the harsh light of dawn streaming through the trees above, the sound of waves crashing against the shore in the distance. She lay in a thicket, a tangled mess of branches and brambles that had broken her fall, offering her an unexpected refuge.

Her body ached with bruises from the impact, sharp pain flaring in her ribs and a throbbing headache pulsing at her temples. She felt the grit of sand embedded in her skin and the taste of salt on her lips. But she was alive.

Y/n struggled to sit up, her hands trembling as she pressed against the ground for support. Panic surged through her. The memories of the cliff, of the choice she had made, washed over her like a tide pulling her under. Had she really leapt to escape the torment of her heart? The betrayal she felt was still fresh, the sting of Rhysand’s indifference cutting deeper than any physical wound.

As she surveyed her surroundings, a dense forest framed her, the trees standing tall like silent sentinels. The sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the ground, and the distant sound of waves served as a haunting reminder of the world she had tried to leave behind. But where was she? She had no idea how far she had fallen or where this path might lead.

Y/n took a moment to catch her breath, the air crisp and sharp in her lungs. She was alone, utterly alone, with no family to return to, no familiar faces to seek comfort from. The weight of that truth settled deep in her chest. She had thought—foolishly—that Rhysand had been her salvation, her anchor in that hellish place. But in the end, she had meant nothing to him.

Pushing herself to her feet, she wobbled unsteadily, pain radiating through her ribs. The instinct to survive propelled her forward, one shaky step at a time. She didn’t know where she was going. The road ahead seemed just as empty as the one behind her.

But it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore.

Each step felt heavier, and with every movement, she fought against the urge to collapse back to the ground. The memories of Rhysand—their stolen moments, their laughter, and the warmth of his presence—crashed over her like the waves she could hear in the distance. He had made her feel seen in a way she had never experienced before, and now that light was extinguished.

As she wandered deeper into the forest, the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows among the trees. Y/n found a small clearing where she sank to the ground, her body protesting at the sudden relief. She closed her eyes, letting the sounds of nature surround her, searching for solace in the rustling leaves and chirping birds.

What she realized, in that moment of stillness, was that surviving wasn’t enough. She needed to reclaim herself, to remember who she had been before the darkness took hold. The journey ahead would be long and fraught with challenges, but the thought of facing them alone no longer filled her with dread. Instead, it ignited a flicker of determination.

“Whatever lies ahead,” she whispered to the trees, “I will find my way.”

With that resolve, Y/n pushed herself back up, brushing the leaves from her clothes and glancing around. The forest was alive with the sound of chirping birds and rustling leaves, and she couldn’t help but feel that life, despite its challenges, was still worth fighting for.

She pressed on, each step feeling heavier than the last. The forest wrapped around her like a shroud, the branches swaying gently as if whispering secrets she couldn’t quite grasp. She staggered through the underbrush, branches snagging her clothes and tearing at her skin, but she hardly noticed. The pain in her ribs was a constant reminder of her fall, pulsing with each movement, and fatigue settled in her bones like a thick fog.

She tried to focus on the path ahead, but her vision began to blur, the edges of her surroundings fading in and out. She needed to find shelter, a place to rest and gather her strength. The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows that seemed to dance mockingly around her, urging her to give in to the darkness that threatened to swallow her whole.

With every step, Y/n felt herself growing weaker. Her legs trembled, and the world spun slightly around her. She stumbled, hitting the ground hard, the breath leaving her lungs in a gasp. Panic surged through her as she fought to regain her breath, but the pain from her injuries was overwhelming. She lay there for a moment, staring up at the canopy of leaves above, feeling utterly defeated.

Then, as she struggled to push herself back up, she heard voices in the distance, their laughter ringing through the trees. At first, she thought it might be a cruel trick of her mind, a hallucination born from the exhaustion and pain. But as the laughter grew closer, a flicker of hope ignited within her.

“Did you hear that?” one voice said, clear and bright. “I think someone’s out there!”

Y/n’s heart raced, a mix of fear and hope flooding her veins. She wanted to call out, to let them know she was here, but the words caught in her throat. She could only lie there, trying to steady her breathing as the voices approached.

Moments later, a group of travelers emerged from the trees, their expressions shifting from joviality to concern as they spotted her on the ground. They were a motley crew—rough and worn but with a kindness that seemed to radiate from them. The tallest among them, a woman with long, dark hair and bright blue eyes, rushed forward.

“Oh, gods! What happened?” she exclaimed, kneeling beside Y/n. “Can you hear me? Are you hurt?”

Y/n tried to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she looked up at the woman, her vision swimming as darkness crept at the edges of her sight.

“We need to get her out of here,” another voice said, a man with a thick beard who stepped forward. “She looks injured. We can’t leave her like this.”

The group quickly moved around her, their chatter fading into a distant hum as Y/n felt herself drifting. Hands gently lifted her, and though every movement sent jolts of pain through her body, the warmth of their concern began to wrap around her like a comforting blanket.

“Stay with us, okay?” the woman said, her voice soothing. “We’re going to help you.”

Y/n wanted to cling to those words, to believe that perhaps this was her chance to find solace. But the world began to fade, the faces of her rescuers becoming blurry as she lost her grip on consciousness. Just before the darkness took her, she felt a warm hand clasp her own, a connection that anchored her for one fleeting moment.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Velaris was a sanctuary, hidden from the world and its chaos, but even its beauty couldn’t soothe the turmoil within him. Rhysand leaned against the balcony railing of the townhouse, staring out at the starry sky, yet his thoughts were far from peaceful. Feyre was with Tamlin in the Spring Court, and every moment spent thinking about their time together made his chest tighten with frustration.

He had felt so powerless during her trials, watching from afar as she struggled, battling her fears and doubts. His heart had raced as he witnessed her strength, yet it ignited a fury within him that simmered just below the surface. Tamlin didn’t deserve her. He was blinded by his love for Feyre, unable to see the darkness creeping into their lives, a darkness that Rhysand feared would swallow her whole.

“Damn it, Feyre,” he muttered under his breath, clenching his fists. “You don’t belong there.”

The weight of the Night Court’s responsibilities pressed heavily on him, and he found himself retreating deeper into his thoughts. The war with Amarantha had left scars that would take time to heal. But all he could think about was Feyre’s laughter, the way her eyes lit up in defiance, and the warmth that enveloped him when she was near.

Suddenly, he felt a pang of icy cold hit his chest, a feeling of.....nothing overtaking him. Rhysands body shuddered. He could now feel a string of sorts a....a bond. A bond with her, with y/n. But why was it so empty?

A shiver ran down his spine, and he closed his eyes, reaching out instinctively through the bond he shared with Y/n. Instead of comforting warmth, there was nothing but an oppressive silence. It was as if she had vanished, leaving a void that echoed with despair.

Since when did I have a bond with her? The thought sliced through his mind like a blade. He had dismissed their connection, buried it under layers of his feelings for Feyre. But now, the absence of Y/n felt like a cruel twist of fate, a reminder of what he had ignored for too long.

Panic surged through him as he searched for any hint of her presence, any sign that she was safe. But all he felt was the chilling silence, a stark contrast to the vibrant energy that had once flowed between them.

“Y/n,” he breathed, the name feeling foreign on his tongue. “Where are you?”

He pushed himself away from the balcony railing, his heart pounding in his chest. He needed to know what was happening, to understand why the bond felt so strained, so distant. A part of him clung to the hope that she was simply out of reach, that she was safe and sound somewhere beyond his grasp.

But the gnawing sense of dread would not let him rest. He was tied to her in a way he had never fully understood, and now that connection was fraying at the edges, unraveling into something that filled him with an ache he couldn’t quite place.

It hit him then, like a thunderclap in the stillness of his thoughts: Y/n was his mate. The realization sent shockwaves through him, unraveling the tension in his chest and filling him with a potent mixture of dread and yearning.

She mattered. She had always mattered, perhaps more than he had ever let himself admit.

As he stood there, the weight of his decisions began to settle upon him. He had taken her for granted, focused solely on his feelings for Feyre while ignoring the depth of his connection with Y/n.

He had to find her. He had to understand what was happening.

~~~~~~~~~

Y/n awoke in a small, dimly lit room, the soft murmur of voices and the sound of footsteps moving outside the door barely reaching her ears. Her body ached, every movement sending sharp reminders of her injuries. She tried to sit up, but a firm hand gently pressed her back down.

“Easy,” a woman’s voice murmured. Y/n blinked, her vision clearing enough to see the woman from before—the one with long, dark hair and kind, blue eyes—sitting beside her. “You’re still hurt. Your ribs were bruised, and you were half-frozen when we found you. You need rest.”

Y/n grimaced, ignoring the throbbing pain as she forced herself into a sitting position. She wasn’t used to lying still. “I’m fine,” she muttered, but her body betrayed her words, her legs too weak to support her even if she tried to stand.

The woman, who had introduced herself as Lira, smiled gently. “Stubborn, aren’t you? It’s alright to let someone help you.”

Y/n’s eyes flicked to the door. The laughter of children and the hum of distant conversations filtered in from outside. She frowned. “Where am I?”

“A village,” Lira said, watching her carefully. “Small, but we’re a close-knit community. Everyone knows everyone here. We help each other, share what we have.”

Jealousy flared in Y/n’s chest, sharp and uninvited. A place where people lived in peace, helping one another without a second thought. It was so different from the life she knew—so far from the chaos and heartbreak that had led her here.

Y/n’s voice was rough as she asked, “How long was I out?”

“A few days. We did what we could to help you recover. But you’ve still got some healing to do.”

Silence fell between them. Y/n’s gaze remained on the door, but her thoughts were far from the village. Her mind returned to the cliff, to the crushing despair that had driven her to jump. She had wanted the pain to end—had thought it would, but here she was, still breathing, still hurting.

Lira’s voice broke through her thoughts. “How did you end up in that forest? You were in pretty bad shape when we found you.”

Y/n hesitated. She didn’t owe this woman her story—didn’t owe anyone anything anymore—but the weight of it pressed down on her, and maybe, just maybe, telling a small part of it would help ease the burden.

“I had a mate,” Y/n said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper. Lira’s brow furrowed in sympathy, waiting for more. “He chose someone else.”

The words tasted bitter on her tongue, but they were the truth. Rhysand had never even known. Never knew that she had felt the bond snap into place, that the invisible thread between them had formed. It didn’t matter now—he had chosen Feyre, and that choice had shattered her.

Lira’s eyes were filled with gentle curiosity. “Why didn’t you tell him?”

Y/n shook her head, her throat tight. “It’s… complicated. He never knew, and by the time I realized, it was already too late. He… he was in love with her.”

Lira was quiet for a moment, processing Y/n’s words. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “That sounds… painful.”

Y/n didn’t respond, her gaze distant, as if she could still see the edges of Amarantha's court from where she sat. The love she’d seen in Rhysand’s eyes when he looked at Feyre had been undeniable. He had never looked at her that way, not even close.

“Maybe we can contact your family?” Lira suggested, trying to be helpful.

Y/n’s jaw tightened, her eyes flickering to Lira’s kind face. “I don’t have anyone.”

“No one at all?”

Y/n shook her head, a cold emptiness settling in her chest. She had no family left—no home, no place to return to. “It’s just me.”

Lira sighed softly, her brow creasing in thought. “Then stay here with us,” she offered, her voice warm. “At least until you’re healed, and after that… you can decide where you want to go.”

Y/n’s instinct was to refuse immediately. She had seen too much, been through too much, to believe in the kindness of strangers anymore. She didn’t trust it—not after what she had lost. And yet… this woman, this village… they didn’t know her, didn’t know what she carried, and still, they had taken her in.

“I don’t know if I can,” Y/n said, her voice barely audible.

“Why not?” Lira asked gently. “You’ve been through something terrible, that much is clear. But there’s no need to face it alone.”

Y/n glanced at her, doubt gnawing at her insides. Could she trust these people? Could she allow herself even a moment of peace in this quiet village after everything?

Lira smiled again, softer this time. “Just think about it. We’re not going anywhere.”

Y/n gave a small nod, her mind already spinning with the enormity of her situation. She had nowhere to go, no plan for what came next. Maybe, for now, she could stay here—just until she figured out what to do.

~~~~~~~~

Rhysand’s mind raced, the weight of realization crashing over him like a tidal wave. Y/n was his mate. It wasn’t something he could dismiss anymore, not after the sudden void he felt through the bond. For so long, he had tried to push aside the connection, telling himself that Feyre was his priority. And yet, here he stood, drowning in guilt and confusion as the truth settled in.

She had always been there, a steady presence in his life—loyal, fierce, and strong. He had admired her, even cared for her, but it wasn’t until now that he understood the depth of that connection. And now, she was gone. Or worse—hurt.

“Mother above,” Rhys muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. He had been so blinded by Feyre, so consumed by his need to protect her, that he had failed to notice what had always been right in front of him.

The bond had been subtle at first, an almost imperceptible tether that he had never fully explored. But now? Now it was like a raw wound, aching in a way that made his chest tighten. He couldn’t feel her—couldn’t sense her. She was gone from his awareness, and that terrified him more than anything else.

Rhysand clenched his jaw, his thoughts spiraling into a panic. What if something had happened to her? The Night Court had always been a place of sanctuary, but the world beyond Velaris was filled with dangers—dangers that Y/n, in her current state, might not be able to fend off.

“I’ve been a fool,” he whispered, the words bitter on his tongue.

Turning away from the balcony, Rhys stormed back inside the palace, his steps quick and determined. He couldn’t just stand here and do nothing. He needed to find her, to reach her through the bond, to bring her back if she was in danger.

But how? He had never explored this connection before, had never let himself dwell on what it meant. And now, with Y/n’s presence completely cut off, he wasn’t sure where to begin.

His heart pounded, and the gnawing fear clawed at his insides. He didn’t know if she was safe. Didn’t know where she was. But he would find her, no matter what it took.

Rhysand closed his eyes and reached deep into himself, seeking out the bond, trying to find any flicker of her. He focused on that missing warmth, on the piece of him that felt like it had been torn away. And in the quiet of his mind, a whisper—barely there—flickered. A spark of something. Pain. Despair.

He gasped, the sensation hitting him hard, and for the briefest of moments, he felt her—felt the depth of her agony, the exhaustion, the loss.

“Y/n…” he breathed, his voice low, anguished. Wherever she was, she was suffering.

Rhysand knew he had to act quickly. There was no time to waste. He had to find her before it was too late.

With a sharp breath, he called for his wings, already preparing to leave. He will explain everything to his family later. Y/n—his mate—needed him now more than ever.

Rhysand landed softly in the clearing where he had last seen Y/n, his heart pounding in his chest. The forest loomed around him, dark and quiet, the air heavy with the scent of earth and damp leaves. Shadows stretched long in the fading light of the moon, casting an eerie stillness over the scene. His wings rustled as they folded behind him, but his mind was already racing, already searching.

This was where he had last seen her—right here, among the trees and the underbrush. She had watched him and Feyre have their conversation after Amaranthas death. Y/n thought she was hidden within the trees but he felt her, he always felt her presence, one would always feel the presence of one's mate. But he was too much of a fool to realize it sooner.

He moved through the clearing, his eyes scanning the ground, searching for any sign of her. A broken branch, a trace of her scent—anything. But the air was thick with silence, and the bond between them was weak, almost nonexistent now.

"Y/n!" Rhysand’s voice echoed through the trees, but no answer came. His shadows spread out, feeling through the dark, desperate to find any trace of her. But there was nothing.

He pressed forward, moving deeper into the forest, the trees closing in around him. The memories of their time together—of her strength, her resilience—pushed him on, even as doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind. What if she was gone? What if she was hurt, or worse?

He couldn’t think like that. Not yet. He had to find her.

"Y/n!" he called again, his voice strained, raw with desperation. He stumbled through the undergrowth, his boots sinking into the damp earth, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Every step felt heavier than the last, the weight of his failure bearing down on him.

But the forest remained silent.

Rhysand reached the edge of a small stream, the water trickling softly over the rocks. He crouched down, running his fingers through the mud, searching for any sign that she had been here. Nothing. His chest tightened, his heart hammering against his ribs as the realization began to settle in.

She wasn’t here.

His hands clenched into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he rose to his feet. The bond was slipping away, unraveling like a thread being pulled loose. He had never let it guide him before, never truly acknowledged its presence, but now, as it faded, the loss felt like a wound he couldn’t heal.

He had to keep searching.

Rhysand pushed further into the forest, his movements frantic now, his wings twitching with the urge to take flight again, to cover more ground. The trees blurred around him, the shadows twisting and bending as his magic flared, but there was no trace of her.

No warmth. No bond. Nothing.

Hours passed in a haze of desperation and despair. The moon climbed higher in the sky, casting pale light through the canopy, but it did little to ease the gnawing fear growing inside him. By the time he reached the edge of the forest, Rhysand felt hollow, the weight of his failure pressing down on him with every step.

He was running out of time. Out of hope.

When he finally made the decision to return to Velaris, his wings were heavy, his body exhausted, but his mind couldn’t rest. The flight back felt longer than it should have, his thoughts spiraling into darker and darker places. What if she was gone for good? What if he had missed his chance—missed her?

The moment he landed on the balcony of the House of Wind, the emptiness hit him like a tidal wave. He dropped to his knees, his fingers curling against the cold stone as he tried to catch his breath, tried to steady himself.

But the bond was still faint. Almost gone.

He stood slowly, his mind racing. He had searched where he last saw her. He had searched the forest. But there was one more place she could be—her home. The Dawn Court. She was from there, had roots there. Maybe she had returned, seeking refuge among her people.

It was a slim hope, but it was all he had.

Rhysand straightened, determination burning in his veins. He would contact Thesan, the High Lord of the Dawn Court. He had to know if Y/n was there, if she was safe. But for now, all he could do was wait—and that waiting felt like a slow, torturous pull on his very soul.

She was his mate. And she was gone.

The thought settled into his chest like a cold, hard stone, and Rhysand knew that until he found her—until he brought her back—there would be no peace. He would flip this world upside down to find her.

~~~~~~~

Y/n lay back down, her body sinking into the soft mattress as she stared at the flickering flames in the hearth. Lira’s offer lingered in her mind, but doubt gnawed at her. It wasn’t just the village’s kindness that unsettled her—it was the thought of staying, of settling, when her entire world had crumbled around her.

Her heart felt heavy, weighed down by the memories of Rhysand and everything she had lost. How could she heal in a place like this, where people lived in peace and harmony? She wasn’t like them—she carried too much darkness, too much pain.

Still, there was something about this village, something about Lira’s gentle demeanor that made Y/n want to believe, if only for a moment, that maybe she could find some peace here. Just for a while.

The thought was almost laughable. She had no right to peace.

Lira stood up from her chair, sensing Y/n's internal battle. “I’ll let you rest,” she said, her voice soft. “But if you need anything, just call for me.”

Y/n nodded but didn’t respond as Lira slipped quietly out of the room, leaving her alone with her thoughts. The sounds of the village continued to drift through the window—the laughter, the conversations, the gentle hum of a life Y/n had never known.

Her hand unconsciously drifted to her chest, to where the bond with Rhysand had once tugged at her heart. Now, there was only a hollow ache, a reminder of what had been and what could never be. She had loved him—fiercely, silently, and without hope.

And he had never known.

The thought made her chest tighten again, that familiar grief washing over her. She had been nothing to him, just another face from Dawn, another puppet to use and discard. And now… she was nothing at all.

The hours passed slowly. Y/n found herself drifting in and out of sleep, her body still weak from the injuries. In her dreams, she saw flashes of her past—Her life in Dawn, her little trinkets that she would create to make some living, Rhysand. And then, always, Feyre. Her face haunted Y/n, the reminder of who Rhysand had truly chosen.

When she awoke again, it was darker outside, the village sounds quieter now. Lira hadn’t returned, and Y/n was grateful for the space. She needed time to think, to decide what her next move would be.

But even as she lay there, trying to come up with a plan, her mind kept returning to Lira’s offer. A part of her wanted to accept it, to stay here and heal. But another part, the part that had seen too much betrayal, too much loss, didn’t trust it.

Would they still welcome her if they knew who she really was? What she had done?

Y/n sighed, turning onto her side as the fire crackled softly beside her. She wasn’t sure what her next step would be, but for now, all she could do was rest.

She closed her eyes, forcing herself to take a deep breath. The pain was still there—deep and unyielding—but for the first time in a long while, Y/n allowed herself to hope that maybe, just maybe, she could find some kind of solace here.

Even if it was only temporary.

In the days that followed, Y/n grew stronger. Lira visited her often, bringing food and checking on her injuries, but never pressing too much. The village’s quiet kindness was unsettling at first, but slowly, Y/n began to let herself relax, just a little.

She spent most of her time in bed, staring out the window at the bustling village below. Children ran through the streets, and neighbors helped one another with chores and daily tasks. It was a world so far removed from the one she had known that it almost felt like a dream.

And yet, despite everything, Y/n couldn’t shake the feeling that she didn’t belong here.

Each time she looked out that window, she was reminded of what she had lost, of the bond she had ignored for too long. The thought of Rhysand, out there somewhere, filled her with both longing and anger. She didn’t know if she’d ever see him again, but the silence between them weighed heavily on her.

Still, for now, all she could do was wait. Healing, Lira had said. Y/n wasn’t sure if that was possible, but maybe, just maybe, she could try.

Weeks turned into months.

What Y/n had initially believed would be a short stay to recover gradually became something more. She healed, both in body and in spirit, under the quiet care of Lira and the village’s close-knit community. Slowly, the bruises on her ribs faded, the aches in her muscles eased, and her strength returned.

At first, Y/n had kept to herself, only interacting with Lira when necessary. But as time passed, she began to open up, if only slightly. Lira’s patience had been remarkable, never pushing, always offering a hand when Y/n needed it. The woman’s kindness was a balm to wounds Y/n hadn’t realized still bled.

As she regained her strength, she was introduced to more of the villagers. There was Tamir, a kind-hearted farmer who often brought her fresh produce, and Ayla, a weaver who sat with Y/n by the fire on particularly cold evenings, sharing stories about her family and life in the village. They accepted Y/n without question, never asking too much, never prying into her past.

For the first time in years, Y/n found herself in a place that felt almost like home.

It wasn’t easy, of course. The memories of Rhysand still haunted her in quiet moments—his smile, his laughter, the bond she had felt snap into place and left unacknowledged. But in time, those memories dulled, becoming less sharp, less painful.

She had spent so long thinking about him, about what could have been. But now, as the months slipped by, she began to accept the truth. Rhysand had made his choice, and it hadn’t been her. Feyre was his love. And Y/n… she was learning to be alright with that.

It wasn’t that the pain disappeared—it would always be there, in the corners of her heart—but it no longer consumed her. She found herself laughing with the villagers, working alongside them, and even joining in the village’s small celebrations. She was happy, or at least as close to happiness as she’d felt in a long time.

There were nights when the weight of her past pressed down on her, but those moments grew fewer and farther between. The village, with its simple, peaceful life, had given her space to breathe, to heal.

Lira, especially, had become a close friend. They spent many evenings talking, sometimes about nothing at all, and other times about everything. Y/n found herself confiding in Lira, telling her small pieces of her past—the loss, the heartbreak, the weight of being forgotten. Lira never judged, only listened, offering comfort in the form of quiet understanding.

Y/n no longer felt the crushing loneliness that had driven her to that cliffside. She wasn’t sure what the future held for her, but for now, she was content to stay in this village, to continue healing, and to figure out who she was without the shadow of Rhysand hanging over her.

She still didn’t know what would come next, but for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t running from the uncertainty.

~~~~~~~~

Velaris — One year, three months, fifteen days, six hours, twenty-two minutes, and forty-five seconds since Y/n disappeared.

Rhysand had counted every second. Every agonizing, suffocating second since he had realized she was gone. He stood on the balcony of the River House, staring out over the Sidra, his eyes dark with the weight of his obsession. A full year, and he was no closer to finding her.

He had sent his forces, his shadows, his spies, to every corner of Prythian and beyond. The High Lords had been contacted—every last one of them, including Thesan, the High Lord of the Dawn Court, where Y/n had once called home. His meetings with Thesan had been civil, yet tense.

“She hasn’t returned,” Thesan had said in one of their many conversations, his voice steady but laced with concern. “If she were here, I would have told you, Rhys.”

But that hadn’t stopped Rhysand from ordering Azriel to watch the borders of the Dawn Court, to scour its lands for any sign of her. He had sent out scouts across Prythian—Illyrian patrols sweeping the mountains, Velaris soldiers keeping their eyes open in the cities, and spies dispatched to the human lands. Nothing.

Nothing for over a year. And it was driving him mad.

Rhysand hadn’t rested in months, not truly. His nights were spent pouring over maps, tracing routes, re-reading reports. He had memorized every possible lead, every whispered rumor of a lone female seen wandering the wilderness. But none of them had led to her.

“Maybe she doesn’t want to be found,” Cassian had said one night, his voice gentle but firm, as he sat with Rhysand in the war room.

Rhysand had glared at him, his jaw clenched, his hands tightening into fists. “That’s not an option. She’s my—” He had stopped himself before finishing that sentence. She wasn’t his mate, not officially. The bond possibly had never snapped for her, but for Rhys, it might as well have. His heart knew it, even if the Cauldron had not sealed the bond. She was his.

Cassian had only sighed, shaking his head. “Rhys, I’m worried about you. We all are.”

And they were. Amren had pulled him aside more than once, telling him to stop his frantic searching, to focus on the things he could control. But she didn’t understand. None of them did. Y/n had been his anchor in ways he hadn’t even realized until she was gone.

Azriel had been his silent shadow through all of it. The spymaster had spent countless nights by his side, searching with him, strategizing, offering the quiet kind of support that only Azriel could. They didn’t need words. Rhys knew Azriel understood what it felt like to long for someone you couldn’t have.

But there were moments—moments when the weight of his failure pressed down on him so heavily that he felt like he couldn’t breathe. He had taken to disappearing from the River House, vanishing into the forests outside Velaris, retracing the steps to where he had last seen her.

And then, there was the cliff. Rhys still remembers how when he smelled the faintest remnants of her scent, right there, right at the edge of the cliff, his chest flared with panic as he frantically searched for her but found no trace. Given how faint the scent was, Rhys knew that she wasn’t here recently. But did she kill herself? Did she end up throwing herself off this cliff? Even the mere thought of that made his gut twist, his hands shake. No. She couldn’t have died. No body, no proof. But…..

He stood there, letting the cold wind of the mountains blow past him. The silence that had followed her disappearance.

“Rhys, you need to stop this,” Mor had told him after he’d returned from one such trip, disheveled and exhausted. “You’re tearing yourself apart.”

He had only shaken his head. “I can’t, Mor. I have to find her. I need to.”

Mor had looked at him with sadness in her eyes. “What if she doesn’t want to be found?”

It was the same question Cassian had asked, and Rhys had no answer for it. What if Y/n didn’t want to be found? What if she had left because she wanted to stay hidden from him?

But he refused to believe it. He couldn’t believe it. There had to be another reason—something he hadn’t uncovered yet.

And so, Rhysand kept searching. He kept sending his forces out, kept interrogating every lead, every sighting, every whisper of a female matching her description. He visited the forests, the places they had once been together, hoping for some sign, some shred of her presence.

But there was nothing.

Every day that passed without her only deepened his despair. He had lost weight, his face drawn with exhaustion, his eyes dull with sleepless nights.

But how could he let go of Y/n? How could he forget her, when every part of him screamed that she was out there, somewhere, waiting for him?

His conversations with the inner circle had grown colder, more strained. They were concerned, but they didn’t understand. Not really. How could they, when none of them had lost someone the way he had lost Y/n?

Rhysand stared out over Velaris, the city lights reflecting off the river below. One year, three months, fifteen days, six hours, twenty-seven minutes, and thirty-one seconds.

And still, she was gone.

~~~~~~~~~

Y/n sat on a wooden bench outside the small cottage, her eyes watching the children play in the distance. The crisp evening air brushed against her skin, a reminder of how peaceful life had become in the village. Her heart, though, still felt heavy with memories of another life—one she had tried to leave behind.

The soft shuffle of feet approached, and Y/n turned to see Elder Miriam, one of the village’s wisest, sitting down beside her. The old woman’s face was lined with age, her eyes sharp but kind. She had been the one to welcome Y/n when she first arrived, offering a place to stay and a quiet understanding.

“You’ve been here for some time now,” Miriam began, her voice gentle but firm. “Longer than most who come seeking refuge.”

Y/n nodded, her gaze dropping to her hands. “I didn’t expect to stay this long.”

“And yet, here you are,” Miriam continued, her hands resting on her lap. “There’s peace in this village, but I see it hasn’t reached your heart yet.”

Y/n swallowed, feeling the truth of the words settle inside her. “I’m… trying.”

Miriam studied her, the silence between them filled with the soft sounds of the village. “You’ve been through much. That much is clear. But what are you still holding onto, child?”

Y/n hesitated, unsure how to voice the conflict inside her. “There are people I left behind,” she finally said. “A life I thought I could escape from. But it follows me, no matter how far I run.”

Miriam nodded, her expression thoughtful. “The past has a way of lingering. It’s not something you can outrun. Healing doesn’t mean forgetting, Y/n. It means learning to live with what’s happened, not burying it.”

Y/n bit her lip, fighting back the emotions that threatened to surface. “I thought if I stayed here long enough, I could… rebuild myself. Become someone new.”

“And have you?” Miriam asked, her tone still gentle.

“I don’t know,” Y/n whispered. “Some days, it feels like I’m better. I’m learning to be happy again. But then, there are days where… I feel like I’m right back where I started.”

Miriam placed a hand on Y/n’s shoulder, her touch warm and comforting. “You’ve come far, more than you realize. But you must ask yourself—what is it you’re truly afraid of? Is it the life you left behind, or is it facing the feelings you’ve kept locked away?”

Y/n looked away, the truth painful to admit. “I’m afraid of going back,” she said quietly. “Afraid of what it would mean to confront everything I left behind.”

Miriam nodded again, her eyes full of understanding. “The village has been a place of healing for you, and it’s given you time. But time, Y/n, doesn’t erase the things we carry. It only gives us space to understand them. You cannot live in fear of what’s behind you. It will find its way to the surface, one way or another.”

Y/n felt the weight of the words settle in her chest. For the first time in a long while, she realized how much she had been avoiding—not just Rhysand, but the truth of her own feelings.

“You’re stronger than you think,” Miriam said softly. “You’ve survived, you’ve healed. But true peace will only come when you allow yourself to face what’s still left unresolved.”

Y/n took a deep breath, the knot in her chest loosening just a little. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

“No one ever is,” Miriam replied with a small smile. “But readiness isn’t the same as willingness. And you, child, have always been willing to face whatever comes. I’ve seen it in you since the day you arrived.”

Y/n glanced at Miriam, the warmth in the elder’s words easing some of the fear that had gripped her for so long. Maybe she wasn’t ready to confront everything waiting for her outside the village, but maybe that wasn’t the point. Maybe all she needed was the courage to try.

“Thank you,” Y/n said quietly, her voice steadier now.

Miriam smiled, giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Take your time, but don’t wait too long. The world won’t wait forever, and neither will you.”

With that, the elder rose from the bench, leaving Y/n alone with her thoughts, the peaceful hum of the village life surrounding her. For the first time in months, Y/n felt the pull of something beyond this quiet haven—something she had tried to ignore, but that was always there, waiting.

Maybe it was time to stop running.

A week had passed since Y/n had left the village. The cool morning air nipped at her skin as she stood at the edge of the forest, the place that had been her refuge for over a year. The memory of her time there was fresh—both a blessing and a burden—but she had made her peace with it. She had healed, not just physically, but in the deeper places that had been broken for so long.

Her heart was lighter now, no longer weighed down by the constant ache of loss. She was ready to move on, to return to the Dawn Court and begin her new life. A part of her would always belong to the village, to the people she had come to love during her stay, but it was time to face the world again.

The day she left had been filled with quiet goodbyes, but the most difficult one had been with Lira. They had shared a bond—a deep understanding that went beyond words.

“You’ll come visit us, right?” Lira’s voice had been soft, but there was a seriousness in her eyes. She stood in front of Y/n, her hands gripping hers tightly.

Y/n smiled, a bittersweet warmth in her chest. “I promise,” she said. “I’ll come back when I can. This place will always be special to me.”

Lira’s lips curved into a smile, though her eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “Don’t forget us. And don’t forget yourself, either. You’ve grown so much, Y/n. Don’t let that go.”

Y/n shook her head, her voice thick. “I won’t.”

Another villager, an elder Y/n had come to cherish, patted her on the back. “You’ll always have a home here,” he said warmly. “No matter where you go.”

She nodded, grateful beyond words. “Thank you. All of you.”

They stood in a quiet circle, the weight of the farewell settling in the cool air around them. The children she had watched over waved from behind the elder, their faces glowing with sadness and hope.

“Take care of yourself,” Lira said softly, pulling Y/n into a tight embrace. “You deserve to be happy.”

Y/n held her close, taking in the familiar scent of the village—the woods, the earth, and the faint traces of fire. “I’ll try.”

With one last lingering glance, Y/n turned toward the path that led out of the village, the weight of their love and friendship carrying her forward. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. Not this time.

Now, she stood at the gates of the Dawn Court, her heart thudding in her chest. The sprawling palace beyond the gates shimmered under the morning light, and the familiar sight tugged at her—both comforting and foreign after so much time away.

She was different now, she knew that. The woman who had once been so broken, so consumed by heartache, no longer existed. In her place stood someone stronger—someone who had faced the darkest parts of herself and come out on the other side.

Y/n stepped forward, her boots crunching softly against the gravel path. A new life awaited her here. She had accepted that Rhysand was not hers, and with that acceptance came freedom—freedom to create something new, something that was hers alone.

As she approached the entrance, she took a deep breath, steadying herself. This was home, after all. And no matter how far she had run, she was always meant to return.

The guards at the gate gave her surprised looks, but they bowed respectfully, recognizing her. They knew her face, even if they couldn’t comprehend the transformation she had undergone in her time away.

Home. It sounded strange, but as she stepped through the gates and into the Dawn Court’s embrace, she realized how true it was.

She had come full circle.

With each step, the memories of her old life resurfaced, but they didn’t crush her as they once had. Instead, they reminded her of the strength she had gained, the scars she had earned, and the peace she had finally found.

This was a new beginning, and Y/n was ready for whatever came next.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was another miserable day.

He had counted every single second of her absence, the guilt festering in his chest like a poison he couldn’t escape. No matter how much time passed, the ache didn’t ease. The weight of what he had done—or rather, what he hadn’t done—crushed him.

He had searched everywhere, sent emissaries to the furthest reaches of Prythian and beyond. He’d begged, bribed, and even threatened other courts for information. Thesan had been his most trusted ally in the search, offering resources and keeping an eye out. Rhysand had sent his Inner Circle across borders to find her, but it had all led to nothing. Y/n was gone, and the only thing he had left was his regret.

He hadn’t been there for her when she needed him most. Not during Amarantha’s reign. Not when she had withered under his very nose, and certainly not when she left. His thoughts always returned to those last months. The months he had spent prioritizing Feyre’s safety and neglecting Y/n’s slow unraveling. He had failed her.

He was sitting at his desk, head in his hands, feeling the familiar hollow ache settle deep in his bones, when the door to his study opened.

Azriel stepped in, his shadows swirling around him like an ever-present cloak of darkness. The spymaster’s face was unreadable, but Rhysand knew him well enough to see the urgency in his posture.

“Rhys,” Azriel said, his voice calm, but there was something behind it. Something that made Rhysand sit up straight, a flicker of hope—a feeling he hadn’t allowed himself in months—stirring in his chest.

“What is it?” Rhysand asked, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Hope had become a dangerous thing for him, always leading to disappointment.

Azriel paused, letting the weight of the moment sink in. “Thesan contacted me. His guards… they’ve seen her.”

Rhysand’s heart stopped. For a long, agonizing second, he couldn’t breathe. “Seen… her?” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.

Azriel nodded. “Y/n. She’s back at the Dawn Court. She returned a week ago. Thesan’s guards have been keeping an eye on her from a distance, but she’s home. Alive.”

Rhysand felt the floor tilt beneath him. She was back. After all this time, after every failed attempt to find her, every sleepless night spent tormented by guilt, Y/n had returned. The relief that flooded him was overwhelming, but it was swiftly followed by a wave of doubt so strong it made him dizzy.

“I should… I should go to her,” Rhysand said, standing abruptly. His mind raced, his heart pounding in his chest. He had to see her, had to know if she was okay. But then he paused, his hand falling away from the desk. His thoughts crashed into one another, the doubt settling in.

Would she want to see him?

“Wait,” Rhysand murmured, his voice barely audible. “Should I even go?” He turned to Azriel, his brows furrowing in confusion. “I… I wasn’t there for her, Az. Not when she needed me most. What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if she’s better off without me?”

Azriel’s dark eyes flickered with something like exasperation, but it was laced with sympathy. “Rhys, are you serious right now?”

Rhysand dragged a hand through his hair, feeling the weight of his guilt crushing him again. “I ignored her. After Amarantha, after Feyre… I neglected her. The last months she was with us, I wasn’t there for her. What if she’s moved on? What if she’s better now without me?”

Azriel stepped closer, his shadows swirling around his shoulders. “You’ve been searching for her for over a year. You’ve nearly destroyed yourself trying to find her. And now that she’s back, you’re doubting whether to go to her?”

Rhysand clenched his fists, his jaw tight. “I hurt her, Az. I let her slip away. What if she hates me for it?”

Azriel let out a breath, his eyes softening. “Then you go to her and you tell her that. You tell her how much she means to you, and you beg for her forgiveness if that’s what it takes.” His voice lowered, more gentle than Rhysand had ever heard it. “You’ve been waiting for this moment, Rhys. Don’t let your guilt stop you from fixing what was broken.”

Rhysand stared at his brother, the weight of his words sinking in. He had been waiting—praying—for this moment, for the chance to make things right. But now that it was here, all he could feel was fear. Fear that Y/n wouldn’t forgive him, that the damage he had caused was too great to repair.

“I will kneel if I have to,” Rhysand said quietly, the words heavy with desperation. “I’ll beg her to forgive me, to let me back into her life.”

Azriel’s lips curved into the barest hint of a smile. “Then go. Don’t waste any more time.”

Rhysand nodded, though the fear still gnawed at him. But beneath that fear, a flicker of hope remained. He would see Y/n again. He would kneel, beg, do whatever it took to fix the mistakes of the past.

And maybe—just maybe—he could find a way back to her.

Rhysand stood in silence for a moment, letting the realization sink in. He wasn’t sure what he would find when he saw Y/n, or if she would even want to speak to him. But there was no turning back now.

With a deep breath, he turned to Azriel. “I’m going to Dawn,” he said, his voice steady, though his heart trembled. “I have to see her.”

Azriel nodded once. “Good luck, Rhys.”

Rhysand didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. He simply disappeared, winnowing into the wind, his heart pounding as he made his way to the one person who mattered most.

~~~~~~~~

Y/n sat at the small table in her home, the afternoon light filtering through the curtains. The room was modest but comfortable, much different than it had been a year ago. Before she left, she had been barely getting by, working tirelessly just to make ends meet. She had spent her days repairing small items, doing odd jobs, always tired, always worn down. Back then, the work had been a necessity—a way to survive, not something she took pride in.

Now, it was different.

Y/n’s fingers moved over the smooth wood of the small jewelry box she had just crafted. She had taken up woodworking after returning from the village, and while it wasn’t glamorous, she found peace in the craft. People in the Dawn Court had taken notice of her work, and word had spread. Slowly but surely, she started receiving more commissions, her skills improving with every piece she made.

She wasn’t rich—not by a long shot—but she was comfortable. She didn’t have to worry as much about her next meal or paying for firewood. Her house, which had once felt so empty and cold, now felt like a home again. The work wasn’t just about money anymore. It was about creating something with her own hands—something that others appreciated.

Y/n leaned back, wiping the sawdust from her hands, and looked around her small space. It felt like she had finally found a balance. She was content. It wasn’t the life she had imagined for herself all those years ago, but it was a good life. She was healing, slowly but surely, and for the first time in a long time, she felt hopeful about the future.

There were moments when her mind drifted to the past—when memories of Rhysand surfaced, and the pain of what could have been tugged at her. But it didn’t consume her anymore. She had made peace with it, in her own way, and she knew she had to keep moving forward. This was her life now, and she was determined to make it her own.

Y/n wiped her brow, the scent of fresh wood filling the air as she placed the finished box onto the shelf beside a few others she had completed earlier that week. A soft smile tugged at her lips. It was a simple life—one she hadn’t expected to love—but there was a calmness in it that soothed her in ways she hadn’t realized she needed.

Her hands were no longer idle, no longer weighed down by the burden of survival. Now, when she worked, it was with purpose, and each completed piece felt like a small victory—a testament to her growth, her healing. The dark days when she could barely muster the energy to get out of bed felt distant now, like a different life entirely.

She stepped back from her workbench, glancing around her small home. It was far from luxurious, but it was hers. She had made it feel like home again after being away for so long. She had become part of the local community again, and though life wasn’t easy, it was manageable—and even enjoyable at times.

Y/n sighed, letting the moment settle over her. She was content. She hadn’t thought it possible after everything she had been through, but somehow, she had found peace.

She walked to the window, looking out at the familiar streets. The weight of the past year didn’t feel as heavy as it used to. Dawn had changed for her. Before, it was a place where she had simply existed—barely making it through each day. Now, it felt like a fresh start, a place where she could rebuild herself without the shadows of her past constantly looming over her.

Her thoughts drifted to the village she had left behind just a week ago. It had been hard to say goodbye, but she knew it was time. They had become like a family to her, and the promise to visit would be kept. But she needed to come home—to her own space, her own life.

The memory of her farewell lingered, the promises exchanged that they would stay in touch, that they wouldn’t forget each other. She smiled at the thought. She wouldn’t forget them either. They had been the ones who had helped her when she didn’t know how to help herself, and that was something she would always carry with her.

But here, now, she was finally ready to move forward. Ready to build something new for herself.

Y/n was walking through the busy streets of the Dawn, enjoying the calm, steady pace of life here. She had just visited the market, her basket filled with items for her latest craft project. The sun was warm on her face, and for the first time in a long while, she felt truly at peace.

As she turned the corner, two figures in armor approached her. They wore the unmistakable insignia of the Dawn Court—palace soldiers. Their faces were unreadable, and as they came closer, she felt an uneasy flutter in her stomach.

“Y/n,” one of them said, his voice firm yet not unkind. “You are required at the palace.”

Her heart skipped a beat, confusion surging through her. “The palace? Why? Did I do something wrong?”

The second soldier didn’t meet her gaze, only repeating the first soldier’s words. “We need to escort you to the High Lord. Please come with us.”

Fear and confusion knotted in her chest, but the soldiers gave her no further explanation. They began to walk, clearly expecting her to follow. Y/n’s mind raced with questions. Why would High Lord Thesan summon her? What had she done? She couldn’t think of any reason she’d be needed at the palace.

As they passed through the grand gates and into the opulent halls, her nerves only grew. The palace was more beautiful than she remembered, but she was too anxious to appreciate the elegance of her surroundings. The guards led her through winding corridors until they reached a large, ornate door.

One of the soldiers knocked, and the door was opened from within. They motioned for her to step inside.

She hesitated for only a moment before walking in.

The room was grand, with tall windows casting golden light over the finely furnished space. But it wasn’t the luxury of the room that caught her off guard.

It was the two men standing inside.

One was High Lord Thesan, smiling warmly, his demeanor calm and welcoming. The other was Rhysand.

Her breath caught in her throat. Rhysand? Her legs nearly gave out beneath her at the sight of him standing there, looking tense, his usual smug expression replaced with something far more serious. His violet eyes found hers the moment she entered the room, and she felt every nerve in her body light up with an old, painful familiarity.

Thesan stepped forward first, his kind smile not wavering. “Y/n,” he greeted, his voice smooth. “I apologize for the sudden summons. I imagine this is not what you were expecting today.”

She blinked, still too shocked to speak, her gaze flickering from Thesan to Rhysand and back again.

The High Lord chuckled softly, clearly sensing her confusion. “You are not in trouble, I assure you,” Thesan said gently. “I wanted to make sure you had a chance to… speak with Rhysand. I believe there are things that need to be said.” He glanced between them before adding, “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

Y/n’s throat tightened as Thesan gave her one last smile and exited the room, closing the door behind him.

And then it was just her and Rhysand.

The silence was suffocating. Rhysand stood a few feet away, his gaze locked on her, an uncharacteristic tension lining his features. Finally, he spoke, his voice low and filled with a vulnerability she hadn’t expected.

“Y/n… I’m sorry.”

She didn’t respond at first, still trying to piece together how this moment had come to pass. “Sorry for what?” she finally asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

“For everything,” Rhysand said, stepping closer, though he still maintained a respectful distance. “For how I treated you before… for abandoning you. I spent the past year searching for you, desperate to make things right. I—” He paused, swallowing hard. “I should have told you sooner. You are my mate.”

Her chest tightened, a sharp laugh escaping her lips before she could stop it. “I know.”

Rhys’s eyes widened in surprise. “You knew? Since when?”

“Since long before you disappeared into Feyre’s shadow,” she replied bitterly. The anger, the hurt, it all came rushing back in full force. “Why didn’t I tell you? Why should I have? Would it have made a difference when you were so focused on her that I may as well have been invisible?”

Rhys flinched at her words, guilt etched deeply into his face. “It would have mattered,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “You mattered.”

“Then why didn’t you act like it?” Y/n’s voice trembled with emotion, her hands clenching at her sides. “Why was I nothing more than a tool to you when Feyre came along? I watched you—watched as you ignored me, as you barely looked at me. And now, after a year of running and hiding, now you come to apologize? You expect me to just forgive you because you finally decided I was worth something?”

Rhysand’s eyes were filled with sorrow and regret, his normally proud and arrogant demeanor shattered. “I don’t expect you to forgive me. I came to beg for it, if that’s what it takes. I was wrong, Y/n, in so many ways. But you have to know, you are my mate, and I will do anything to make this right. I will kneel, I will grovel, I will—”

But she shook her head, cutting him off. “It’s too late, Rhysand. You’ve already made your choice.”

Rhys took another step toward her, desperation in his eyes. “Please, Y/n. I never stopped caring. I was a fool. But we can start again, we—”

“No,” she interrupted, her voice firm, though it cracked with emotion. “You don’t get to come back into my life now and demand forgiveness. I’ve rebuilt myself. I’ve moved on. You should have done the same.”

And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving Rhysand standing alone, the weight of his mistakes heavy in the air.

But Rhysand didn’t stop. Determined to win her back, he threw himself into a relentless pursuit of her forgiveness. Every day, he tried to reach her in some way, even if she wouldn’t let him in.

He sent her gifts—delicate, handcrafted items from the finest artisans in the Dawn Court, things that would have brought a smile to her face just months ago. Each time, he watched from a distance as she took them from her doorstep, only to leave them discarded by the door, untouched and unacknowledged.

Rhysand poured his heart into letters, filled with apologies and promises, penned with the kind of vulnerability he had rarely shown anyone before. He would slip them under her door, hoping that maybe one would catch her attention. But each time he checked, the letters remained sealed, never to be opened, reminders of his failure piling up like stones in his chest.

He would linger in the shadows, just outside her home, drawn by the pull of her presence. He watched her move about her day—working on her crafts, laughing with neighbors, sharing stories. His heart ached at how vibrant she seemed, yet he felt like a ghost haunting the edges of her life. Each smile she shared with others was a dagger, a reminder of what he had lost.

In moments of bravery, he approached the marketplace, hoping for a chance encounter. He would linger near the stalls, pretending to browse as she passed by, but she never looked his way. It was as if he were invisible, a figment of her past she refused to acknowledge.

He even tried to connect with the villagers, asking about her and expressing his desire to help her, but they were loyal to her. They would only nod politely, never divulging her whereabouts or responding to his inquiries. They could sense the pain behind his facade, and their protectiveness toward Y/n was fierce.

Days turned into weeks, and Rhysand’s resolve only strengthened. He would find small ways to make his presence known. Sometimes, he would send the occasional flower with a note saying, “I miss you.” Other times, he enlisted Azrael to check in on her, to gauge how she was doing. Each report from his friend was a bittersweet reminder of how far he had fallen from her good graces.

Yet despite all his efforts, Y/n remained steadfastly indifferent. She had rebuilt her life without him, and the fortress she had built around her heart was impenetrable. No amount of gifts or letters could pierce it.

As the seasons changed, Rhysand continued his quiet vigil, each day filled with longing and regret, praying that one day, she would see him not as a shadow of her past but as a man who desperately wanted to be part of her future.

Y/n was kneeling in her garden, the vibrant flowers blooming around her, but her heart felt anything but bright. She was lost in thought, trying to focus on her plants when she suddenly sensed a presence behind her. Her instincts kicked in, and she turned quickly, catching sight of a tall figure with dark wings.

“Who are you?” she demanded, standing defensively, her heart racing.

“Y/n,” he replied, his voice calm yet intense. “My name is Azriel, I’m a friend of Rhysand’s. I’ve been… watching over you.”

“Watching over me?” she echoed, confusion and anger flaring up inside her. “Why? What do you want?”

“I wanted to talk to you,” Azriel said, stepping forward slightly but keeping his distance, as if respecting her space. “About Rhysand. He’s been… suffering since you left.”

Y/n crossed her arms, her expression hardening. “I don’t want to talk about him. He made his choice.”

“He didn’t know what he was doing, Y/n,” Azriel pressed, his tone earnest. “He’s been lost without you. The gifts he sent, the letters—those were all from a place of regret. He didn’t realize how much you meant to him until it was too late.”

“Regret?” she scoffed, shaking her head. “It’s easy to feel regret when you’ve moved on with someone else, isn’t it? I was nothing more than a passing thought to him while he chased after Feyre.”

Azriel frowned, sensing the pain in her words. “I can’t deny that Rhysand made mistakes, but he has changed. He’s been searching for you for a year. He’s been—”

“Searching?” she interrupted, her voice rising. “How much of a fool do you think I am to believe that? I don’t want to be another one of his burdens or a way to soothe his guilt.”

Azriel took a deep breath, trying to find the right words. “I understand your anger, but you deserve to know the truth. You deserve to hear him out.”

Y/n’s heart raced with conflicting emotions. She was furious with Rhysand, yet there was a flicker of curiosity buried deep inside her. “And what makes you think I want to hear anything from him? What if he’s just going to hurt me again?”

Azriel stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Because you deserve closure. You deserve to understand why he acted the way he did. If you don’t give him a chance, you might carry this pain forever. You may think you’ve moved on, but deep down, you’re still holding onto that hurt.”

Y/n’s expression softened slightly, but she quickly masked it with defiance. “It’s easier to keep it all buried, Azriel. I don’t need him in my life. I’ve built something here, a life I’m proud of.”

“I see that,” he said, nodding. “But are you truly happy? Or is there still a part of you that wonders what could have been?”

She hesitated, the truth clawing at her heart. ��Maybe I could talk to him again,” she admitted reluctantly, the words spilling out before she could stop herself. “But it doesn’t mean I want to forgive him. It doesn’t mean I’m ready to open that door again.”

“Just consider it,” Azriel urged gently. “You don’t have to decide everything right now. But Rhysand is here, waiting for you. He won’t stop until he gets the chance to explain himself. And when you’re ready, you can choose how to respond.”

Y/n turned back to her flowers, avoiding Azriel’s gaze, trying to gather her thoughts. “And what if I don’t want to respond? What if I just want to forget?”

“Then you’ll have that choice too,” Azriel said, his tone calm and understanding. “But know that you can’t run from your feelings forever. If you want to heal, you have to face them.”

After a long silence, Y/n sighed, her shoulders slumping slightly. “I’ll think about it,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

As Azriel nodded, she could feel the weight of his presence, a reminder that her past was still very much alive, no matter how hard she tried to bury it. She knew that eventually, she would have to confront the truth about Rhysand—and about herself.

The sky was painted in soft shades of dusk, the sun casting its final golden rays over the pristine lake. The place Rhysand had chosen was breathtaking—a secluded spot nestled between the hills, where the water sparkled like diamonds under the fading light. Wildflowers swayed gently in the breeze, their vibrant colors contrasting with the deep green of the surrounding trees. It was peaceful, a place that felt almost sacred in its stillness.

Y/n approached the shore, her footsteps slow and hesitant. She had agreed to meet him, but every step felt heavier than the last, like she was walking toward something she wasn’t ready to face. Her heart thudded in her chest, her mind filled with doubts, fears, and anger she hadn’t yet let go of.

And then she saw him.

Rhysand stood by the edge of the lake, his back to her, his wings tucked tightly against him. The sight of him stirred something deep within her—a pang of old pain, old longing, and something new, something she couldn’t yet name. He seemed so out of place here, in this tranquil setting, with the weight of his own emotions heavy on his shoulders.

He turned as she neared, his violet eyes locking onto hers, a myriad of emotions swirling in their depths—regret, hope, desperation. He took a step toward her, but stopped himself, as if afraid that one wrong move might send her running.

“Y/n,” he said softly, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you for coming.”

She didn’t respond immediately, crossing her arms over her chest, her posture guarded. “You wanted to talk. So, talk.”

He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to the ground for a moment before he looked back at her. “I don’t even know where to begin. I… I made so many mistakes.”

“You can say that again,” she muttered, her voice colder than she had intended.

He nodded, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I didn’t realize… how much I hurt you. I didn’t realize how blind I had been to everything you were going through.”

“I was right there, Rhys,” she said, her voice rising with frustration. “Right in front of you, and you didn’t see me. Not once. Not until it was too late.”

“I know,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I know, and I hate myself for it. I was so consumed by everything happening with Amarantha, with Feyre… I thought I was doing what was best, that I was protecting you by keeping you at a distance.”

Y/n scoffed, shaking her head. “Protecting me? By ignoring me? By treating me like I didn’t exist?”

Rhysand flinched at her words, guilt flooding his features. “I thought… I thought that if I distanced myself, if I kept you away, you wouldn’t be hurt. That you’d be safer if you weren’t involved in everything that was happening. But I see now that I was wrong. So, so wrong.”

She bit her lip, the anger still simmering just beneath the surface, but there was something else there too—a crack in her armor, however small. “Why didn’t you just tell me? Why didn’t you talk to me?”

He ran a hand through his hair, his expression pained. “I was a coward. I didn’t know how to face you, how to admit that I had failed you. And by the time I realized… it felt like I had already lost you.”

“You had,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “You did.”

Rhysand stepped closer, his eyes pleading. “But I don’t want to lose you forever, Y/n. I can’t. I came here to beg for your forgiveness, to do whatever it takes to make things right. I know I don’t deserve it. I know I’ve done nothing but hurt you, but I’m asking—no, I’m begging you to give me a chance to prove that I’ve changed.”

Y/n’s breath hitched, her heart torn between the lingering hurt and the raw sincerity in his voice. “And what if I can’t forgive you? What if it’s too late for that?”

He stared at her for a long moment, his expression solemn. “Then I’ll accept that. I’ll accept whatever decision you make. But please, just give me the chance to try. Let me show you that I’m not the same man who pushed you away. Let me prove that I can be the person you deserve.”

Y/n’s eyes filled with unshed tears, her emotions threatening to spill over. “You hurt me, Rhys. You made me feel like I was nothing.”

“I know,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “And I will regret that for the rest of my life. But you are not nothing. You never were. You are everything.”

She turned away, her hands trembling as she tried to hold herself together. “This… this is all too much. I don’t know if I can trust you again.”

Rhysand closed the distance between them, his voice soft but urgent. “I won’t rush you. I won’t push you. But if there’s even a part of you that thinks we could find a way forward, I’ll wait. I’ll wait as long as it takes.”

She wiped at her eyes, refusing to let the tears fall. “And what about the mate bond? You didn’t even acknowledge it, didn’t tell me—”

“I didn’t know,” he said quickly, his eyes wide with desperation. “I didn’t know until you were gone, until it was too late. I felt it after you left, like a piece of my soul was ripped away.”

Y/n stared at him, her heart pounding. “I knew,” she admitted quietly. “I’ve known for a while.”

His eyes widened, shock and confusion written on his face. “You knew? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t think you’d care,” she said, her voice wavering. “Because you were so focused on Feyre, on everything else. I didn’t want to be another burden for you to carry.”

Rhysand shook his head, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “You were never a burden, Y/n. Never. I was just too blind to see what was right in front of me. And I hate myself for that.”

Y/n turned back to him, her gaze softening ever so slightly. “I’m not ready to accept the bond yet, Rhys. I’m not ready to just… let everything go.”

He nodded, his expression pained but understanding. “I understand. I’ll wait. I’ll wait for as long as it takes, and I’ll do whatever it takes to earn your trust back.”

She swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in. “Maybe… maybe if we spent more time together, if you showed me that you’ve really changed… maybe then I could consider it.”

Rhysand’s eyes lit up with a glimmer of hope, and he nodded eagerly. “Anything. I’ll do anything you ask.”

Y/n sighed, the heaviness in her chest lifting just slightly. “This doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you, Rhys. I’m not there yet. But… I’m willing to see if you can prove yourself.”

He stepped closer, his voice low and filled with determination. “I will. I swear I will.”

She nodded slowly, a small, tentative step toward the possibility of healing. “We’ll see.”

As Y/n spoke those final words, a calm silence settled between them. The tension that had been weighing the air down began to ease, and the light from the setting sun cast a warm glow over the lake, reflecting in soft ripples on the water. Rhysand, still standing close but not too close, let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, his shoulders finally relaxing.

He gave her a tentative smile, one that was full of relief and gratitude. “Thank you… for giving me this chance,” he murmured softly. “It means more than you know.”

Y/n glanced at him, her expression unreadable for a moment before a small smile ghosted her lips. “Don’t thank me yet. You’ve got a lot of proving to do, Rhys.”

His eyes sparkled with a mixture of affection and determination, and for the first time in a long time, a bit of the old, charming Rhys peeked through. “I plan to, darling. You’ll see.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was no malice behind it, just a faint glimmer of amusement. “Don’t get cocky. This isn’t a victory.”

“Not yet,” he agreed, a teasing lilt in his voice. “But it’s a start.”

They both stood there for a while longer, just watching the lake, the breeze gentle against their skin. Y/n didn’t pull away when Rhysand took a small step closer, their arms nearly brushing. The proximity felt different now—less suffocating, more… reassuring. As if, for the first time in ages, she wasn’t standing completely alone.

Rhysand didn’t make any bold moves; he didn’t reach out to touch her, respecting the distance she still held. But there was a warmth in the silence, an unspoken understanding that they were no longer quite as far apart as before.

Finally, after a few moments of peaceful quiet, Y/n turned to leave, the conversation having drained her emotionally. She needed time—time to process everything he’d said, everything she’d felt.

As she walked past him, Rhysand called after her gently, “Can I at least walk you back?”

Y/n paused, glancing over her shoulder. For a heartbeat, she considered saying no, but then, with a soft sigh, she nodded. “Alright. But just this once.”

Rhysand smiled—genuinely, this time—and caught up to her, falling into step beside her as they began to walk down the path back toward the city. They didn’t speak much, the silence between them comfortable now, and Y/n found herself not minding his presence the way she once had.

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