#wolfswood

[dr3adlady]

❄️💠Winter Roses💠❄️

[asoiafreadthru]

A Game of Thrones, Tyrion II

West of the road were flint hills, grey and rugged, with tall watchtowers on their stony summits.

To the east the land was lower, the ground flattening to a rolling plain that stretched away as far as the eye could see.

Stone bridges spanned swift, narrow rivers, while small farms spread in rings around holdfasts walled in wood and stone. The road was well trafficked, and at night for their comfort there were rude inns to be found.

Three days’ ride from Winterfell, however, the farmland gave way to dense wood, and the kingsroad grew lonely.

The flint hills rose higher and wilder with each passing mile, until by the fifth days they had turned into mountains, cold blue-grey giants with jagged promontories and snow on their shoulders.

When the wind blew from the north, long plumes of icy crystals flew from the high peaks like banners.

[anon-argentine]

oh look, the silly fic has developed its own canon

After that fateful encounter with the trap, Dyana and Jon become fast friends despite their opposing personalities.

Dyana has the wiles of her house symbol, complete with predator grins and disarming charm. She is quick to endear and to strike. She talks while setting up and checking traps, always finding a new topic to comment on, but stays deathly quiet while on the hunt, becoming a ghost to kill her prey.

Jon, in his sullen silences, doesn’t talk much at first. The Wolfswood has become a welcomed escape from Winterfell, and he feels that breaking his silence will lead to him saying the wrong thing and finding himself escorted back to Lady Stark’s disdain. But Dyana never stops talking, and she eventually says something that has him laughing and scaring off every animal nearby.

She berates him, but there is only mirth behind it now. “Useless- if I left you here you would manage to scare all the prey out of the Wolfswood- they’ll probably think a dragon is chasing them.”

Jon smiles at her. “It’s a good thing you are here to stop me, then.”

“Of course, I would never leave you behind.” Dyana replies naturally, smiling softly. Jon’s heart jumps in his chest and heat rushes to his cheeks.

When the sun starts to set, Dyana escorts him back to Winterfell. “I’m not letting you wander about and get eaten by the elk, Jon. I’ll see you cross the gate and then I’ll leave.”

Jon doesn’t tell her that he is already pretty confident he could find his way back to Winterfell alone, but he enjoys her company and revels in having someone be concerned about his well-being. In return, he waves goodbye and watches as she disappears back into the forest - not out of fear for her safety, but in awe of the easy way she blends in with the trees as she heads back home.

He eventually is deemed passable enough at archery by the Master-at-Arms, so he brings a bow and quiver the next time he goes into the forest. He is met with raised eyebrows and a smirk.

“Let’s go hunting, then.”

The first time he shoots down a boar and slaughters it clean, Dyana laughs and congratulates him so earnestly that leftover adrenaline in his body takes control and he kisses her. She eagerly kisses him back.

They are fifteen years old with bloodied gloves and sharp grins, the lovers in the woods. They remain together until the sun sets and the vixen escorts the wolf back to his lair.

Jon Snow beams when Dyana Rennard looks back and smiles at him a final time before going back into the forest.

Jon Snow deserves the world and luckily for him, Dyana Rennard is willing to get it for him.

House Rennard is a Northern house right in the middle of the Wolfswood. Their sigil is a red fox in a field of light grey. They are known for producing excellent hunters, hawkers, trackers, and tanners - they are also proud of teaching both girls and boys to hunt.

According to legend, House Rennard was founded by a shapeshifter: a vixen-woman fell in love with a First Man and stalked him as he hunted through the Wolfswood. One night, she approached his camp, where she laid a dead rabbit at his feet - an offering. The First Man, even unaware that the fox was a woman, thanked the fox kindly and shared the rabbit with it - whereas a lesser man would have killed the fox, he instead showed kindness and gratitude.

Though no Rennard has ever confirmed that they can take the form of a fox, the women of House Rennard take to courting like them. If they are interested in a match, they will go hunting with their intended in the Wolfswood for three days. Together, they shall set traps and hunt animals, showing their conflict resolution skills and their patience. If the man tries anything untoward, the Rennard woman will knock him out, take his supplies, and leave him to find his way out on his own (some have also taken to hunting said man for sport). However, if the match is successful, they will return together with pelts for their wedding bed.

Jon and Dyana as adults (image generated with Bing AI, I can’t draw and have no money, sue me)

They met as young teens. All of 12 years old and angry at the world. Jon had gotten into a fight with Robb and ran off into the Wolfswood, where he ran and ran until he stepped right into a trap.

As he hung in a rope net in their air, a girl came out from behind a bush and started berating him for messing up her trap and scaring all the game away.

And this is how the love story of Dyana Rennard and Jon Snow started.

[swordgrace]

❝ 𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅’𝐒 𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐓𝐇 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒. ❞

KINKTOBER — WEEK ONE: BATH SEX.

⤿ pairings: cregan stark x jace’s sister!reader.

⤿ word count: 4.1K.

⤿ warnings: smut (mdni), loss of virginity, bath sex, fingering (fem!rec), biting, multiple positions (cowgirl, from behind), heavy kissing, scratching, sexual ending implied, heavy breeding kink, creampie, mutual orgasm, rough(er) sex, both cregan & reader are horny

⤿ note: first kinktober request under my belt! Loved writing this one and it was a nice return to Cregan (love him with my whole being)

Even a smoldering fire wilted in the midst of the Northern chill, a biting ice that consumed all traces of warmth, swallowing it whole.

Winds from beyond The Wall whistled down from desolate lands, bringing with it its bitterness and sting, seeking to envelop all within it.

Glacial are the wreaths of snow-furled gales that blanket Winterfell in their pale harshness — it even seeps into your bones, bones forged of fire and blood.

It was difficult to take comfort in such foreign surroundings, from the dusting of ice forming on window panes to the bristling chill that rakes across your spine. The North was not Dragonstone — it was not home.

Unconventional was the singular word that plagued your mind when it came to your sudden marriage to Cregan Stark, a union made in a frenzied haste to gain allies in a brewing war.

It was as if you were merely a pawn to be moved across a board by your kin — your Mother, in particular. She was the rightful Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, yet you couldn’t help but feel hopelessly abandoned here in the North, under the supposed guise of safety.

Jacaerys had departed shortly after your wedding in the Godswood, bidding his strenuous farewell before leaving you in the company of your stoic husband.

Your brother was not thrilled with the prospect, cautioning against it, but duty demanded it of you, and you dared not defy your mother. Admittedly, it could’ve been worse, this unusual match.

Cregan Stark was not a foul man — he was rough, like the uneven surface of leather or the cracks of a cliffside, a mountain so stalwart that you wondered if he ever smiled. A sliver of you pondered if his dour visage was because of you.

Stoicism seemed interwoven into his demeanor, tempestuous hues glistening with a stern wisdom that stretched far beyond his years. Cregan was only two namedays your senior, yet he behaved as if he were a grizzled veteran.

He did not consummate the night of your wedding, much to your bewilderment. You could only muster up a series of kisses and an untied gown before nervousness tore you asunder, anxiousness gnawing away at your belly.

Cregan did not press you any further, citing that he wished to give you a berth, a space to yourself as you processed your new environment. It was a sentiment that you vastly appreciated, yet you felt so completely alone.

The autumnal canopy of the Wolfswood had become your constant companion in the weeks that had passed since your union to Cregan. At dusk, you would converse with your Northern husband, who’s exterior seemed to melt slightly with each passing day.

Duty did not always permit the two of you to spend time together — oftentimes, it kept you separated, tethered to two differing realities.

After supper, you retired to your marital chambers, prepared to end your evening with a hot bath and a bit of light reading to preoccupy your time. Cregan did not appear, which was commonplace, strategizing alongside his advisors.

Chambermaids prepared your steaming bath, hot enough to singe those without dragon’s blood coursing through their veins. Wisps of heated vapor drifted toward the ceiling of the cozy washroom, a humid warmth permeating stone.

Deliberately, you untied each strand of lace, deftly unraveling yourself from your evening gown. Fingertips graced the thick fur that lined the trim as you draped it over a chair, flicking strands of your hair aside.

Footsteps resonated outside of the mahogany door, their shadow falling across you. You hadn’t expected Cregan to return so soon, prompting you to step into the water before sinking beneath, reclining against one edge.

Gentle sloshing of water caught his attention once he abandoned Ice and his cloak, retracing his steps to the door of the washroom. “My Lady.” He greeted you, lingering just outside in hopes to converse, even if it were fleeting.

A strange lump formed within your throat as you gingerly scrubbed at your arm with floral-laden soap, throat becoming thick. “Ah — my Lord,” You did not sound confident. “I wasn’t expecting your return so swiftly.”

Cregan found it increasingly difficult to act gallant around you, resolve hanging by a thread, honor crumbling away. Instinct and desire festered within his heart, lust where he knew it shouldn’t be — but he was a man who wanted his wife.

If this weren’t so rushed in an attempt to forge allegiances, he would have courted you properly, taken the time to learn your heart before devolving to carnality.

He learned some, but he knew that you were nervous, and he could not blame you for it. Tossed to the wolves, a lone dragon — Cregan did not want to frighten you any further.

“One can only play tactician for so long before it becomes an uphill battle,” Cregan uttered, chestnut brows furrowing together. “Are you well?” He inquired, tone one of a gentler resonance, laced with sympathy.

“Well enough,” Biting at your cheek, you considered your next words carefully, gaze boring a hole through the door. “Did you … Were you wanting to join me?” As much as it turned your stomach with butterflies, you did not want to continue being so shy.

In the sight of the Old Gods, he was your husband — Cregan had treated you with the greatest care and decency, and continuing to hide from him would only worsen things. You knew that it needn’t be so disconcerting.

Cregan’s jaw tensed, a sly heat blooming throughout his chest as he considered your stiff proposal. It sounded uncertain, and he did not dare act on uncertainty alone. Yet, the thought was tantalizing — he thought of you often.

Some part of him felt reduced to a boy, a coil of sudden nerves that he promptly abandoned, steeling himself for you. “I would only join you if you wanted it, my lady. Do not force yourself to be uncomfortable.” He rumbled.

The more you sat, alone in the herb-speckled waters, the more you yearned. There was nothing to fear from Cregan Stark, an honorable man whose patience was as unyielding as the mountains.

To grow was to rid yourself of girlish fright, and you did just that, steadying your erratic breathing as you sat up a little straighter. You reminded yourself that he was your husband, that he would not touch you unless you asked it of him.

“I want you to,” Your saccharine voice fluttered between the iron-etched wood, now a thin degree of separation between yourself and your husband. “Please, come in.”

Silently, Cregan prayed to the Gods to let him behave, to curb his animalistic appetite and to allow himself a gentler touch. Having already shed most of his leathers, he turned to knob, stepping inside to a homely nook of humid air and warmth.

Storm-colored hues fixed themselves to you, demure and sitting so soundly in the bathtub, yet you were the very image of perfection. His hand clenched in a desperate attempt to relieve some of his own tension.

You nearly shrank beneath the penetrating stare of your husband, whose coiled posture reminded you of a wolf preparing to strike. It made your heart hammer beneath your breast, hand gripping the edge of the tub just a little tighter.

His gaze screamed of affection, of desire, of ardor — Cregan was not as intimidating as you thought him to be, visage softening at the sight of you.

Tension clouded the washroom, thick enough to be sundered into two with a broadsword. Cregan wordlessly tugged his rugged tunic aside, exposing a thick wall of corded muscle, an impenetrable force that made your breath hitch.

To you, he seemed sculpted from a cliffside — rustic and hardened, the form of a warrior made, not chiseled, his own incarnation of godlike. Your stare shamelessly traversed the bulky plane of his musculature.

You were quick to glance away when he removed his trousers, causing you to shift beneath the water, skin glistening with a damp sheen. Again, you staved off your nerves as he lowered himself into the bath, taking up plenty of space.

In his solace, he drank you in again as if you were the finest stout, the very essence of beauty. Cregan felt the tension, the way it curled around the both of you, hesitation brewing in place of action.

It was you who shattered the silence, first with a tender smile, second with your words. “I must confess, I am glad that you are here,” A warm stirring began to unfurl across your chest. “I’ve been quite lonely.”

Cregan admonished himself for your feelings in silence, visage etched with a calm empathy. “Forgive me, then,” He murmured. “I did not know that my absence had become so cumbersome. I thought it best to let you adjust — alone.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” You assured, countenance as warm as the first sigh of springtime, melting away at his icy exterior. “You have been so understanding and kind, and I do not know how to thank you for it.”

“I would gladly make time for you, wife,” His utterance of the word wife made you shiver in delight. “I know now that this is something we will brave together, and not apart.” Cregan nodded, hoping that conversation would distract him.

He was unbearably hard, cock throbbing with such an incessant ache that he nearly abandoned the bath altogether. It was then that you reached for his hand, digits tracing along his forearm.

Cregan gripped the tub like a vice with his hand, so tense that his muscle threatened to tear apart. Your embrace was like silk, a shroud that he wished to wrap himself within. His gaze intensified, stuck to you with a fervor.

“I did not invite you inside just to converse,” Your whisper was hoarse, shrewd — you were finding your voice, and Cregan thoroughly enjoyed it. “I wish to try.”

“You cannot try from that distance.” Cregan’s tone was akin to the trembling of thunder from the skies, dripping with a thinly-veiled desire. There was affection present, yet lust seemed to win out as he coaxed you closer.

Once you waded into arm’s reach, your husband brusquely tugged you into his lap, causing you to gasp as he caressed your hip. His kiss was akin to a tide of fire, washing over you with an unyielding burn, heat crawling across your flesh.

You reciprocated without hesitation, palms finding their purchase atop his chest, nails digging into muscle when you felt his cock prod into your stomach. Gods, he was intimidating — you feared your physical state on the morrow.

It was unmistakable, his passion — the desire he’d built for you came crashing down, entangled with your budding desire.

A thick, calloused palm cupped your hip, kneading into the curves there, the other finding the soft flesh of your breast. He gingerly groped your chest, fingers gracing across your nipple, evoking an excitable whine from you.

“Gods, you are the most beautiful woman I’ve laid eyes upon,” Cregan’s husked tone was akin to a growl, reverberating against your mouth. “My wife.” He uttered, reveling in your flustered expression.

Lips clamored as if it would be their last dance, and he found himself kissing your jaw, your neck — wherever he could reach. It was a near-frenzy, acted upon with passion and a wolfish appetite, a desire that scorched his bones.

“Cregan,” A labored moan ripped through your throat, crackling with excitement as you tilted your head backward. He thoroughly reveled at the sound of you singing his name, a rumble reverberating throughout his chest. “Please, I need you.”

Slotted firmly within his lap, Cregan let the hand upon your hip drift elsewhere, dipping beneath the water as he sought the heat between your legs. His kisses were relentless, etched against your neck like a hot brand.

He needed you just as terribly, a want so powerful that it nearly obliterated him, scorching his heart with your own desire. His thick digits found your flower, thumb circling the pearl of your cunt.

A sharp gasp escaped you, lips agape as another wine emerged from your mouth. You hadn’t been touched like this before, not from a man so learned as Cregan, who studied your body with his hawkish gaze.

Your hips possessed a mind of their own, desperately chasing after any shred of friction from his hand, nails clamping into his broad shoulders. A soft chuckle shook his body, the vibrations sending shivers up your spine.

“Easy, princess,” Cregan murmured, teeth gently scraping over your jugular before he pressed a kiss there. “Do not tire yourself so quickly.” He cautioned, toying with your clit in slow, deliberate motions.

His cock prodded against your cunt, filling you with a sudden wave of anticipation. His stature seemed to confirm what you already knew, prompting you to swallow the lump within your throat.

Cregan would never tire of you, and he knew that this would not be enough to satiate his hunger for you, an appetite as ravenous as that of a starving wolf. He wanted to taste you, occupy the space between heart and ribcage, never part from you — duty be damned.

Pressing another string of greedy kisses against the column of your throat, Cregan continued to slowly circle your clit, savoring the twitches and reactions that flickered across your face. You made your pleasure known, vocalizing your delight to the heavens.

Part of you knew what to expect with the act of consummation — pain, and then pleasure, if you were fortunate enough. You trusted Cregan to handle you with care, rocking your hips atop him.

A low grunt elicited from him, one that clearly seemed pent-up. The sensation of your nethers pressing against his length drove him to madness, palm gripping hard at the small of your back. “I fear you may be the death of me.” He growled.

A shudder iced your spine, one tinged with anticipation as you sought his mouth, kissing him in your own flurry of bliss. He enjoyed your initiative, large hand tracing up and down along your back, goosebumps trailing in the wake of his caress.

“I — I want you inside of me,” Stammering over your words, your hands found the nape of his neck, clinging to his damp, chestnut tresses. “Will you be gentle?” You feared being split in half if his pace became hastened.

Cregan grit his teeth together, knowing that taking your maidenhead in such a rough way was not fair to you, nor was it kind. “Of course,” He assured, pressing a kiss against your jaw. “I wouldn’t dream of harming you.”

Restraint would likely test his resolve, but Cregan was up for the challenge, hand snaking away from between your thighs. Even within his grasp, you still seemed a touch uneasy, likely due to the bundle of nerves coiled within your stomach.

“On your own time, wife,” Cregan rumbled, content to caress along your supple frame, handling your curves as if you were molded from obsidian. You possessed the strength of a dragon — perhaps you didn’t realize it yet. “I am enjoying myself.”

With a nod, you exhaled, looking to him for instruction as he reached between the both of you, guiding his cock to your entrance. The thick head pressed along your cunt, causing you to shift again.

A kiss made its residence along your jaw. “I have you,” Cregan murmured, letting you sink down onto his length. Your countenance bristled with the sting of agony, and you nearly hurried it along until his hand seized your hip. “Easy.”

Seven Hells, he filled you completely, stretching you in a way that molded you to him. It was discomforting, a pain you seldom experienced, but Cregan was soothing.

It was the sweetest torment for Cregan, cock sluggishly feeding into you, inch by inch, your cunt tight around his length. A sonorous groan bubbled within his throat as he continued to guide you, ensuring that you were not suffering.

“Cregan!” A hiss escaped you, one intermingled with pleasure and pain, brow creased in concentration. It was nearly too much for you, but you persisted, enduring the newfound stretch and foreign sensations.

The tip of his length very nearly kissed your cervix, and that was his sign to cease. He let you sit, labored breathing bearing inklings of ecstasy, lips slack as you began to roll your hips.

He was strong enough to maneuver you along his cock as he saw fit, but he let you gather your bearings, find your own pace. Your soft, sweet lips sought his own, mouths clashing in a spirited kiss, one charged with a growing adoration.

Chest-to-chest, the intimacy grew tenfold, hearts beating in-tandem, making way for the wave of ardor that consumed you both. Water gently sloshed around the both of you, flesh damp, yet you had never been warmer.

Firm, steady hands kept their grasp upon the swell of your hips, thumbs tracing lazy circles into your silken flesh. Cregan appraised you with starving eyes, hues as gray as swirling clouds before a winter’s storm.

“Move me,” A wanton sigh floated from your lips, evoking a sense of primal desire that he knew to shackle down. Your husband obliged, setting the pace at a slower speed for your sake. “Gods, just like that.” You huffed.

Cregan fought against baser instincts, against tearing you asunder like that of a snarling beast. He guided you up and down upon his length, mouth seeking the dip between your neck and shoulder.

Teeth found their rooting there, gingerly scraping your flesh as he marked you, eliciting a throaty moan from your mouth. It was a sting that you did not expect to enjoy — but you wanted it again and again.

Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths wove together, forming a heated cacophony that filled the washroom with your lewd activities.

He took your maidenhead with such tenderness, never once resorting to a harsher pace unless you were the one to initiate. “You are perfect.” Cregan uttered, letting you rock up and down along his length.

The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your plush flesh was mesmerizing, leaving behind a wave of goosebumps that crawled across your flesh. He gripped you hard enough to leave bruises, peppering kisses against your neck.

Finding your rhythm, it became easier to impale yourself upon him, gasping when his cock sheathed itself deep within you. Your cunt clenched pathetically around him, nails raking crimson trails across his shoulders.

Molten heat churned within the pit of your stomach, arousal honey-thick between your thighs. The more you succumbed to desire, the more carnal his pace became, losing all inhibitions of restraint.

Soap-laden water steamed around the both of you, sloshing with the movement of two bodies, locked within the throes of passion. A soft cry escaped you as he brought you down again, invigorated by the spirited rolls of your hips.

It only became messier — two souls clawing for affection, for entanglement, for a release. As you grasped his biceps for support, you changed the rhythm, letting yourself drown within desire.

A breathy, snarled curse tore past his mouth, brows furrowing together in concentration as he maneuvered you toward the tub’s thick rim. His chest was hot, slick as he pressed himself to your back.

Smoothing a calloused palm along your thigh, his thrusts became a touch erratic, cock hitting into you like the jab of a spear. “Cregan!” You moaned, savoring the sensation of his mouth against your shoulder, crooked nose ghosting along your throat.

The newfound position was somewhat awkward given his stature, contorted in the smaller space of the tub, but he cared little for it. Passion drove him, the desire to breed, make you round and lovely with his children.

His hands did not leave you, caressing wherever he could, an anchor to keep you safe even in the midst of such crass acts. “Gods help me,” Cregan growled, hot breath fanning across your shoulder. “I need you.” He hissed.

It was unexpected, his confession that rattled you so, sending tremors along your spine. You did not expect him to feel that way for you, yet it only furthered your arousal.

Lewd entanglements of flesh resonated throughout the washroom, accompanied by a myriad of moans and animalistic growls. Cregan became more beast than man when placed under pleasure, not that you minded.

Even if he lacked the stamina to continue, carnality willed him to devour. Your husband kissed you, touched you wherever he could, thick digits snaking between your thighs as he sought the aching pearl of your cunt.

“Do not stop,” A breathy mewl erupted from your throat as you pleaded with Cregan to continue. Once deft digits began to toy with your clit, your knees buckled, hand grasping at his forearm. “Please, please do not stop!”

Between the feverish kisses he placed along the nape of your neck and the hand circling your clit, you felt the ecstasy mounting. The coil within your stomach began to unfurl, visage screwed up in a look of bliss.

Cregan’s grunts sent shivers throughout your body, warming your insides with their fervor. His cock continued to pound in and out at a steady pace, body snug against yours.

He dared not harm you, executing caution even still, indomitable musculature hunched in over you, enveloping you on every front. As his calloused fingers flicked across your pearl, you shuddered, thighs twitching in response.

You experienced a euphoria like never before, the sensation foreign yet overwhelming, setting every fiber of your being ablaze. Water splashed over the rim of the bathtub, falling onto the stone below.

Each snap of his hips sent you reeling, cock filling you to the brim, stretching you in ways that you never thought possible. You moaned, nails digging into his arm; Cregan’s pace did not deviate.

Tantalizing fantasies of putting a babe in you drove him mad, his hand drawing away from your cunt as he placed his palm over your stomach. Gods, you could feel everything — it made you buckle, release swift and white-hot.

Stars floated across your vision in the wake of your release, a choked sob of ecstasy rippling through your chest. Cregan’s name rolled from your tongue like an incantation that you had committed to memory.

It was then that your husband spilled himself inside of you, aided by the wet clenching of your cunt around him. Ropes of hot, virile seed painted your womb, and you felt him press his forehead against the back of your shoulder.

Tangled, labored breaths filled the space between you both, thin as ever. Cregan did not want to stop — the night was agonizingly young, and his cock stirred within you. “Are you well, wife?” He murmured, stroking along your hip.

“I am perfect,” He could taste your smile, a bright and palpable thing. You felt him move away, momentarily sinking back beneath the water. “I — I was not expecting it to feel so pleasurable.”

“There is plenty more beyond that,” Cregan assured, drawing you back into the wide expanse of his lap, cock nestled against the plane of your stomach. He cupped your jaw, the pad of his thumb tracing your cheek. “Do you require rest?”

A coy expression flickered across your countenance as you let your fingertips playfully ghost across the tip of his length. The sudden blaze within Cregan’s storm-cloud hues had made your heart leap into your throat, excitement replacing exhaustion.

A growl stirred within his chest at your wordless insinuation, and he did not seem to waste a moment of time, hooking an arm around your hips. “Clearly not.” He grunted.

“Do you object?” You murmured, dragging one finger over the plane of his visage, so youthful and unblemished, a contrast to his rugged demeanor. Provoking your husband was a bold choice, one that Cregan respected.

“I do not,” Cregan’s tone was little more than a grumbling of thunder, brows furrowing together as he steeled himself for what would become a lengthy evening. He adjusted your position, the head of his cock kissing your entrance once more. “You will wish for rest when we are finished.”

[peachessndreamss]

A Dark & Stormy Night

Summery : A storm rages over Winterfell and the Stark children look for comfort with their parents.

Characters : Cregan Stark x f!wife reader (no use of y/n)

Warnings : None

Word count : 1K

A/N : Short and disgustingly sweet. All my Cregan pieces can be enjoyed alone but are all interconnected and feature the same Lady Stark their children.

peachessndreamss Masterlist l peachessndreamss ask box

Night was falling early on the North, and before the final rays of watery daylight had leached from the sky Cregan Stark had looked out from the highest chamber of the Library Tower and seen the tops of the ancient Wolfswood trees disappearing into the great grey swell of clouds that rolled over the land and lay over it like a blanket. 

When the night had fully fallen and an eerie stillness settled over the land. It was the hour of ghosts and Cregan was finally ready to sleep. He closed the heavy tome he’d been reading from and placed it back on it’s shelf, the beeswax candle he’d been using to read by was now spluttering and spitting as it came to the end of its life, he took the candlestick in his hand as he moved from the library, through the halls of the silent castle, to the bedroom he shared with his wife. 

Lady Stark was already asleep, only the top of her head visible from where she’d buried herself so deeply under the furs on their bed. Cregan set the dying candle on the table next to his side of the bed and quickly stripped off his outer clothes and slipped beneath the furs in just his undershirt. He sighed contentedly, finding the bed warm from his wife’s sleeping body and the air heavy with her scent, he pinched out the candle, plunging the room into complete darkness and closed his eyes. 

Cregan felt like he'd been asleep for  seconds when he woke suddenly. On first waking he had no idea what had roused him but after a few seconds of confusion the sky outside the window was split by a bright fork of lightning, followed by a deep rumble of thunder. Cregan groaned softly and rolled onto his side, slipping one arm over his wife’s waist, and splaying his hand across her warm stomach. 

A second, louder rumble of thunder rolled through the sky and rattled the glass in the Winterfell windows. Cregan sighed quietly, closing his eyes again, ready to sink back into sleep. There were more flashes of lightning that he could see through his closed eyes, and deep rolls of thunder that made the earth shudder. Lady Stark slept on, completely untroubled by the storm that raged outside her window, Cregan was envious of her deep sleep and he pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder. 

He was almost asleep again when there was a new sound which had him fully awake in less time than it took to blink. The creek of the bedroom door had the Lord of Winterfell sitting bolt upright and reaching for the dagger he kept beside the bed. 

Cregan was just about to demand who was entering their chambers when a flash of lightning illuminated the room and he saw the two frightened faces of his children huddled in the door, clinging to each other. The fear that had gripped his heart vanished and instead of reaching for a weapon he held his arms out to the children. 

“Come here, it’s all right,” he whispered, his eyes adjusting to the dark just enough to see the two small children shuffling toward him. 

His daughter, Aly, led the way, her hand holding tightly to her younger brother who followed behind, his thumb in his mouth and his eyes still full of sleep. 

“We’re scared,” Aly said. 

Cregan rather thought she was the one who was scared and had dragged her younger brother along for moral support. 

“Come up here then,” Cregan soothed as they reached the foot of the bed. 

Aly helped her younger brother, who was still new to walking and unsteady on his feet onto the bed before climbing up after him. Their son made a direct line to Lady Stark, who had finally woken up and rolled onto her back to see what was going on.

“What’s the matter darling?” she asked softly as she reached out to the boy, pulling him toward her. 

“Scared of the storm,” Aly answered as she wriggled up the bed toward the space in between her parents. 

“Would you like to sleep with us then?” Lady Stark asked as the boy settled his head against her chest and closed his eyes. He made a few small noises as he snuggled his face into the crook of her neck and grabbed at a handful of her hair. 

Lady Stark glanced at Cregan who was holding the furs back as their daughter crawled in between them and rested her head down on the pillows. 

“Will you tell us a story papa?” she asked as Cregan relaxed back on his pillow, tucking the furs around his little girl. 

“No my love,” he said softly, “it’s very late so you should just close your eyes,”. 

“What about the storm?” she asked with a pout. 

Lady Stark had relaxed back against her own pillows, the weight and warmth of the child against her chest making her sleepy again. 

“You'll be safe with us,” Lady Stark said softly, kissing the boy's forehead. 

Another fork of lightning split the sky followed by a great roar of thunder, a look of fear crossed Aly’s face and  she cringed away from the window and against her father. He wrapped one arm around her slight frame and pulled the child close. Letting his chin rest on the top of her head. 

“Papa, I'm scared,” she whispered, her voice only loud enough for him to hear. 

Cregan smiled to himself, he dreaded the day when he'd wouldn't be able to protect his children from the things that frightened them, but a storm he could keep them safe from and he gave Aly a gentle, reassuring squeeze. 

“I've got you,” he breathed, “I'll keep you safe,”. 

He wrapped his hand around her tiny fist and brought it to his lips, kissing her tiny fingers as her eyes closed and she started to breathe deeply. 

Cregan glanced over at his wife who was already sleeping with their son curled against her chest. There was another bright flash of lightning but the thunder sounded distant, muted and unlikely to wake the sleeping children. 

When he awoke again the wintry sun was streaming through the windows, the sky clear and bright with no sign of the previous night's storm. He brushed at his face, pushing his daughters hair from under his nose and tucking it back behind her ear as she slept on. He turned his head and caught his wife's eye from the other side of the bed. She gave him a sleepy smile.

“Did you sleep well my love?” She asked softly, stroking their sons back as he slept on. 

“Never better,” Cregan replied with a smile.

PS: Well done on finishing this truly dreadful and worthless piece of fanfic Ten kisses for you.

[chiiswizz]

Jace and Cregan’s secret elopement.

Jacaerys in a traditional Valyrian dress. Just the two of them deep in the Wolfswood, during a late Summer snow..

[creganslover]

Cregan Stark with

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m right here, okay? I’m not gonna leave you. I’m never gonna leave you.”

cregaaaaaaan <333 sorry if its short!

warning/s: mentions of kidnapping, slight violence, cregan being worried

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

You had gotten taken, someone had managed to sneak into Winterfell and had a target upon you, Cregan Stark’s spouse. They were smart enough to attack at the time when Cregan had been off to the Wall to check on his men in training. 

All of Winterfell had been alerted of your missing presence, causing alarm and panic from your people, with Cregan left with no knowledge of your taking. 

Until a raven had been sent to the Wall. 

Cregan was absolutely fuming, the spouse he had promised to return to, that he promised to take care of until snow seeped into his bones- taken at the time of his absence. 

His horse took him home, few of his elite men following suit as Cregan was nearly going berserk with worry and agitation, the folk witnessing as their Lord torn the walls apart with his booming voice, demanding as to why his spouse was not guarded that night and why had they let the intruder take them easily. 

Cregan began thinking of the possibilities of who could have done this, it could have been anyone, sending out patrols whilst getting no ounce of sleep, mind running million miles an hour. Were you well? Had they hurt you? Or worse, killed you? 

Yet the news of an unknown camp sighting came within the sights of Wolfswood, Cregan hopped onto his mount before one could even speak his name. 

It had been a long search, a day or three when Cregan and his men narrowed it down and found indeed the camp within Wolfswood, overhearing the men laughing and celebrating the capture of you followed by your cries made his blood run cold. 

In a matter of moments, their entertainment was cut short by Cregan appearing, demanding his partner be released or face such consequences, the leader had been surprised and made the mistake of taunting Cregan, not knowing he would go through the Seven Hells and back for his other half. 

Cregan gave the signal, and his men came out from the woods, dealing with the goons. Cregan then searched until he had stumbled upon a lone tent, his heart fearing the worst as he neared and grasped the flap of the tent. 

There you were, shivering and tied to a post. Thankfully, you did not look too harmed nor defiled, Cregan kneeling as you shook, realizing it was him as he cut off your ropes, wasting no time in embracing his burly frame, shaking in his hold. 

Cregan wrapped his strong arms around you, murmuring in his deep voice, clutching you tighter as he rubbed warmth onto your back. “It’s okay,” he began. “They’re gone, it’s okay. I’m right here, okay? I’m not gonna leave you. I’m never gonna leave you.” He told you, shrugging off his own furs to wrap around you. 

You can ensure that once you get back to Winterfell, Cregan would punish those who had failed to protect you that night, sending them to the Wall as he replaced them, you had also noticed him be hesitant when he is required to leave you, even for a short while. But as you kept reassuring him when you had felt better and regained your strength and life, Cregan could slowly see your usual self coming back. 

Cregan entered your shared chambers, wanting nothing more but to get back to you after his responsibilities, shrugging off his cloak of furs before he joined you on the bed. “Are you alright?” He always asks, holding onto your hand. 

Leaning in to nuzzle against his form, you sighed in content as you placed your hand over your man’s chest. “I am, do not worry.” You reassured. 

“Thank you, Cregan.” You voiced after a beat of silence, which he returned with placing his lips against yours, giving your hand a light squeeze. 

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

cregan tag-list: @misswynters

[cregansdingdong]

dingdong hear me out, cregan and reader going through the honeymoon stage of their marriage in winterfell where he just cant get off her and they get it on (she gets on should i say 😜) EVERYWHERE and ANYWHERE. im talking in the stables just out of earshot of the lords in the courtyard, in the wolfswood surrounded by the beautiful northern countryside, in the council chambers, on the table, EVERYWHERE. I KNOW this man gets hot knowing anyone could catch them and that they couldn’t do anything about it because he is their lord. PLEASE GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANT 🙏🙏🙏🙏🙏

- fellow cregan worshipping anon xo

I HAVE THOUGHTS. THE GEARS ARE TURNING. I FEEL THEM TURNING. SEND HELP ANON.

Let's get something perfectly clear, my beloved, the honeymoon stage never ends with Cregan. Now, it might slow down after the birth of a few kiddos ten but in no way, shape, or form will your Lord Wolf ever be satisfied. That being said, you have my prayers, sorrows, and congratulations also my envy ofc if you both are ever caught getting your freak on. It's gonna go a little something like this...

ʜᴏɴᴇʏᴍᴏᴏɴ. (thoughts ver.)

NSFW stuff under the cut. 18+ only. I'm not responsible for the content you choose to consume. ty.

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"We're going to—"

"I don't care." He grunts. Skirts lifted up the curve of her ass, his hips rutting into her at a pace desperate enough to bruise. They were both frantic, fucking like it was their last day alive. The council room was empty—which it usually was; only really filled when Cregan felt the need to call on his vassals. If it had been a regular day, Lord and Lady Stark wouldn't have had anything to worry about.

His wife presses her cheek down on the table, holding onto the oak edges for dear life, mewling of course, as he rocked into her like a man possessed. Controlled entirely by his need, by her whines for him, Cregan thought he could die a happy man right there in her snug cunt. He could. He wanted to, in a way, the last sensations in the living world being her velvety walls, clenching around him with every swift thrust.

They were loud as they always were—unintentionally. It was too good to remember any restraint. Not that it mattered to the Lord Wolf, he was the Lord paramount of the North. Who was going to tell him he couldn't make love with his wife? No one, but he could at least make an effort to lock the door first. Rabid grunts and the sound of his hefty balls slapping against her flooded the corridor as the entrance to the council room was opened. "Seven Hells—"

His bannermen. His vassals. The meeting. Gods. He forgot about the meeting. Torrhen Manderly turned right back around, narrowly avoiding whatever it was that Cregan flung towards the door—thankfully fast enough to stop the other men from following in after him. "Get out!" The door was promptly slammed shut, right as his wife lifted her head from the table, face flushed red in mortification. "Were we just cau—fuck!" Lord Stark still didn't care, reaching around to rub at her pretty clit as his cock resumed pistoning against her ass. And as she came for at least the third time that morning, the realization of getting caught was quickly erased from the front of her mind, Cregan's teeth latching on to the curve of her shoulder as he chased his release.

okay I can't help myself so here's a bonus bit:

Redressed and thoroughly embarrassed some twenty minutes later, Lady Stark emerges from the council room, expecting her handmaiden to be waiting—no. Gods. They'd waited. They'd actually waited. Seven bannermen, each one avoiding her eye more than the last, probably in an attempt to maintain whatever was left of her dignity. They made not a single sound as she walked sprinted by, nodding stiffly in respect to their Lady.

Cregan, however, did not share that same sentiment. Satisfied for the moment, smug, and seated lazily at the head of the table, legs spread comfortably as he sat back against his chair. He exhaled quietly through his nose once his vassals entered the room, the smallest of smirks written on his face that said more than his mouth ever could. "Where did we leave off last time?"

₊˚ ‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵୨୧ · · ♡ · · ୨୧‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵‿︵ ˚₊

[thewolvesofthenorth]

Chapter Four

Chapter Four of Man of Honor

Series Masterlist ❖ Main Masterlist ❖ House Of The Dragon Masterlist

Rating: 18+ Word Count: ~3k Summary: Cregan has a much needed conversation with Arra and Sara shares some news. Meanwhile, you contemplate what the future could hold. Warnings: Angst angst angst, language, fluff, slow burn, pining

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Cregan put his head in his hands and let out a heavy sigh.

Why must the gods torment me?

Since waking from his dream, he had sat in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Why?

He was perplexed by the images he had seen.

The words he had heard.

The feelings that had been evoked in him.

He had dreamed of you.

Of having you.

Of loving you.

But it would not be so.

Why must they taunt me in this way?

He had made a mistake, and the dream had given him a glimpse of what he could never have.

Cregan sighed again, then stood up and got dressed. As he looked out his window at the dimly lit sky, a feeling of unease filled his heart. Making his way to the stables, he noticed a dark figure crossing the courtyard toward the kitchens.

He watched as the figure stopped and slowly turned, his grey eyes meeting yours. He sucked in a breath as you turned and shook your head, hastily making your way to the kitchens where you would surely find his sister breaking fast.

Cregan watched you disappear through the doorway before turning and continuing his walk to the stables. It had been some time since he had ridden through the Wolfswood, and he felt it would do him some good. As he arrived at the stables, he spotted an unexpected figure.

Arra.

“Good morrow,” he greeted politely, approaching his horse and stroking its back.

Arra turned at the sound of his voice and smiled, patting her own horse.

“Good morrow, Lord Stark,” she replied. “I thought I was alone in being awake at such an unearthly hour.”

“I thought the same,” Cregan responded, watching her place a saddle on her horse. He walked over to his own saddle, picked it up, and ran a hand down the leather.

“May I inquire as to why?” Arra asked. Cregan turned, setting the saddle atop his horse and fastening it a bit more roughly than intended, causing the stallion to let out a huff.

“I could not sleep, and it has been too long since I’ve ridden through the Wolfswood.”

“It is unfortunate that sleep eludes you, my lord,” Arra said sincerely. “Would you be opposed to me accompanying you? It has been quite a while since we last rode together.”

Cregan inwardly cringed at her words, knowing that he had been avoiding her due to his inner conflict about you, and he had hoped that she had not noticed.

“Nothing would please me more, my lady,” he spoke with a smile. Arra returned his smile and swung her leg up to mount her horse, and Cregan did the same.

“Shall we, my lord?”

“Lead the way.”

The two rode out of Winterfell. As they crossed through the South Gate and turned toward the Wolfswood, Cregan took in a deep breath. The cold wind stinging his cheeks provided a strange sense of comfort, and he closed his eyes, savoring the near silence around them, the steady beat of hooves the only sound he heard. As they crossed the tree line into the forest, Cregan slowed his pace to a trot, and Arra fell into place beside him.

“May I speak freely?” Arra asked, her voice breaking the silence and drawing Cregan from his thoughts. He had nearly forgotten she was there and chastised himself for it.

“Of course,” he answered, turning to meet her gaze.

“What ails you?” she asked, her concern evident. “It has been some time since we last rode together. One might think you are avoiding me.” Cregan bit his lip, trying to think of an excuse that might satisfy her.

“You need not answer if you do not wish to discuss it,” she continued, sensing his discomfort. “I am merely curious. Have I done something to offend you, my lord?”

“No,” Cregan finally replied. “You have not offended me, my lady. There are just… some matters that have arisen and drawn my attention more than I anticipated.”

“I apologize for my behavior,” he added. “It was not my intent to cause you distress with my actions.” Arra shook her head at his words.

“There is no need,” she stated. “I understand that you have more pressing concerns to tend to as the Warden of the North, and you have much on your shoulders.” Cregan offered her a smile, not knowing how to respond.

She is too kind.

“However, as your betrothed, I feel I am owed an explanation regarding your behavior.”

Cregan’s throat grew dry as she spoke. She was right; they were betrothed, and he knew he should do what was right and tell her the truth, even if he wasn’t sure what that truth was. The weight of his unspoken feelings pressed heavily on him.

“I apologize, my lady,” he finally said, anxiety twisting in his stomach. “I have not been forthcoming, and as my betrothed, you should know the truth.” Cregan looked down at his hands, reins clenched tightly in his fists.

“Please know it is nothing you have done, or are lacking,” he began, uncertain how she would react. “But I have realized that another may hold my affection.”

“I see,” she replied. Cregan looked over at her as she pulled her horse to a stop. “However, we are betrothed, and it is my duty to uphold that oath.”

“Does this person know of your fondness for them? And do they return such fondness?” Cregan shook his head.

I doubt she feels anything but hate for me at the moment

More likely, she would wish to see my head on a pike.

“I do not completely understand my feelings,” he admitted, “but regardless, I do not intend to forsake my duty.”

“I do not think it fair that you set aside your feelings, my lord,” Arra responded. “If this person were to return them, would it not be more prudent to pledge yourself to them?”

“My lady, Starks do not forget their oaths. I have made mine to you, your family, and the North.” As Cregan spoke, bile rose in his throat, knowing he had already broken an oath to you. “In time, I’m sure feelings may grow between us instead.”

You are an idiot.

“Perhaps, but perhaps not,” she countered. “In any case, I would like for us to be completely honest with each other from now on. Should things change between you and whoever holds your affection, I hope you will tell me so as not to make a fool of us both.”

“Of course, my lady,” Cregan agreed, nodding.

She truly is too kind.

“I am glad to have gotten some clarity from you, my lord,” Arra said, looking up at the now fully lit sky. “Shall we return?” Cregan nodded and they nudged their horses forward to return to Winterfell.

Upon their return to Winterfell, the two parted ways—Arra heading to the Guest House and Cregan setting off to find Sara. He needed to speak with her and perhaps gain more advice, especially after the conversation he had just had with Arra.

Cregan’s first stop was the kitchens, knowing his sister loved experimenting with new recipes, but she was nowhere to be found. His next destination was the library, yet that too proved fruitless. Finally, he made his way to the Glass Gardens, where he found her tending to various fruits, carefully picking the ripe ones and placing them into her basket.

“Cregan!” Sara greeted him with a warm smile when she caught sight of her brother. “What brings you here?”

“I wanted to speak with you,” he replied.

“Yes, I gathered,” she retorted, rolling her eyes at his lack of subtlety. “What is it?”

“I spoke with Arra,” he began, and Sara raised an eyebrow.

“And?”

“She asked why I have been avoiding her.”

“It seems that has become your latest talent, brother,” she quipped. Cregan shot her a glare and shook his head, refusing to let her get under his skin. “But go on.”

“I spoke of my feelings,” he admitted, “and apologized for my behavior.”

“Oh? And what feelings might those be?” Sara asked, curious of what he had told the noblewoman.

“I told her that I may hold affection for another,” he confessed.

His words took Sara by surprise.

“And what were her thoughts on the matter?”

“She was unexpectedly understanding,” he replied. “And –“

“And?”

“I did not say who it was I held feelings for, but it seems she supports them regardless,” he said.

Sara hummed thoughtfully at his admission.

“In support of your feelings?”

“Yes.”

“In what manner?”

“She said she did not think it fair for me to set aside my feelings for the sake of duty.”

“Well, she is not mistaken.”

“Do you think I don’t know this?”

“No, but you have been quite stupid as of late,” Sara responded. “And you have also made it abundantly clear that you will chose duty above all else.”

“I know,” Cregan said softly. “And now I am unsure of what to do.”

“What is it you mean?”

“I have a duty to uphold, but I also cannot deny what my heart feels.”

“Best you come to a decision on that, and soon,” Sara warned.

“For what reason?”

“For the reason that she may be thinking of her future,” his sister spoke, “one with someone else. One without you.”

Cregan’s heart clenched at what his sister’s warning.

Could it be?

Were you truly considering marriage to another?

You absently stared at the ceiling as hot water swirled around you, licking your skin with its heat. After your conversation with Sara, you had gone to the library to reflect on she had said and began to write a list of suitors who had made their intentions known to you over the years. The more you wrote, the more daunting the idea of finding a husband and leaving Winterfell became. You compiled over a dozen names, many of them belonging to men you had never met, much less heard of, though a few familiar ones stood out.

Manderly.

Bracken.

Lannister.

Glover.

Blackwood.

Dustin.

Royce.

Baratheon.

Mooton.

Bolton.

Hightower.

Tully.

Arryn.

Tyrell.

Frey.

Reed.

Hornwood.

Cerwyn.

The last one piqued your interest. Over the years, you hadn’t paid much attention to who your suitors were, often brushing them off without even looking at their names. So, seeing the name of Cregan’s best friend on your list struck you as strange, though not entirely out of the realm of possibility. After all, the three of you had grown up together, with Castle Cerwyn only half a day’s ride from Winterfell, and you were all around the same age.

You were certain that Lord Cerwyn faced just as much pressure as Cregan when it came to marriage and producing an heir, so it shouldn’t have surprised you that he might consider you as a match. Yet, you couldn’t help but feel confused, given that he was well aware of your predicament regarding Cregan.

You bit your lip, recalling the last time you’d seen Lord Cerwyn and the conversation that followed. It had been several moons ago, when he came to join Cregan on a hunt. By then, Arra had been in Winterfell for some time, and Cregan spent all his time with her, prompting you to keep your distance. Still, you had run into Lord Cerwyn in the kennels on the morning of the hunt, and the two of you had spoken about why he hadn’t seen you around as often.

- FLASHBACK -

The crunching of footsteps pulled you from your thoughts, and you looked up to see Lord Cerwyn entering the kennels, a surprised expression crossing his face as he took in the sight of you sitting on the ground, the head of a large hound resting in your lap.

“My lady,” he greeted, bowing his head politely. “I did not expect to find you here. And at this hour.”

“I often come here to think. Either here or the godswood,” you replied with a small smile. “It has been some time since we last saw each other, Lord Cerwyn.”

“Indeed, it has,” he agreed. “How do you fare?”

Unsure how to answer, you drew in a breath and looked down at your hands, running your fingers over the hound’s ears to maintain your composure.

“I have seen better days,” you admitted with a sigh. “And you?”

“I’ve been well,” he replied, noticing the shift in your demeanor. “What troubles you?”

“Nothing of importance,” you deflected. You knew each other well enough to recognize when the other was lying, so you tried to dodge his questioning—especially since he was Cregan’s best friend.

“My lady, we’ve been friends since we were children. Please, don’t lie to me,” he insisted, sitting beside you on the ground. “Does it have anything to do with your absence around Winterfell?”

Damn.

You groaned, turning to look at him. “Nothing eludes you, does it?”

“Few things do. Now, tell me, are you avoiding a certain nobleman?”

“I’m not avoiding anyone,” you snapped a little too quickly.

“Ah, so you are,” he retorted with a chuckle. “And does this nobleman happen to be tall, with dark hair and strikingly good looks?”

“I’m not avoiding you if that is what you’re asking.”

“I wasn’t talking about me, my lady. Though it does warm the heart to know you find me so handsome.”

“Shut up,” you bit back, rolling your eyes at your friend’s teasing. You knew exactly who he meant, and he knew that too.

“I only jest,” he said with a grin. “But it seems you’re avoiding our dear Lord of Winterfell. Now, why would that be?”

“I already told you—I’m not avoiding anyone.”

“You and I both know that’s a lie.”

“It’s not.”

“Then why haven’t I seen you and Cregan together? Not once have I seen you around him. In fact, you always seem to vanish whenever he appears.” You silently scratched the dog’s ear in response.

“Does a Lady Norrey have something to do with it?”

“No,” you mumbled, and he nudged your shoulder. “Maybe.”

“Tell me.”

“It does not matter.”

“It does.”

“I – I don’t – I don’t want to talk about it,” you muttered, gently pushing the hound’s head off your lap. Lord Cerwyn placed a hand over yours and gave it a light squeeze.

“I know.”

“What?”

“I know,” he repeated. “About your feelings.”

“I don’t know what you mea – “

“I know how you feel about Cregan,” he said. “I know you love him.”

“I don’t,” you huffed.

“You do,” he insisted. “Everyone sees it.”

“No, they don’t,” you argued. “Because it’s not true.”

“Yes, it is, and yes, they do.”

“I don’t lo –“

“Don’t lie to me,” he interrupted. “And please don’t lie to yourself.” You glared at him.

“I’m not lying to myself,” you growled.

“Yes, you are,” he said, chastising you. “We both know it.”

You crossed your arms and let out a frustrated huff.

“Fine,” you conceded. “But it means nothing.”

Lord Cerwyn shook his head.

“It does to you.”

“Yes, well,” you said, standing and brushing dirt from your clothes, “it doesn’t mean anything to him. And nothing can be done about it.”

“You don’t know that,” your friend countered, rising to his feet.

“Yes, I do,” you replied with a hint of annoyance. “If it mattered to him, he wouldn’t have pledged himself to her.” Before he could respond, a stableboy appeared at the entrance of the kennels, pausing when he saw you and the young lord.

“Apologies, my lord, my lady,” he said. “Lord Stark asked me to fetch the hounds for the hunt. My lord, your horse is also saddled and waiting at the gate.”

Lord Cerwyn nodded, and the two of you left the kennels as the stableboy went to gather the hounds. Once outside, you stopped and turned to your companion.

“Lord Cerwyn, it was a good to see you,” you said, “I pray that your hunt is successful.”

“Thank you, my lady,” he replied, leaning in to place a light kiss on your cheek. “Until next time.”

You gave him a smile before turning toward the library, his gaze lingering on you as he headed in the opposite direction toward Hunter’s Gate, where his horse awaited.

- END FLASHBACK -

If you had glanced behind you that day, you would have seen Cregan sitting astride his horse by the gate, waiting for his friend.

If you had taken a moment to turn and look, you would have caught Cerwyn smirking as he watched his best friend watching you, a glint of jealousy in the Warden’s eyes.

You sighed, absentmindedly dipping your fingers into the water as you reflected on the memory—and on Cerwyn’s name appearing among the suitors on your list.

There could be worse choices.

Like a Lannister.

Or a Bolton.

Besides, Cerwyn and I already know each other.

And he knows how I feel about Cregan.

So why would he want to court me?

Then again, it might not be so bad.

Maybe I could even grow to love him one day.

But how would Cregan feel?

You groaned; even when thinking of your future with another man, you still thought of Cregan and his feelings.

Fuck his feelings.

Like Sara said, I need to start thinking about myself.

You shook your head and stood up, grabbing your robe as you stepped out of the water. Retrieving a hairbrush, you padded over to a chair by the fire, took a seat, and began to brush your hair.

At least I have some time before I have to make a decision.

Little did you know, the next few months would hold more changes than you anticipated.

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[criticallyinneedofadar]

The North

Uh oh. New hyperfixation just dropped.

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Tragaryen!Reader

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

The cold cuts through your thick cloak as you descend Cannibal’s side, his black scales glinting faintly in the weak northern sun. Winterfell rises before you, a stoic fortress that speaks of enduring hardship and unyielding honor. The men waiting at the gates, wrapped in furs, watch you with expressions ranging from curiosity to mistrust. To them, you are not the Dragon Queen’s emissary, not a rider of the Cannibal, nor a strategist who has studied every battle fought in the Seven Kingdoms. You are just a girl—a second daughter.

But they will learn.

Cannibal growls low behind you, the sound reverberating in your chest, and the men instinctively step back. You hide your smirk as you step forward, head held high, your boots crunching on the snow-packed ground.

Lord Cregan Stark waits in the courtyard, his gray eyes like a winter storm, scrutinizing you. He is taller than you imagined, broad-shouldered and clad in furs that make him appear even more imposing. A faint scar bisects his left eyebrow, and his expression is as unreadable as the Wolfswood in winter.

“Lady Targaryen,” he says, his voice deep and resonant, carrying over the murmurs of his men. “We do not often see dragons in the North, let alone one such as yours.”

You incline your head, keeping your voice steady despite the cold biting your cheeks. “Cannibal and I go where duty commands, my lord. My mother has sent me to call the banners of the North in defense of her claim to the Iron Throne. The honor of House Stark is known even in the halls of Dragonstone.”

His eyes narrow slightly, but not unkindly. “And yet, she sends you instead of your elder brother. I wonder why.”

The question hangs in the frosty air, a test if ever you’ve heard one. You meet his gaze unflinchingly.

“My mother does not send fools to treat with wolves,” you reply. “Jacaerys flies east, but I have studied the North’s history and strategies since I was old enough to hold a book. I know its people, its lords, its victories—and its sacrifices. You may question my youth or my blood, Lord Stark, but do not question my ability.”

The corners of his mouth twitch, perhaps a hint of amusement or approval, but he says nothing for a moment. Finally, he gestures toward the hall.

“Come inside. The North is not kind to dragons—or their riders—when left too long in the cold.”

You nod and follow him, acutely aware of the curious gazes trailing after you. Cannibal rumbles again as you leave him behind, his presence a lingering shadow even as you step into the warmth of Winterfell’s great hall.

The great hall is alive with the warmth of a roaring hearth, its walls hung with banners of direwolves and the scent of roasted venison thick in the air. You sit at a long table, opposite Lord Cregan, with his advisors flanking him. They are older men, clad in heavy furs and carrying the stern expressions of those who have weathered many winters.

From the moment you entered, they have looked at you as though you are a curious ornament, a bauble sent south to charm and flatter.

“…Of course, it is a delicate matter,” says one, a gray-bearded man named Lord Mors Karstak. His tone is patient, as though explaining a simple concept to a child. “The men of the North value strength, but they also value respect. Perhaps it would be best, Lady Targaryen, if you left the… delicate matters of war to those better suited to them.”

Your spine stiffens, the words wrapping around your pride like a vise. You meet his gaze, your expression unmoving, even as your blood begins to boil.

“And what exactly do you mean by ‘delicate matters,’ Lord Karstak?” Your voice is even, but it carries an edge sharper than Valyrian steel.

The room falls still. Lord Karstak shifts in his seat, clearly expecting you to demur, but you do not give him the satisfaction.

“Well, my lady,” he begins again, his tone softening as though you are a maiden too tender to hear the truth. “The raising of men, the planning of battles, these are tasks that require a certain… authority.”

“Authority,” you repeat, leaning forward slightly. “I see. And what about riding dragons, Lord Karstak? Do you believe that requires authority?”

His brows furrow. “I—of course, my lady, but—”

“Do you ride a dragon, Lord Karstak?”

The question lands like an arrow, and the other advisors glance at him uncomfortably. He clears his throat. “I do not, my lady.”

“Do you command the loyalty of a beast that has lived longer than the walls of Winterfell?” you press, your voice growing colder with each word. “Have you flown above the clouds, stared down armies, or felt the fire of your mount burn away the enemies of your house?”

Karstak is silent now, his face redder than the embers in the hearth.

You lean back, letting the moment settle before turning your gaze to the others. “I may not have gray in my hair or the winters of the North etched into my face, but I am a dragonrider of House Targaryen. My mother has trusted me with the honor of commanding dragons and men alike. I suggest you remember that before assuming I am here to embroider banners or pour wine.”

Lord Cregan remains silent, but there is a glimmer of something in his eyes—approval, perhaps, or at least curiosity.

Finally, it is another advisor who speaks, a lean man with the pinched face of a fox. “Well said, my lady. But the North is no place for grand gestures or fiery displays. It is built on trust and loyalty. And trust is not so easily won by words alone.”

“Trust is earned,” you agree, your gaze steady. “But if you wish to see action, you need only ask. Give me a challenge, and I will meet it. If you seek proof of my worth, I will provide it.”

The men exchange looks, some dubious, others intrigued.

Cregan finally speaks, his voice calm but firm. “That will not be necessary. Lady Targaryen has come here with her mother’s trust, and I intend to see that trust is respected. If any of you doubt her words, you may speak to me directly.”

The tension eases, though Karstak continues to glower. You incline your head toward Cregan, silently acknowledging the support, though you know this is just the beginning. If the North requires proof of your strength, you will give it to them in full.

You are no gentlewoman of the court. You are a dragon. And soon, they will all understand.

[dr3adlady]

Excerpt from my fic "Wolfswood"; Sandor climbs a tower to meet Sansa in her room [Sansa pov]

His grey Stark cloak was dancing in the wind like a proud banner. He looked up at her and rasped lowly, “Hush, girl, you want to rouse the whole castle?!”

“You might just fall!”

“I won’t. You go inside and wait if you can’t bear to look.”

She couldn’t. She climbed off the window and paced the room, her heart beating madly. She was worried sick, but strangely, there was still a certain appeal to what he was doing for her. It was like a song and thinking about it made her blood run faster. When he finally stepped into the room and closed the window, she rushed to his side.

[asoiafreadthru]

A Game of Thrones, Tyrion II

With the mountains a wall to the west, the road veered north by northeast through the wood, a forest of oak and evergreen and black brier that seemed older and darker than any Tyrion had ever seen.

“The wolfswood,” Benjen Stark called it.

And indeed their nights came alive with the howls of distant packs, and some not so distant.

Jon Snow’s albino direwolf pricked up his ears at the nightly howling, but never raised his own voice in reply.

There was something very unsettling about that animal, Tyrion thought.

[aemondloverr]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐭. 𝐈𝐕

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐂𝐫𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦!𝐕𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐫𝐲𝐨𝐧!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟓 • 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑 • 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 • 𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 <- sign yourself up!!

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: You've settled into Winterfell and now, a feast will be held in the honor of You and Jace. Your handmaidens Martha, and Sara help you prepare while you talk about the possibilities of a friendship with Cregan, and maybe even more than that.

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭: Lots of mixed feelings, gossip of Cregan, and a not so bratty Jace this time (rare occurance fr).

𝐰𝐜: 4.8k

𝐀/𝐍: Truly sorry for the delay, I'll be better 😔 and spoiler, the rest of feast happens in the NEXT chapter bc I had to split it up. It was getting to be too long! Not proofread so SORRY IN ADVANCE for typos😭

❆ • ❆ • ❆ • ❆

𝐑𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐩:

"Okay.. Well um...Good luck on the hunt then. Go catch something big for me."

"You know I will," He replies, trying to sound confident. "I'll bring home the biggest buck you've ever seen."

"If you say so..." you taunt.

He grins, confidence rising at your doubtful tone. He cant let that go unchallenged. "Oh I do say so. I'll get that dance, just you wait."

"Off you go then."

As Cregan heads off to the stables, he can't shake the feeling of your prescence from his mind. The thought of you and the implications made still lingered, stirring up a maelstrom of emotions within him.

Maybe the things you said you hadn't done with Cregan, you wish you had.

He really just doesn't want any other lord to end up dancing with you. The image of another man, holding you in his arms makes his stomach churn uncomfortably. His mind fills with the image of him dancing with you and his heart quickens.

But then his thoughts take a more intimate turn and his imagination spirals out of control. Him holding you close, bodies pressed together, an embrace that borders on indecent. He can almost feel your warmth just thinking about it.

Cregan knows he shouldn't be thinking such things but he cant help it. That image of you, so close yet so far from his grasp, is consuming his mind and burning in his core like a raging fire.

❆ • ❆ • ❆ • ❆

later in the day

You've spent the afternoon in your chambers, taking a nap, break from the stress of the day. You relish the quiet and solitude without the presence of anyone else.

Your peaceful silence is interrupted by the sound of commotion outside as the hunting party returns from the Wolfswood. The chatter of loud voices rouse you from your sleep.

Just as you start to stir, there's a soft knock at the door, followed by the voices of your handmaids, Martha and Sara.

"Yes, come in."

They open the door and slip into your room, looking a bit concerned.

"What it is?"

Martha speaks up. "There are all back, my Lady. But the men are all...well, they're a bit rowdy."

"I bet they're probably arguing over whose game is biggest." you chuckle to yourself at the thought.

"That's certainly part of it. They've been boasting and arguing about their kills. They all thing they hunted the largest stag.

"Well I'll be the one to decide that."

Sara and Martha both smile at your words, clearly amused by the antics of the men.

"I'm sure they'll be eager!" says Martha, holding a basket of items in her hands as you stand from the edge of the bed.

“Sara, would you have the men with the smallest game to give their catches to the kitchens after they skin them?”

Sara nods obediently, taking mental note of your instructions.

"Of course, my lady," she says. “I'll make sure the cooks receive the smallest game from the men."

That leaves Martha. "I'll prepare a bath for you." she offers, already heading to the bathing room to start drawing the steaming water.

As you undress, she pours scented oils into the hot water, filling the room with a pleasant aroma of vanilla and honey. You remove your shift, left in just your undergarments.

You step into the bathing room, the warm, soothing steam enveloping you as you walk to the large tub, The room is dimly lit, flickering candlelight casting a soft intimate glow across the walls of the room.

Taking off your undergarments, you step into the tub. The heat and the gentle fragrances of the oils seem to sooth your skin, making you feel relaxed in an instant.

"Thank you Martha..."

She smiles at your words, hands pausing as she finishes adding a handful of herbs to the bath. "Of course. Is the water to your liking?Not too hot?"

"Perfection." you sink further into the calming water.

Martha nods with a satisfied smile, as the heat erases any remaining tension from your weary muscles.

"So..." She says with a mischievous knowing look in her eye. Her tone catches your attention and you look up at her, a curious expression on your face. "Yes?..." you ask, bracing yourself for whatever teasing comment she may have for you.

"I just wanted to ask, my lady, has anything...interesting happened between you and Lord Stark lately?"

"Oh Gods what did Sara tell you?!"

Martha laughs. "Oh nothing specific," she replies feigning innocence. "But you know sara...she's a bit of a gossip, and she's been hinting at some...interesting things happening between you and Lord Stark."

"Nothings happened, I assure you." Your face reddens in embarrassment as you dismiss the accusations. "Our relationship is strictly professional, and maybe friendly but that is all." But really, in your head, you're thinking about how your relationship could be more.

Martha raises a brow , clearly not entirely convinced by your dismissive tone. She smirks, "That's what you say, Princess, but your blushing face tells a different story."

She steps closer to the tub, leaning against it as she looks at you knowingly. "Come on, you can be honest with me. "She teases. "Is there really nothing more?"

"You and Sara are just trouble, aren't you."

She laughs, smile widening as she catches the hint of annoyance in your tone. "Oh, come on, We're just having a bit of fun. Can you really blame us? Nothing ever goes on in this damned castle, and you and Lord Stark make an entertaining pair..."

You don't want to give in but- "If you want to know what goes on badly I'll tell you."

Her eyes widen in surprise and excitement, clearly not expecting you to actually share your details about your relationship with Cregan. She nods eagerly. "Yes, please my Lady!" she says, voice impatient. "Tell me everything!"

"Absolutely nothing." you state flatly.

Her face falls, disappointment apparent on her face as you give her the most un-interesting answer possible. "Wait, that's it?" she asks, excitement fading to disbelief. "Nothing at all? No stolen glances, no secret conversations?"

"No. All we do is argue and make amends and argue and make amends again."

You scrub your arms with a soapy cloth while Martha washes your legs. "You're killing me Princess," she says You and Lord Stark are like a never ending cycle of petty arguments and reconciliations. Its like watching 2 children bicker"

"I know, I know."

"Honestly, with all your bickering and back and forth, its a wonder neither of you have stabbed each other yet," she teases.

You scoff. "Oh trust me, I've wanted to."

She glances down at you in the tub. "And what stopped you? Your sense of restraint or the lack of a weapon?"

"It was his kindness..."

Her expression softens slightly at your words. She seems touched by your answer, not expecting such sincerity. "Ah so it was his kindness that stopped you...interesting...but also not entirely surprising."

you continue to scrub the rest of your body while Martha moves around the other side of the tub to scrub your back.

"I can't be cruel when he'd so kind to me..."

"You know my Lady, kindness can be a powerful thing. It can make even the strongest person weak in the knees."

You sit hugging a knee to your chest and hair forward over your shoulder, continuing to let her wash your back. "He wishes to be friends again, but I'm...hesitant."

She pauses her work, hands stilling for a moment as she gazes down at you with a look on concern.

"Why are you hesitant? If you both want to be friends again, what's holding you back?"

"After what he did when we were children, I'd rather not take that risk again..."

Martha nods, her understanding written on her face. She resumes washing your back, movements gentle and soothing.

"I understand. You’ve already been hurt by him once. Its natural to be wary of opening yourself up to the possibility of that pain again..."

You sigh deeply "I haven't even forgiven him yet."

She finishes up and sets the cloth aside, glancing at you with an empathetic expression. "Its alright my Lady. Forgiveness takes time and its okay to need more of it," she says. "But...perhaps you could at least consider his offer of friendship. Just a thought."

You ponder for a minute, considering the outcomes. If you don't give him that chance, he has no opportunity to hurt you again, whether intentionally or unintentionally. But if you do allow whatever it is that's there between you, it could grow into something beautiful.

"Ill try...maybe."

Martha smiles, one of encouragement and support. "That's all anyone can ask for Princess. Just take it one step at a time and see where it leads. Who knows. Maybe friendship with Lord Stark will surprise you!"

"Perhaps your right."

She sits back at the stool by the tub, satisfied that she's managed to assure you, even if its just a little. "Sometimes, the unexpected is worth taking a chance on, no?," She says, voice full of optimism.

Martha offers a helping hand as you rise from the bath, the water cascading off your body and leaving you bare and wet. She grabs a towel and wraps it around you, the soft fabric enveloping you in a warm embrace.

"Could you get Sara for me? She should be back from the kitchens by now but she isn't.”

She nods, her hands still on the towel, holding it closed around you.

"Of course, my lady. I'll get Sara right away," She then steps away from you, moving to the door to summon Sara.

As they walk down the dimly lit corridor from the kitchens, Sara listens intently to Martha's words, her expression a mix of surprise and intrigue. She fills Sara in on your conversation in the bath, including your hesitation to forgive Lord Cregan and your contemplation of his offer of friendship.

Sara's eyes widen with a face of disbelief.

"You mean, my lady is thinking about being friends with Lord Cregan again?" she whispers, her voice filled with a mix of excitement and curiosity.

"Yes thats exactly what she said," she replies with a smile "Seems like our Lady is softening towards the man, even if its just a bit."

As Martha and sara enter the room, they find you sitting on the edge of your bed in a robe. "Lets pick a dress."

Sara nods, eyes scanning over the assortment of dresses laid out across the room.

"How about this one my Lady?" She suggests, holding up a light blue dress for your approval.

"Mmm...too simple."

She sets the dress aside and Martha grabs a green dress this time, holding it up for you to see. "What about this one then?" The fabric shimmers in the candlelight. Lovely dress but the color...it reminded you of Alicent. That foul woman.

"The greens are called the greens for a reason. I will not wear enemy colors to a feast in my honor."

Martha rushes to put away the dress, apologizing hastily. "Forgive me Princess I didn't mean..."

"No its alright." you assure.

Sara continues persuing the selection. She picks up the red one next, its hue a deep, rich shade—crimson, almost like blood. The fabric is smooth with lace details and the slight shimmer to it catches in the light.

"I think this color would loook lovely on you!"

"Yes, how could I forget this dress! I couldn't ignore it at the market, I simply had buy it."

Sara sets the dress on the bed, carefully smoothing out the wrinkles. "You'll look gorgeous in it."

"Thank you for your help girls."

Sara and Martha smile at you gratitude, satisfied that youve finally settled on a dress. Their expressions are filled with genuine affection for you.

"Of course, my Lady," Says Martha. "We are always happy to help you look your best."

You begin to apply oil, working it into your skin when Sara asks "May i ask you a question?"

"Yes?" The oil has the most pleasant smell, just like the sweet vanila and honey oils from the bath.

"I was jut wondering..." she starts, voice growing softer and more hesitant as she choses her words. "Do you...do you think you would ever consider more than friendship with Lord Stark."

You pause for a moment at the unexpected question.

They both notice the brief pause, and Saras expression subtly shifts to one with a hint worry as she watches you while Martha just waits patiently and curiously for a response.

"I think...I wouldn't be accustomed to that."

Sara studies your face for a moment, her head tilting slightly to the side as she processes your words. She seems to understand your hesitation, her expression softening into a gentle smile.

"I see..." she says, voice low and soft. "You mean, friendship is all you're used to with him, and anything more would feel unfamiliar to you, right?”

“I think about it, if I’m being truthful…how it would be if we…” blood rushes to your cheeks just as earlier at the thought of being with him.

Martha and Sara both watch you intently, their eyes studying your face as you delve into your thoughts. Sara takes a step closer, her voice filled with concern and curiosity.

"If you and Lord Cregan were to... be more than friends?" she ventures, a hint of nervousness in her voice.

“Yes…”

They exchange a brief glance, both clearly invested in hearing your thoughts on the matter.

"And what... what do you feel about that possibility?" Martha asks, her voice growing softer and more gentle as she encourages you to continue.

You cannot bring yourself to confront your possible feeling for him again so you drop the subject.

“I feel we should talk about something else…”

They immediately pick up on your reluctance to discuss the matter further and exchange another quick glance before nodding in understanding.

"Of course, my lady," Martha says, her voice soft and respectful. She gestures towards the red dress on the bed. "We should get you dressed now."

Martha helps you into your smallclothes, then into the chemise, pulling the soft fabric over your body. Once you’re settled, she adjusts the straps and tucks any loose fabric back in place, ensuring it is fitting perfectly.

Then, Sara helps you put on the stays, fastening them and lacing up corset tightly, accentuating your curves. Sara carefully drapes the red dress over your head and begins adjusting it to fit your form.

The fit is snug, hugging your waist and hips tightly before flowing out in an elegant flare as well as a squared neckline that frames yourIt has sleeves that open just before your forearms, and almost down to the floor, giving the illusion of graceful drapes.

Both Martha and Sara nod in agreement, their eyes sweeping over you in approval.

"Yes, my lady," Sara replies, her voice firm and confident. "The same hair as last time would suit you perfectly."

Sara braids your hair in that Northern style once again, the one Cregan liked. While Martha busies herself gathering up your unpicked dresses, folding them neatly and setting them aside. As she works, she glances up at Sara, who is already almost finished braiding your hair.

“Jewelry?”

They both not. Sara's hands continue to work on your intricate braid, her fingers moving with sure and steady movements. Meanwhile, Martha begins pulling together a selection of jewelry, holding up different necklaces, bracelets, and earrings for your inspection.

As you gesture towards a particular necklace, both Martha and Sara immediately agree with you. Martha lifts up a necklace made of deep red rubies and glossy black onyx stones, its design elegant and eye-catching. It matches the dress perfectly.

Sara also nods in approval, her eyes fixed on the necklace as she finishes up braiding your hair is re-styled in the same lovely fashion that Cregan had admired just that same morning . "A lovely choice, my lady," she says, her voice filled with admiration.

“No one will see my shoes so I suppose the black ones?”

They quickly scan the selection, a wide array of shoes before Martha picks up a pair of sleek, black boots with a heel, made of soft suede leather, sure to keep your feet warm in the cold.

"These ones, my lady?" she asks, holding them up for your approval.

“Yes those please.”

Martha steps forward, kneeling at your feet and gently slipping the boots onto your feet, fastening the small buckles.

And the last addition, the black pelt that matches with the dress.

They bring it over, the furs soft and warm in their hands, and gently drape it over your shoulders. The fur contrasts nicely with the deep red of your dress, its texture adding an extra element of elegance to your appearance.

It’s not Cregans pelt, the one you slept in for warmth last night, or wore to the market this morning. It doesn’t have the same oversized look or comforting weight but its cute, matches with your dress, and makes you look as regal as your name sounds.

“I think a bit of stain on the lips would look nice…what do you think Sara?” She smiles at your suggestion, clearly pleased by your request. She reaches into a nearby drawer and pulls out a small pot of a deep red stain. "Of course, my lady. A touch of color on the lips would look beautiful. Let me apply it for you."

She brushes on a faint bit of red to your lips, just like the color of your dress and it brings your look together.

“I give my thanks to you both.”

Martha and Sara step back, taking a moment to admire their handiwork, smiling approvingly, clearly impressed with how elegant and radiant you look in your dress, furs, jewelry, and hair. They seem to have almost forgotten to breathe, admiring your beauty for a moment before speaking.

"By the gods…you look absolutely gorgeous, Princess," Sara says, her voice filled with admiration. "Indeed," Martha agrees, a small smile tugging at her lips. "You're bound to turn heads."

As the handmaidens continue to admire your appearance, you can't help but think about Cregan's reaction when he sees you in your new dress. You imagine him looking at you with awe and admiration, his eyes taking in every detail of your form-fitting dress and elegant furs. The thought of his reaction makes your heart flutter with excitement, and warmth build in your chest.

“Will I see you later?”

They nod, their smiles widening as you prepare to leave. "Of course, my Lady. Have a wonderful evening," Martha says.

"We'll be here when you return," Sara adds, already moving to clean up the mess left over from preparing you for Cregan.

As you turn to leave, Martha stops you. “Princess one more thing!”

You half in your steps, turning to look at Martha

"Yes, Martha?" You ask with a curious tone.

She wants to give you perfume oil

Martha nods, her expression softening as she produces a small glass vial filled with a clear, shimmering liquid. The scent emanating from the vial is subtle yet inviting, a mixture of florals and fruits. Vanilla and honey again, but this time with a hint of citrus.

You don’t know where she got oranges in this bone chilling climate but you are grateful for it.

"I thought you'd like this one, my lady," Martha explains. "It's light and sweet but not overpowering. Perfect to finish off your look for tonight." And perfect to make Cregan lose his mind

You nods in thanks as Martha hands you the vial. You remove the cork and gently dab a small amount of the oil behind each ear, and on your wrists, the scent enveloping your senses with its delicate fragrance.

“Where did you get this…?”

"I mixed it myself," Martha responds, a hint of pride in her voice. "I like to experiment with different scents, combining different oils and extracts to create unique perfumes. This one, I call it 'Lady's Whisper.' It's my personal favorite and I thought it would suit you well."

“My Gods this is magnificent! Keep making it. I’ll buy it if you let me!”

Martha's eyes light up at your praise, her smile widening as a blush of pleasure creeps up her cheeks. She nods in agreement, her voice filled with determination.

"I will, my lady," Martha affirms. "I'll continue to perfect the recipe and make more for you. I'm glad you like it so much."

“I’ll see you when I come back, and yes, I’ll tell you all that happened.”

Martha and Sara grin, the excitement in their eyes reflecting her eagerness to hear all the details. Martha nods silently, her hand flying to her mouth to suppress a girlish giggle.

"Of course. We’ll be waiting anxiously for your return. You simply must tell us all about it!"

As you step out of your chambers, you find yourself facing Jace’s chambers. His door is slightly ajar, a soft glow of candlelight spilling out into the hall. You can vaguely make out his silhouette pacing back and forth beyond the doorway.

You push open the door. “Are you ready?”

Jace turns swiftly upon hearing your voice, his eyes immediately drinking in the sight of you. His mouth falls open slightly, surprise and awe written all over his face. He’s not one to compliment you, especially because you’re his sibling so you know he really means it.

He stares at you for a few seconds, speechless, before finally managing to collect himself.

"You... you look incredible," he says, the words breathless and reverential on his lips.

“Thank you. Now let’s go before we show up late to or own feast.”

Jace nods, still somewhat dazed by your appearance, but he pulls himself together. He takes your arm in his, gently tucking it into the crook of his elbow.

"Let's go," he says, his voice steadier now. A hint of excitement and anticipation shining in his eyes.

As you and Jace walk arm-in-arm through the halls and outside t othe great hall, a couple of servants pause as they pass, their eyes widening in surprise and admiration as you walk by. They murmur amongst themselves, their voices filled with hushed whispers and murmurs of approval.

The doors to the great hall come into view, the murmur of voices and the clinking of glasses filling the air. A few people are already inside, but the majority of the guests have not yet arrived for the feast.

The doors swing open, revealing the great hall beyond. It is a large, opulent room, its high ceilings dripping with garlands of flowers and strings of colorful lanterns. Servants rush back and forth, preparing the tables and maneuvering around the clusters of people gathered in the room.

Heads begin to turn towards you, eyes widening in awe and admiration as they take in your appearance. With Jace following behind you, you make your way up to the high table, taking the seat next to where Cregan will soon sit. Jace helps you into you into your chair, pulling it out for you.

From this vantage point, you have an excellent view of the entire room, everything from the musicians playinhg in one corner to the nobles dancing about in the other.

Cregan has yet to arrive because of the hunt. He's with the rest of the men. As the hour of the feast draws near, the servants scurry around the space with platters of drinks and morsels of food.

As if in cue, the sound of male laughter fills the room. The hunting party has arrived, as well as the rest of the guests, the men still in their leather jerkins and boots, clearly worn out from their hours spent in the wilderness.

Led by Cregan, the men approach the high table, their eyes sweeping over the room and taking in the array of decorations and the assembled nobles. A cheer goes up from the crowd, many of them rising to clap. Even the musicians change their songs to something more victorious and uplifting in their honor.

Cregan reaches the high table, eyes meeting yours for the briefest of moments as he takes his seat beside you. The rest of the men disperse, each finding a seat with their family or amongst the tables of nobles.

"You smell of mud and forest.." you observe.

He quirks and eyebroow in response to your comment, eyes drifting over to you. ahint on a smirk tugs at him mouth, as in amused by the bluntness of your words. "Indeed do," he replies with a chuckle. "A byproduct of a long day spent hunting, in your honor, might I add."

His eyes dart to Jace, who has slumped into his chair on your other side, his expression still sour and sullen.

“Sit straight child.” you order.

Jace lets out an irritated huff as you call him a child, but he reluctantly straightens his back and sits up straight in his seat, begrudgingly complying with your command, though his expression remains sullen.

Suddenly, his eyes widen. a pleasant scent fills his nose. He turns back towards you, inhaling deeply. He looks at you, clearly curious about the source of the scent.

He leans in close to you, his tone a murmur so that only you can hear him. "What is that smell...?

"What smell?"

He leans in even closer, fixiated on you. He leans in even closer, his voice barely above a whisper, breath hot against your ear. "That scent...I dont recognize it." He pauses, trying to place it. "Where did you get it?"

You hold your wrist to his nose and he follows your cue, his hand closing aroundyour wrist and lifting it closer to him. His nose grazes your skin, lips nearly brushing against your pulse point as he inhales the scent again.

It makes heat rise up your neck. A hum escapes from his throat, almost like a pleasurable sound. He's clearly affected by the fragrance your'e wearing.

"This one? Do you like it." Oh he definately doesn’t like it. Its clear he loves it, because when you try and put your arm back down he doesn't let you. Cregan keeps his eyes shut, his hand still holding your wrist. He inhales once more, savoring the scent. He nods, opening his eyes to look at you, mind slightly dazed

"Yes," he murmurs, "i like it. A lot."

You'd expected a compliment or two from him but drooling like he is? You hadn't seen that coming. "Well thank you…That's very kind of you."

It looks like Martha really knew her stuff. That oil could make a man fall to his knees for a woman. To him, it made you smell deliciously sweet. Delectable even.

Cregan releases your wrist finally, hand falling away from your arm. The absence of his touch leaves a tingling feeling on your skin, a strange sensation that makes your heartbeat quicken ever so slightly.

He leans back in his seat, eyes roaming over you once more, as if studying you. After a moment, he speaks again, his voice quieter this time.

"May I ask where you got it?"

"Yes, Martha made it."

"Martha you say?" he asks voice tinged with curiosity, impressed by the fact that she had the skill to create such a stunning fragrance. "And she mixed it herself...?"

"Yes, I was just as surprised as you."

He leans in again unexpectedly, voice low and soft. "I can also smell something else on you, if I'm not mistaken."

"Like what?"

His nose brushes against the line of your jaw. The sound of him breathing you in sends a shiver down your spine, and you can feel your pulse quicken in response. He doesn’t care how indecent his actions look, not when you smell like such a dessert.

"The faint, sweet scent of oranges, he murmurs, voice thick with barely restrained want. More like need.

You feel your ears and cheeks burning up "Y-yes you are correct. Martha put oils in my bath this evening."

He leans back once more, eyes roaming over your face. The flush thats crept up your neck and cheeks....The scent of you is seemingly even more tantalizing now.

"You smell positively delicious." he says in a teasing tone.

And where is Jace in all this? Sitting beside you, arms crossed and scowling, giving the dirtiest look imaginable in Cregans direction. He's been observing the interaction between you and Cregan with growing suspision of his intentions. But he says nothing, merely clenches his jaw and seethes silently.

"Thank you Lord Stark..."

He glances over at Jace, noticing the look on his face, but he disregards it, his attention entire focused on you, showering you with affection and compliments.

"Your'e very welcome" he responds with a sincere voice, eyes lingering on your face a few seconds longer than needed.

"So um...How was your hunt?" You ask, to shift the conversation away from you. You need a moment to slow your heart and compose yourself before you start stumbling over your words at his proximity.

"Quite large. Five stags, a boar, and two does, all in one day. It was an excellent hunt."

"Do you think yours is the largest?" you already know, something else of his is definately large

Cregan scoffs, his confidence unshaken by the question as he responds without hesitation.

"I know it is. No one else will have a kill as impressive as mine, I can assure you of that.

"Well you'd better hope I think so."

The guests find their seats and settle in for an evening of celebration and merriment. The air is filled with the buzz of conversation and the sound of laughter.

“Bring out the hunters game!”

❆ • ❆ • ❆ • ❆ Next chapter is coming at break. ITS GONNA EAT, JUST WAIT. (Might be extra long)

Ps. If you want me to do a Christmas special for Cregan (outside the storyline) give me ideas in the comments 🫶🏾

Taglist: @beebeechaos @iv-vee @aemondwhoresworld @6ternalsun @obscure-beauty @cregansfourthwife @msmarvelknight @kingdomzeldaquest @littlebirdgot @squidscottjeanseans @jellybeanstacey0519 @r-3dlips @fakem0net @shiggynuggiez @deemee3 @melsunshine @lipgloss05 @cherryheairt @lovevouuu @darlingcharling-blog @pearldaisy @allexlacazette @onlybells1 @valardohaerisss @itsaslaminak

[swordgrace]

𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒.

⠀ཾ༵ 𑁍┆ jon snow x female northern reader.

SYNOPSIS: you reunite with your beloved childhood friend, jon snow, at the edge of the world. the both of you have changed, but your feelings certainly haven’t.

note: season six jon, follows s6 ep4.

format: one-shot — not requested.

word count: 10.5K (not sorry).

warnings: SMUT (mdni), ramsay bolton warning, friends to lovers, confession of feelings, reunion sex, description of scars, jon is definitely more of a switch, horny reader (valid), lots of groping, making out, oral sex (fem!rec), cunnilingus, jon loves to munch, body worship, hair-pulling kink, unprotected sex, p in v sex, lotus position & missionary position, reader is on top and on bottom, light biting & tit sucking, soft ending + aftercare

author’s note: I don’t know where this came from, but I’m glad because I had so much fun with his one! I’m a Jon girlie until the very end <3 I would honestly love to write more of him if you guys enjoy this! thank you so much for the love and support!

𝐀𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐲.

Direwolf sigils were replaced with that of flayed men, befitting for the screams that often emerged from the bowels of the Keep or the kennels, where enemies were fed to Ramsay Bolton’s pack of slavering hounds. Old faces that you had grown up with as a girl were gone — removed or slaughtered.

Your father, once loyal to House Stark and to Eddard himself, was strung-up and butchered for all to see, flayed alive by the Bolton men who now controlled Winterfell. You grew numb to the pain, numb to the shifting environment around you. It wasn’t the home that you had grown up in.

When you had caught sight of Sansa Stark in the courtyard, auburn tresses like searing embers against the backdrop of endless gray and snow, tears on her face, you knew that you needed to act.

You hadn’t known Sansa very well, but you did know her brother, Jon Snow. A beloved friend in your youth and teenage years, you had watched him go to the Night’s Watch. Any letters you’d written were likely thrown to the wayside, given the oaths that Men of the Watch swore, but you had longed to see him again.

Sansa recognized your face, no longer that of a young maiden with her head in the clouds. The both of you were women grown, trapped within Winterfell, and you wholly intended on escaping.

Fleeing Winterfell was perilous — dangerous, especially with the winter so biting and icy that it threatened to freeze away your extremities. Aided by Theon Greyjoy, once a captive of Ramsay, the three of you escaped into the harshness of the Northern woodlands.

Much of your time spent was in constant peril, with the looming threat of Bolton hounds nipping at your heels, search parties sent sprawling across the Wolfswood and beyond. Every rustle in the trees, every snap of a twig, distant scream of the wind made your steps quicken.

It was only when your lives were spared by Brienne of Tarth and her squire that you knew you were truly safe.

Castle Black had stood the testament of time, the last line of defense against whatever monsters lurked outside of The Wall. When its massive gates had opened, making way for your caravan, you felt shrewd in the presence of strangers. You hadn’t left Winterfell for much of your life, and only now, the world seemed so much larger.

When you saw Jon Snow again, more a man now than a boy you’d left behind in Winterfell, your heart nearly shriveled up within your chest. Youthfulness had left him, replaced with a permanent twinge of melancholy. A scar circled around his right eye, seemingly newer, and his mound of curled tresses remained tugged into a half-bun.

You stood in Brienne’s shadow, shuddering from the gnawing bite of the cold, feeling it slowly eat away at your bones. Sansa sobbed into her brother’s shoulder — and you couldn’t fault her for it. The viciousness she suffered at the hands of the Boltons was some of the worst cruelties one could imagine.

It was only when you caught Jon’s eye that he felt his breath hitch within his throat, and he felt like a young man again — freshly eight-and-ten, watching as he introduced you to Ghost for the first time. The sound of your curious laughter had filled the courtyard of Winterfell, and he remembered it as if it were yesterday.

You were from a distant dream, somewhere close yet far away, slipping in and out of his thoughts.

The last thing that you wanted was to detract from Sansa’s reunion with her brother, and so you kept quiet, bringing yourself into the shoddy shelter of your cloak. Your visage was icy, stung by the bitter wind of the far North, and your hands ached.

“You are safe here,” Jon murmured, brown hues glistening with appreciation as he looked upon Brienne of Tarth. “I owe you my gratitude for saving my sister. Whatever you need from Castle Black, you’ll have it.” He nodded, finding his gaze drifting towards you, begging for you to look his way.

Perhaps you didn’t recognize him, but that seemed far-fetched. Edd beckoned for Sansa to follow him at Jon’s command, hoping to find warmth in the guest chambers in the Lord Commander’s suite. The burden and duty no longer belonged to him.

Brienne bowed, hand atop the pommel of Oathkeeper, the Valyrian steel sheathed within its scabbard. “I swore an oath to Catelyn Stark that I would keep her daughters safe — and I shall keep it.” She replied, cerulean hues flickering towards you. “Lady Sansa’s escape wouldn’t have been possible without her.”

Jon gazed at you as if you had brought down the sun and stars themselves, moved mountains with will alone. Gods, he missed you terribly. His departure for the Night’s Watch had left a gaping hole in your heart, never to be filled, but seeing him again only seemed to make it ache with something painful.

Wordlessly, your feet carried you before logic could stop you in your tracks, and you flung yourself into Jon’s embrace, feeling his arms wrap around you. Brienne’s countenance glistened with the realization that you knew Jon, and she seemed to steer Podrick away, allowing the both of you some privacy.

“You’re alive,” You whispered into his shoulder, feeling hot tears trickle down your cheeks. Part of you worried that he might’ve perished, but here he stood, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, a man. “It has been so long, Jon Snow.”

He hadn’t been alive days ago — death had claimed him once before.

The scars that littered his body seemed to ache and throb with the mere thought of his own demise, and the anguish of betrayal that came with it. His dark brows furrowed together, visage one of gentle joy as he released you from his grasp. “You look older.” Older in the eyes — not in the face.

You were still just as beautiful, the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen — your appearance hadn’t changed, and he hoped that your heart hadn’t, either. Your friendship kept him afloat for many years during his time in Winterfell, living as a Stark. You never cast your judgment upon him for being a bastard — and you never would.

“So do you,” Concern crept into your voice as you looked over his rugged beard and the scar upon his brow. “What happened to you, Jon?” There was so much he wished to tell you — from the Wildlings to the White Walkers, and his death. You could see it in his face — the maturity, the weight of duty, an abundance of stoicism.

“It’s a long story.” Jon huffed, Northern timbre crackled with a bout of faint amusement, lips twitching into the ghost of a smile. He gestured for you to follow him, striding across the courtyard of Castle Black in-search of his own quarters. He no longer held the Lord Commander’s chambers, and for good reason.

The men of Castle Black weren’t accustomed to seeing a woman — it evoked his streak of protectiveness when it came to you. He ensured that he kept close to your side during the lengthy trek to his chambers. Brienne was sworn to Sansa, and Jon knew that she would be well looked-after in the Lady’s stead.

Ascending a flight of rickety wooden steps, Jon led you to his quarters. Smaller, but he preferred his solitude. His brothers had stabbed him, tore away his mantle of Lord-Commander, killed him — as soon as he could, he intended on leaving.

Pushing the door open, you were met with the gust of a raging hearth, warming your brittle bones as you rubbed your hands together, “Gods,” You whispered, immediately moving toward the crackling fire, extending your hands to the flames, eyes closing in satisfaction. “I nearly thought we wouldn’t make it.”

Jon’s brows furrowed together, and he pulled up a wooden stool for you to sit, and so did he, firmly planted at your side like a dutiful guardian. “You’re safe here. I’ll have a bath drawn for you.” Dirt stained your visage, clothes tattered and worn from travel, hem shredded and covered in snow and mud.

Something forlorn reached his eyes, a distant glimmer of melancholy that you immediately recognized. He was still Jon, but something else seemed amiss. You lowered your hands into your lap, basking in the lick of the firelight. “All my life, I longed to see beyond Winterfell. Here I am — and here you are.” Your smile was threadbare.

The both of you had endured unimaginable hardships during your time apart, yet the warmth and fondness of your friendship remained, strong as ever. If Jon told you what all had happened, what he saw, what he went through — he wondered how much of it you would believe.

“Do you remember the night of the feast, when King Robert came to Winterfell?” Jon remembered — he remembered you, most of all. Gods, you looked so beautiful that night, bringing him a heaping plate of foodstuffs from the banquet, keeping him company throughout the night’s festivities.

“Of course,” It was one of the last days you had spent with Jon before he departed for the Night’s Watch. You had a plethora of regrets, and not kissing him that evening was one of them. The opportunity had dangled itself before you, and you never acted on it. “They sheared your face clean. A disservice to you, truly.”

A brief huff of laughter escaped him, lips twitching into a faint smile. “That’s what you chose to remember?” He remarked, planting his forearms against his knees. Admittedly, he chose to remember you — the way your dress clung to you, the vibrancy of your smile, tenderness in your eyes.

Your nose wrinkled in amusement before you waved him aside, a smile stretched across your features — happier this time, full of warmth. “I remember more than just that, but yes. You weren’t so dour, then.”

Jon chuckled, effectively shattering his stoic mask as he looked at you, head canting to one side. “I still was, always sulking about in some corner,” He mused, peering toward the hearth. “The things I’ve seen — the things I’ve been through …” His jaw tightened, and the wound to his heart seemed to ache.

Empathy tugged at your countenance, one that dissipated from something lighthearted to seriousness. You reached out, resting a palm against his bicep. “What happened to you, Jon? You don’t seem the same.” You asked, glancing toward the scar on his face.

He didn’t have the heart to tell you about his death and resurrection — not yet, anyway. It was still too fresh a wound to speak of, left gaping and open, one that would take time to fully heal. “I went beyond The Wall.” Jon stated, as if that would answer all of your questions.

Silence drifted between you both, and you exhaled, brows creasing in contemplation as you looked toward the fire. You let your hands drift closer again, hoping to absorb any lick of heat that you could find. Jon stared at you, unbeknownst to you, studying the intricacies of your visage, the way your tresses framed your face.

Abandoning the rank of Lord-Commander had been a liberating thing. He was done fighting for men who had countered him at every turn, men who slaughtered him. He was unsure of his next course of action, but he wanted you there with him, regardless.

Hunger and famine gnawed at your stomach, chewing you up and spitting you out. Even Jon could hear the violent lurch of your stomach, see the exhaustion etched into your features. He didn’t want to keep you, but he didn’t want to leave you, either.

“You should clean up, join us for supper,” Jon prompted, melting away the tenuous silence. “I’ll see about finding you something proper to wear.” He wanted to continue to reminisce with you, but you deserved a moment of solace, a chance to bathe and warm yourself without his intrusion.

You nodded, offering Jon an amiable smile. “I want us to continue our conversation,” You insisted, your voice soft and tender, a silky resonance. Instead, you reached for his hand, finding the calloused, roughened plane of his palm. “I’ve missed you, Jon.” If he hadn’t realized it by now, then he might’ve been blind.

Jon’s breath hitched within his throat, reduced to a mere boy in your presence. Whatever he thought of at that moment, it was inappropriate — it transcended all bonds of propriety and proper friendship, yet he couldn’t help it. How long had he thought of you? Yearned for you, dreamed of you whenever he was laying on the cold earth somewhere beyond the Wall?

If it weren’t for his uncertainty, he would’ve kissed you then and there.

He never stopped to consider what your life was like now — perhaps you had a husband and a family, a life that had moved on from him, no longer frozen in the time of your youth. Jon always feared that being a bastard would’ve stopped you from courtship, but he knew now that you didn’t care. You never did.

Years of letting yourself toil over Jon Snow had amounted to this — to this unspoken affection that permeated the fringes of your friendship. In his absence, you hadn’t taken a husband, you hadn’t wed. Part of you thought you would become a spinster and live out your days caring for your ailing father.

Tension simmered, sparking to life in the wake of your intertwined hands. “I missed you, too.” His accent seemed deliciously thick, noticeably huskier with the rougher pitch of his tone. Those earthly-brown hues of his bored right into you.

Your stare became doe-like, able to feel his calloused digits, how strong his hands had become, careworn from holding a sword. Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, you let your hand recoil, placing it back into your lap. Your fingers curled tightly into your dress.

With a brief clearing of his throat, Jon decided to give you privacy. “I must speak with Sansa,” He murmured, standing up from his stool with an abruptness. His heart thumped madly within his chest, throat becoming thick as he gathered his bearings. “Come to supper when you’re finished.”

“Of course. Thank you, Jon.” You smiled, and he stepped out to give you your solace. His quarters were noticeably smaller yet homely, and you immediately decided to go to the washroom to clean yourself. Endless dirt and grime stained your flesh, making you feel worse than you already did.

As soon as you disrobed, sinking into the steaming-hot waters of the metal tub, you submerged your head beneath, coming up for a gasp of air. You glanced toward the hearth, scrubbing yourself down with a bristle brush and sponge, using the scarce amount of herbs and soap given to you.

You thought of Jon — thought of his hand, the firmness of it, the rough-hewn texture of his skin, the hardened muscle of his bicep beneath your grasp. You thought of the dismal, tempestuous storm of emotions raging war within his gaze when he spoke of being beyond The Wall.

It gave you much to dwell on as you scrubbed away the dirt from your skin, smoothing handfuls of hot water across your face. A simple Northerner’s dress and a furred cloak lay on the chair beside you, something suitable to wear that weren’t your tattered rags.

Sloshing around within the steaming water for a moment longer, you finished cleaning up, feeling the continuous gnaw of hunger strike at your stomach. The air was brusque and still bitter with a noticeable chill, the hearth continuing to roar in spite of being left with little attendance.

Tugging on the coarse, linen dress, you retrieved your boots, having thoroughly cleaned them off of hardened dirt. You let your hair dry by the fireside, swaddled in the cloak given to you by Jon. It swallowed you whole, yet it smelled like him — woodlands and scented smoke, the musk of a battle-hardened man.

By the time you joined the others for dinner, you felt cleaner than you had in some time, liberated from the weight of grime and hard travel. Exhaustion still clung to you like a shroud, but you assumed that a proper meal would make it easier to deal with.

Sansa greeted you with a thin smile, moving aside for you to sit next to her. There was never a fondness you shared between one another in your youth — you were always Jon’s friend, a girl who preferred mucking about in the outdoors and watching him fight with steel instead of any ladylike endeavors.

You had become quite proficient with an embroidery needle, and a dagger. They were one and the same for you at-times.

Jon’s silent admiration of you continued, hues fluttering over your form, now rid of soot and dirt. A warm plate of heaping food sat before you, helpings of potatoes, stewed vegetables, and roasted venison. You ate as if you hadn’t consumed a bite in years, the richness of it filling your belly.

“We are to take Winterfell back from the Boltons,” Sansa stated, her tone resolute and assured. “Do you think that there are still allies in Winterfell who might help our cause?” She inquired, her question directed towards you. You knew Winterfell — you’d been there this whole time.

“If Ramsay hasn’t flayed them all alive, then yes,” You murmured, thinking of your father’s corpse, strung-up on some wooden cross, muscle and flesh peeled away to reveal his bones. You shivered, masking your discomfort through a bite of vegetables. “There are still denizens inside who remember the Starks.”

Tormund Giantsbane, Jon’s ally and the leader of the Wildling forces, noisily bit into a haunch of meat, juices spraying across his ginger beard. Brienne’s discomfort and bewilderment was palpable as she turned away, blonde brows furrowing together.

“Could you find your way back in?” Tormund grunted, and you understood the insinuation of his proposal. If you were to rally those who still supported House Stark to Jon’s cause, staging a coup from the inside, it might assist his chances of taking the Keep.

“I suppose I could, but the Boltons rarely let anyone in or out, save for those bearing the Flayed Man sigil,” Jon seemed visibly apprehensive at Tormund’s suggestion, jaw tightening as he stuck his fork into a piece of meat. “It is dangerous now — one wrong move, and they string you up on the banisters, flay you for all to see.”

Tears glistened within your eyes at the harrowing memory of your father — you watched him be pinned to that post, screaming for mercy, men with knives cutting him apart as if he were a pig for slaughter. You hastily wiped them aside, chewing at the inside of your cheek.

Jon’s gaze never wavered from you whenever you spoke — Sansa could see it, Edd could see it.

“That is the fate that befell my father.” With a sharp exhale, you continued to eat, momentarily meeting Jon’s sullen-eyed stare, full of sympathy for your loss. His condolences were unspoken, but he didn’t have to say the words to convey meaning.

“We will find another way,” Jon murmured, brows knitting together. “You’ve risked enough to save Sansa’s life. I won’t let you risk it again. Out of the question.” There was a finality to his words, wrought with a glaring overprotective nature.

Sansa remembered the day they left your father out to bleed in the courtyard — Ramsay’s sickening smile remained emblazoned in the back of her mind. She reached to squeeze your hand, and you nodded, the both of you returning to the food.

She plucked at hers, turning a piece of meat over along her fork. Edd stifled a brief chuckle through a mouthful of hard rations. “Sorry about the food, m’ladies. It’s not what we’re known for.” He stated.

“That’s alright. There are more important things.” Sansa smiled, but you were in the throes of consuming everything that you could. Foodstuffs had become scarce in Winterfell, especially to those who weren’t Boltons — just residents. You had to scrounge and work for every scrap — this meal was the best you had in ages.

A brother of the Watch entered the Great Hall, carrying a scroll of parchment for Jon, one that was marked by the wax seal of Ramsay Bolton. “For you, Lord Commander.”

“I’m not the Lord Commander anymore.” Jon uttered, yet he took the scroll, anger seething within his eyes when he realized whose sigil held the parchment together. He unraveled it, jaw tightening as he began to read it aloud.

“To the traitorous bastard, Jon Snow, you allowed thousands of Wildlings past the Wall. You have betrayed your own kind and you have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, bastard — come and see. Your brother Rickon is in my dungeon …” Jon trailed off, breath quickening as he looked at Sansa.

Her countenance was one of shock and horror, tears welling within her eyes as she nodded for him to continue reading. The Hall was eerily silent, and you listened, brows furrowing together.

“His direwolf’s skin is on my floor — come and see. I want my bride back. Send her to me bastard, and I will not trouble you and your Wildling lovers. Keep her from me and I will ride North and slaughter every Wildling man, woman, and babe living under your protection. You will watch as I skin them living, you will …” He stopped.

“Go on.” Sansa murmured, but Jon refused, rolling up the parchment with a despondent, rageful expression. He felt it blossom throughout his chest, the very same anger that consumed him when he sentenced his brothers to die.

“It’s just more of the same.” Jon quipped, preparing to tear it asunder, but Sansa reached over to take it from his hands, unraveling the parchment.

“You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister and your Northern bitch. You will watch as my dogs devour your wild little brother — then I will spoon your eyes from your sockets and let my dogs do the rest. Come and see. Ramsay Bolton, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” She read, a shudder within her voice.

You shivered, feeling a pang of disgust and fear rattle through you, goosebumps cascading along your spine. Ramsay knew of you — knew that you helped Sansa to escape, and knew of your affiliation with Jon Snow.

“Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” Jon grit out through clenched teeth, fists tightening around Ramsay’s missive. He would kill him for what he did — to Sansa, to you, to his brother. He swore it by whatever Gods were willing to listen.

“Roose Bolton is dead — Ramsay killed him. Now, he has our brother — he has Rickon.” Sansa’s voice trembled, but she remained stalwart, even if she knew what a monster Ramsay was. She used to think that Joffrey was the root of all evil — she was wrong.

“We don’t know that.” Jon protested, but Sansa stopped him.

“We do. He has five-thousand men, at least — I overheard him talking about it when he prepared for Stannis’s attack.” She replied, folding her arms together. You felt nothing but admiration for her — sorrow, perhaps, but you admired her strength in the midst of this.

“How many men do we have?” Jon looked to Tormund, desperate for answers, for a shred of something positive. They were lesser in numbers than the Boltons — they would need allies, and they would need them swiftly.

“Ones that can march and fight? Two-thousand.” Tormund replied. They had a Giant — that had to count for at least fifty men, if they were lucky.

“Jon,” You spoke up at long last, finding your voice as you sat soundly at Sansa’s side. “You are the last true son of the Warden of the North. Northern families are loyal, and they will fight for you if you ask it of them.” The gentle encouragement you offered gave him much to think about.

Sansa reached across the table, seizing Jon’s arm. “A monster has taken our home and our brother. We have to go back to Winterfell, to save them both.” She pleaded, auburn brows furrowing together. It was the right course of action — it had been years since a Stark had truly sat in Winterfell.

Jon nodded, determination tempering his anger, and the desire for justice. He remembered wanting to ride North to help Robb’s cause, and he didn’t. Sometimes he wondered what would’ve happened if he did — if his brother might’ve survived. There was no time for inaction, not anymore.

“We will reconvene at first light, to discuss our next move.” He briefly squeezed Sansa’s hand before glancing at you. “You need to rest — both of you.” It wasn’t a request — more of a command, really. You and Sansa had been running from Winterfell for days before Brienne happened across you.

You took your leave, hoping to pray about your father alone before dusk settled in.

𝐀𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐰 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝, 𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐭 𝐚 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐡 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬.

Brienne had taken Sansa back to her chambers for the evening, and you had gone to the ramparts after finishing your supper.

The death of your father was still an unsightly wound, something that had cut you right to the bone. He was your only family left — the last tether that you had, the last one to truly care for you. It left you with a gaping void of loneliness, one that had only felt healed in Jon’s presence.

Flickering torchlight danced along the wooden bridge that connected two sides of Castle Black, and despite the chill of the air, you remained outside. Rest eluded you, and you knew that you would be up all evening, tarrying around to try and occupy your mind.

Darkening skies twinkled with stars, partially obscured by large wisps of gray clouds, and with it, a light snowfall. The fur-lined cloak you wore kept you warm, shrouded from the gnawing chill as you listened to footsteps resonate from your left side.

The pale shadow of Ghost trotted alongside him, those crimson eyes glowering through the encroaching dusk. The last time you had seen Jon’s direwolf, he was the size of a small dog — now, he was massive, nearly coming up to your shoulder with the tips of his ears.

“What did you feed him?” You mused, kneeling down to greet Ghost as if he were an old friend. You recalled the day that Jon had brought the albino pup home, nothing more than a scraggly runt hidden in his cloak. Ghost nudged your hand, silently asking for a scratch along his ears.

Jon smiled, coming to stand near your side as he peered down into the silent courtyard of Castle Black. It was quiet, save for the occasional soldier scurrying across the dirt or the distant howl of the wind. “He’s much larger than I expected him to be,” He confessed. “Seems he remembers you.”

Ghost whined, ruby eyes studying you intensely, as if he recalled your last meeting. The pale direwolf allowed you to dote on him for a moment longer, padding off to lay outside of Jon’s chambers. You watched him go, a smile spreading across your face.

Your countenance softened at the sight of Jon, tousled curls still tugged into a loose half-bun, a smile toying at either corner of his mouth. “Aren’t you cold?” He questioned, noticing the way your form quivered beneath the cloak he’d given you.

“Quite,” A brief chuckle left you as you wring your hands together, letting them sink into the thick fur that you tugged tighter around you. “I don’t believe that I will be able to sleep tonight, given the circumstances.” You confessed, and he seemed empathetic.

“I don’t sleep much — not anymore.” The night that he had found himself resurrected from the black shroud of death, he did not sleep. Instead, he lay waiting for his brothers to burst through the door, knives drawn, waiting to send him to the cold, hard earth.

Jon slept with Longclaw at his side — he imagined that he’d never feel safe again without it by his hip.

A comfortable silence of understanding drifted between the both of you, and you felt him lean closer, brows furrowing together. “I am sorry about your father,” Jon murmured, knowing what it was like to lose his own. “I am sorry for what they did to him.”

Tears pricked your eyes again, yet you refused to let them fall, jaw tensing before you shook your head. “He is with the Gods now,” You whispered, mustering a threadbare smile despite the melancholy of your talks. “I hope that Ramsay Bolton is not shown any mercy.”

Jon hadn’t heard you speak like that before — so full of pain, an agony in your soft tone that he wished he could rip away from you, place the burden on his shoulders. “We will take back Winterfell — for my family, for yours, for the North. I promise.”

“You’re a good man, Jon.” The two of you remained huddled close together, and you very nearly reached for his hands again, but decided against it. “You always have been, despite what insults you’ve been hurled. They are half the man that you are.”

He was a good man, despite what he thought of himself — an honorable man, the very best of them. His shining qualities were often diminished in the face of being a bastard, and you wished it weren’t so. Jon had long been ostracized for it, even if it was no fault of his own.

Jon hadn’t believed it, that he was truly good. He had done plenty of wrong — broke his vows to the Night’s Watch, killed many men, killed a boy, and for what? What good had come out of it all, other than being sent to an early grave for his actions?

You had always believed in him steadfastly, and he often felt undeserving of your praise. Nonetheless, Jon offered you a forlorn look, smile not reaching his eyes as he bowed his head. “I wish I could believe you.” Through a softly-spoken confession, he turned to face the cutting bite of the Northern winds.

As darkness hovered, the cold beginning to bite at his flesh, Jon gestured toward the doors to his chambers. “It’s getting cold,” Even he had his limits, hardiness tested by the harshness of winter. “Come on.” His hand hovered near the small of your back, sending a shiver down your spine.

The warm sanctuary of his chambers offered you a much-needed relief, hearth roaring beside his bed, lined in countless furs. The furnishings were scarce, and he placed Longclaw at his bedside, never very far from his grasp. An orange glow permeated all it touched, encompassing you in its gentle heat.

Ghost stayed outside, furs able to outlast the encroaching winter. He was the watcher tonight, ensuring that no strangers or brothers disturbed his friend.

You moved to sit against the large, rustic footlocker that sat at the end of his bed, closest to the hearth. The cloak you wore swallowed you whole, allowing you to descend right into the pile of furs, warming your icy flesh. Jon sat beside you, keeping a comfortable distance, one that many might’ve labeled as prudish.

Jon’s lack of subtlety became brazenly clear, dark hues shamelessly fluttering across your face, absorbing the finer details of your form. You had grown into your beauty, and even then, he was at your mercy — you were incomparable in his eyes.

The sting of embarrassment rippled through him, his behavior akin to a young man with an unrequited affection. His one experience with a Wildling woman had been in an effort to feel something, anything — a retaliation against the Night’s Watch.

You were different — you were his friend, a girl he’d known since childhood, now grown into the prettiest woman he’d ever seen. It was as if you reduced him to a mere pup without even trying, unbeknownst to you.

Jon carried a flagon of honeyed mead, the warm liquid churning about within its leather confines. It tasted stale, but it was better than he expected it to be, taking a brief swig. He hoped that it would quell his nerves, but perhaps it was wishful thinking.

“I’ve never been so far away from home before,” You sighed, breaking the comfortable silence with an amiable smile. “I used to always dream of going elsewhere, an adventure away from Winterfell. Now that I’ve gone, I want nothing more than to go back.”

“Has it changed much?” Jon inquired, voice dropping into a husky lull that made you shiver. His tone had become rugged, gruff — that familiar Northern timbre always filled you with a sense of comfort and ease. He hadn’t been to Winterfell in years.

“No,” Your visage grew forlorn, tinged with a peculiar sadness as your lips wavered into a half-frown. “Just those who command it.” The homely stone and Stark banners were all you knew for the longest time — and you hoped that it would be so again.

You wanted to cease dwelling on all things bleak and dreary, and instead, you smiled at Jon, countenance melding into one of genuineness. He caught your eye, features growing unbearably hot beneath the ardor of your gaze. Something passed between the both of you, something that caused you to look away; smitten.

Jon exhaled, taking a swig of the mead before offering it up to you. Liquor wasn’t something he necessarily enjoyed, but it did take some little edge off — for now, anyway. He watched with a faint smile as you took it, giving the cork a brief sniff, nose wrinkling.

Nevertheless, you took a drink, stinging liquid burning your throat on the way down. You sputtered, your expression one of clear distaste as you handed it back to him. “Gods, what is that supposed to be? The Night’s Watch isn’t known for their ale, either.” You huffed.

A huff of laughter tore past his lips, and at last, you could see the glint of his pearlescent teeth, a smile that could melt The Wall itself. “Still can’t handle your drink after all this time?” Jon remarked, corking the flagon of mead as he placed it aside. He didn’t want to drink himself into a stupor with you present.

“There were never any occasions that called for it,” You retorted, a warm playfulness permeating your tone. You leaned forward atop the footlocker, gazing into the flickering flames, its heat basking your visage. “Winterfell wasn’t the same after your family left. Everything seemed so dour, so hopeless.”

Jon hung his head, hands folded together as he contemplated your statement. “Sometimes, I wish I’d never left.” He confessed, tone slipping into something silent, as if he were sharing his greatest sin with the septa. There were times where he missed home — missed what might’ve been.

Chewing at the inside of your cheek, you didn’t hesitate to look at him, hues swimming with a wet sheen. Reminiscing often brought about plenty of sentiments for you, sentiments that you thought you’d buried. “Sometimes I wish that you hadn’t left, either.” You whispered.

None of this felt real.

There was a noticeable shift in the atmosphere, a tension that had risen from the lingering flames of a longstanding friendship. Jon felt an unusual swell within his stomach, the onslaught of boyish nerves, yet he pushed them aside for the sake of the moment. It all seemed to feel so right, as if this had been long in the making.

Jon stared at you, absentmindedly tilting closer, enough to where you could feel the heat of his honey-tinged breath fan across your face. “What would’ve happened if I hadn’t?” He murmured, hoping that you would confirm whatever it was that he felt, too.

“I am not sure,” Butterflies erupted within the pit of your stomach, hands beginning to reach for one another, even if you hadn’t fully realized it yourself. “I would like to think that I would’ve gained the courage to tell you how I truly felt about you.” There wasn’t an ounce of subtlety present — you knew what you meant, he knew what you meant.

I love you — it was on the tip of his tongue, begging to be released, to let his confession take wing into the open air. He should’ve told you that night of the feast, when you took his hand and told him that you would always defend his honor and his name.

“Jon.” Your voice was nothing more than a saccharine whisper, eyes wide and doe-like, a wordless plea to act on whatever it was he felt. Before you could say another word, Jon’s mouth was on yours, hot and rugged, everything that you imagined it would be.

His calloused hand rose to cup your face, rough pads of his digits tracing across your cheek, your jaw — you felt like velvet, an unblemished plane that had eagerly awaited his touch. Jon had always fantasized about kissing you, and the reality of it far exceeded any expectations he might’ve had.

The sudden intensity of the kiss had grown, as if throwing kindling onto an open flame. You weren’t prepared for it, but you needed more. A moan stirred within your throat as you pressed forward, hands reaching for the front of his leather-studded tunic.

Jon kissed you as if you were the air itself, every breath he drew consuming you, dragging you in until you were intertwined. He seized your waist, rough palm sinking into the coarse material of your dress, nearly shuddering at the feeling of your body beneath his palm.

“I love you,” He uttered against your mouth, forehead briefly bumping into yours as he held you close, the weight of his confession beginning to sink in. “I never wish to be parted from you — from this day, until my last day.” Jon promised, voice rumbling and solemn, knowing that he would keep his vow.

Incredulously, you gazed at him with wide eyes, unable to escape the feeling of complete and utter joy you experienced at his confession. Breathless, you took a moment to compose yourself, gather your bearings before you smiled. “Don’t leave me again, Jon Snow.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” Jon murmured, eagerly seeking your mouth again, tugging you in for a heated kiss. Gods, your mouth was so disarmingly soft, pliant and plush against his lips, giving him everything that he ever imagined and so much more.

A gentle, uttered string of breathy ‘I love you’s’ left you over and over again, each kiss ripping the air from your lungs, leaving your heart hammering beneath your breast. You shrugged the cloak aside, letting it pool around you, partially strewn across the footlocker.

Desperation laced your kisses, as if something might threaten to rip you away from the excitement of the moment, or that you might wake up from a distant dream. Jon was lost in your mouth, a grunt blossoming from his chest when he hauled you closer, until no sliver of space remained.

He stood up, bringing you with him, standing atop the sprawling furs of slain stags, closer to the lick of the hearth. It allowed him to better hold you, hands respectfully roaming your body, never allowing himself to slip below your hips. “Wait.” He rasped, removing his mouth from yours.

“What’s wrong?” You whispered, fearing that you had vastly overstepped. This was all somewhat unfamiliar, the territory new and unexpected. You had been with a man before, but it never crossed a certain threshold — you wouldn’t allow it.

“Is this what you want?” Jon questioned, dark brows knitting together as he regarded you with caution, a devotion reserved only for you. He couldn’t continue without hearing the certainty escape your mouth — he hadn’t done this in some time, himself.

Gods, you loved him. There was a lack of hesitation in his movements, but instead, a desire for clarity. He didn’t want you to feel obligated or trapped in some corner — he wanted you to want him. A twinkle of ardor glistened within your warm gaze as you brought your hands together at the nape of his neck.

It’s what you’ve wanted for such a long time — a terribly long time, at that. Everything felt as if you were wading through a dream, one that would shatter at any moment. “Yes,” You whispered, longing to unfasten the leather buckles and straps that held his tunic together. “More than anything.”

Jon’s breath hitched, a subtle noise, desire beginning to blossom throughout his chest. His grasp on you became innately protective and needy, hands gingerly kneading into your curves. He bent down for another kiss, arms caging themselves around you, bringing you into the warm expanse of his chest.

Soft fingertips raked through his dark curls, bringing him to heel as he kissed you, unashamed of his clear desperation. It no longer felt like the ghost of a distant thought — this was a blissful reality. He helped you to remove the bulky leather of his jerkin, but part of him feared fully removing his clothes.

His scars would reveal the abhorrent truth — that he died, brought back to life from the twisted magic of a Fire Priestess. Jon’s hesitation was palpable, especially when your digits sank into the coarse material of his tunic. The leather fell to the wayside, and you were closer to seeing him disrobed.

Jon sluggishly reached for the linen ties that held your dress together, and you gave him a nod, subtly encouraging him to unravel you. As he gently tugged upon the tie, the fabric sagged upon your shoulders, allowing you to push it aside, stepping out of it altogether.

A strangled gasp caught within the depths of his throat, manifesting as a sharp exhale that consumed his ribcage. You were every bit as wonderful as he’d imagined you to be — such fantasies had clung to the fringes of his mind out in the frozen wastelands beyond The Wall.

The plane of your flesh was velvetlike, bathed in the flickering firelight of the hearth, dancing across your body with its incandescent glow. Jon’s jaw visibly tightened, restraining himself from touching you as he pleased. The longer he stood, gawking at your body like some clueless boy, the more emboldened you became.

Careworn digits gingerly wrapped around his vambrace, unfastening the buckles there before you guided his hand to your chest. “There isn’t a need to be bashful,” You whispered, noticing the way his pupils dilated when his calloused palm embraced your pliant breast. “I want you to touch me.” You gently encouraged him.

Jon appeared a touch forlorn, attempting to mask his gnawing fear at the idea of you seeing him. “It’s not you,” His smile was humorless — pensive, even. “Gods, you’re beautiful.” He huffed, hand drifting toward your hip, shuddering at the satiny texture of your skin.

Warmth crept across your spine in the wake of his breathless compliment, prompting you to unfasten his other vambrace. He aimed to distract you, mouth moving toward the spot where your jaw met your neck, beard scratching ragged against your flesh.

He palmed your breast, reveling in the softness of you beneath his rough-hewn hand, tracing along your hip until he squeezed your derrière. Everything about you was plush and inviting, as if you were a goddess incarnate.

Jon’s kiss became hungry, wanton and passionate as his mouth peppered itself along your throat, from your jaw to jugular. He treated you kindly; gracious hands that melded themselves to your form, like a sculptor to his masterpiece.

Saccharine soaps and hints of underlying flora clung to your flesh like a springtime haze, powerful enough to melt this ice he felt. You brought with you such warmth that it threatened to swallow him whole; he delighted in it, letting you shake the frost from his bones.

Lips danced together with a long-repressed passion, now exploding like crackles of fire within a hearth, spontaneous yet heated. You kissed Jon as if he might slip away from you, turning into dust between your fingertips.

A low moan stirred within the depths of your throat when his fingers toyed with your pebbling nipple, prompting you to grip his tresses with an unexpected harshness. You mumbled a sheepish apology, yet he paid little mind to it, dusky hues swirling with an ardent adoration that made your stomach churn.

As your hand drifted to the hem of his worn, linen tunic, he very nearly stopped you — yet, part of him wished for you to see him without a spoken word. Jon’s chest tightened with quickened breaths as you kindly maneuvered the clothing away, and he watched, hues fixated upon your bewildered countenance.

A battlefield — innumerable scars, so fresh that you nearly held your hand over them to stop the bleeding, gouged across his pallid flesh. One that seemed to sting the most rest over his heart, curved and garish, the stroke of a vengeful knife that ended his life.

Wordlessly, you lifted your hand, fingertips tracing across his chest, feather-light and disarmingly gentle; the opposite of the knives that had left their mark. Your brows furrowed together, and you wondered how he could’ve survived something like this — if he survived something like this.

Jon shivered at your embrace, as sweet as the maiden’s grace, caressing him with your resplendent touch. He held you close, arm caging you in, his other hand stroking beneath your breast, above your ribcage. “I didn’t make it,” He rasped, noticing the glimmer of understanding in your eyes. “I’d like to think that the Gods wanted me to see you again.”

His smile warmed you, more than any blazing hearth could, more than that of summertime. A fluttering sensation spread throughout your chest, followed by a hitch in your throat that you stumbled over. “Jon,” You whispered, stroking across his chest with a peculiar tenderness. “I am so sorry.”

It wasn’t the time for condolences — such sentiments could wait. Jon didn’t want your coupling to be soured by what had happened, and instead, he shook his head. His yearning for you trumped that of any sorrow and mulling over death, prompting him to press his mouth against yours once more.

The kiss seemed to convey the unspoken message, his desire to tend to you before discussing the intricacies of his scars. Jon dutifully dipped down to kiss your throat again, and then your collarbone, guiding you towards the fur-laden expanse of his bed.

As you lowered yourself onto your back, Jon kicked his boots aside, crawling across the thick mound of pelts to cover your body with his. You sluggishly spread your legs, allowing him to reside in the space between, palms planted on either side of your head.

Each heated kiss blossomed across your flesh, as he peppered his lips along your shoulder and collarbone, descending toward the valley between your breasts. It was flesh he’d longed to grace, savoring every second spent; his mouth smoothed across the silken flesh beneath your breast.

“Jon,” A sigh of passion tore past your lips, gooseflesh coalescing along your spine as he continued his descent, knowing exactly what he sought. The heat between your thighs sang to him like a siren’s song, and you weren’t about to intercede. “Please, please.”

Who was he to deny you?

The ragged scruff of his beard scratched pleasantly against your skin, the sort of burn that left you aching for more. He kissed across your stomach, inch by agonizing inch, hand reaching back to caress along your calf. It was slow, exploratory — he wanted to learn every curve, every dip and expanse of flesh.

A hazy heat gripped your surroundings, as if everything had become feverish, touched by a fog of warmth that permeated you, sank into him. Doe-eyed hues flickered toward the taut muscle of his back, the blackness of his curly tresses, the scar around his eye.

Planting a kiss against your hip bone, Jon sighed into your thigh, hot breath fanning over your sensitive flesh. His belly churned with an excitable heat, having waited for such a terribly long time to finally have you. He smoothed his calloused palm along your leg, ascending until he held your haunch.

Gods, you were in ruins — Jon hadn’t even placed his mouth upon you, and you writhed in anticipation. No man had been courageous enough to treat you this way, yet Jon lacked hesitation, settling onto his stomach as he bullied his way between your thighs.

Raking hot embers across your cunt, Jon lapped along your slit, eyelashes fluttering at the sound of your euphoric whimpering. He hadn’t heard a sound quite like that before, and from your lips, it was abhorrently sinful.

He sighed your name; reverent, a prayer only spoken between Gods and men — and you are no man. It made you shiver, belly filling with a fire that demanded to be extinguished, soothed only by the sweet laps of your lover’s tongue.

Jon’s mind reeled with the sight of you — flushed with pleasure, visage contorted into a look of complete and utter bliss. He continued without pause, nose brushing across your mound as he buried his tongue into you, greedily lapping at your cunt as if he were a man starved.

Your heart hammered beneath your breast, that of sheer excitement, consuming you like a tidal wave as you brazenly reached for his tresses. Sinking your digits into the crown of his tousled curls, you tugged, showing your appreciation in an unorthodox manner.

“J—Jon!” A strangled moan tore past your mouth, wisps of air being ripped from your lungs. Jon was inherently greedy, consuming you in the way that you deserved, finding his solace between your thighs. His dutiful lapping continued, from the pearl of your cunt to your aching entrance.

Akin to ice against your skin, Jon’s palms glided along your thighs, moving to trace your hips. His mouth was like a wave of fire, beard searing the silky flesh of your legs as you involuntarily squeezed his head. You hadn’t intended to suffocate him, but it was a worthwhile demise, in his perspective.

One hand fisted the furs, digging in until you threatened to rip it apart, hips occasionally jerking and jolting forward into his mouth. He hadn’t tasted something as sweet as you, like a fine stout coating his tongue, leaving him intoxicating; craving more.

His eyes had nearly fluttered shut, half-lidded slits that occasionally flickered to catch a glimpse of your blissful countenance. Your back arched from the furs, seeking his mouth with reckless abandon as he lapped along your cunt, tongue briefly flicking over your clit.

It was as if you’d been struck by lightning, body bristling with a long-repressed pleasure, something that only he could cure. The sensation of his calloused skin against your plane of silk was a satisfying juxtaposition — he never wanted another’s touch again.

Jon burned for you in every way imaginable, a sonorous groan ripping through the depths of his throat as he moved to lap at your cunt again. His ministrations were slow, made to explore and to savor you instead of letting it all become rushed.

Your fingertips brushed across his scalp, untangling his curls from the half-bun he’d placed them into. They fell across his head, dark and somewhat cropped. He groaned at the sensation, feeling you pull and grip his tresses, guiding your hips closer.

Rough-hewn hands gingerly kneaded into the pliant flesh of your thighs, caressing their way up and down in a soothing manner. Jon savored your taste, letting your nectar find its purchase against his chin, glistening along his lips. He kissed your clit, evoking a breathy sigh from you.

It had been such a long time for the both of you, intensified by feelings of a long-seated desire and carnality, friendship transcending all bonds of propriety. Jon felt his cock twitch within his trousers, incessantly throbbing and straining against the thicker material, longing to be inside of you.

A cry of delight tore past your mouth as you involuntarily jolted forward, grinding yourself into his mouth. Jon treated you to a barrage of eager laps of his tongue, from your entrance to the sensitive pearl of your cunt.

Dragging his tongue in languid circles around your clit, he watched as you quivered and moaned, mouth agape, back arched off of the furs. Knowing what path to follow, he showed attention to your neglected pearl, nose buried into the softness of your mound.

“Jon,” You sputtered, thighs molding themselves to either side of his face, feeling the scratch of his beard rake itself against your silky skin. He listened, dutiful and with a burning desire to please you, continuing to lap at your clit. “Gods, don’t stop.” A trembling exhale left you.

It was then that he melded his lips around the aching bud, beginning to suck on your pearl with a pang of vigor. You shuddered, rattling like a leaf as you haplessly tugged on his mane of curls, hips tilting upwards into his mouth. You whined, fisting the furs at your side.

Jon did not relent, feeling the ironclad grip you assumed, knowing that he was bringing you close to your release. White-hot sparks fluttered across your vision, body singing his praises, collarbone glittering with the first inklings of perspiration.

A strangled gasp tore through your throat, followed by a myriad of moans and pleading whimpers, seeking friction against his mouth. Your release was fast approaching, like a tidal wave of heat, flooding across your body with its intensity. Jon’s name emerged from your lips as if it were the only word you knew.

The pinnacle of your release made you feel as if you were floating, legs shaking in the blissful aftermath, feeling Jon lap at your core a few times over. You exhaled, chest heaving from exertion as you loosened your hold upon his tresses.

“You’ll have to let me do that again.” Jon murmured, and that seemed to ensnare your attention. Seven Hells — you would let him do that for as long as he pleased, whenever he liked. He pressed a few soft kisses against the inside of your thigh, crawling up to be near you.

“Whenever you would like, I will never protest.” You mused, gaze sparkling with mirth and adoration, inviting him back to being on top of you. Though, your impulses had other plans, as your palm pressed against his shoulder. “There is something I wanted to try.”

The softness of your suggestion seemed to placate Jon, who felt you push his shoulder until you guided him onto his back, hooking a leg over his lap. Gods, he would’ve stayed like that for an eternity if you asked it of him. As you situated yourself on top of him, Jon sat up enough to reach you, kiss you if he wanted to.

He felt your fingers move towards the laces of his breeches, and he didn’t stop you, observing you in rapturous hunger instead. His breath hitched, mouth moving inward to press a string of hot kisses against the column of your throat.

“Do you know how long I’ve dreamed about this?” Jon’s confession emerged as a husky sigh, murmured against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. It came as a surprise, a wonderful one, and it only made your hands move in a borderline frenzy.

Freeing his cock from its confines, you moved yourself up upon your knees, aided by his strong, firm hands, coming to rest just below your derrière. The flushed tip of his length nudged against your cunt, prompting you to sigh with passion.

“Jon,” A pleading moan tore past your mouth, mind becoming fuzzy as you attempted to absorb the genuineness of his words. The Northern timbre of his hoarse baritone made you tremble, hands steadying themselves upon his shoulders. “Please.”

In a sluggish descent, he gently lowered you onto his cock, the both of you shivering in-tandem. The low, throaty groan that escaped him made your stomach churn with molten heat, letting you find your own pace. He was bigger than you imagined, filling you perfectly.

Mouths danced together and then clashed again, kiss after kiss of pure ardor, tongues becoming exploratory as you brazenly lapped at his lower lip. It was messy and hot, feverishly so, bringing the both of you to heel as you happily drowned within desire.

Your cunt was tight around him, slick with arousal as you continued to lower yourself, inch by blissful inch until he was fully sheathed inside of you. Jon’s heavy pants fluttered across your throat, mouth pressing near the curve of your jaw.

Jon was captivated by you, inhaling a gust of your soap-laden scent, beard ragged against your soft skin as he continued to kiss along your neck. His hands were resolute in guiding you, rocking you up and down along his cock, chest to chest with you.

Tangled sighs and low, heavy breaths wove together, forming a heated cacophony that filled his chambers with your lewd activities. The feeling of his calloused hands sinking into your plush flesh was mesmerizing, leaving behind a wave of goosebumps that crawled across your skin.

The sensation of his cock filling you completely, nearly kissing your womb, almost made you sob from delight. The friction of your bodies was a delicious thing, with your chest brushing against his, knees squeezing near his waist, hands gripping his shoulders.

A burning sting began to dance along your thighs, the exertion of muscle as you rode him, moving up and down in somewhat rhythmic motions. His cock speared you over and over again, filling you completely before you nearly drew yourself out, and back down again.

“Gods,” You sighed, nails sinking into the muscle of his shoulders, your countenance one of complete and utter pleasure. Leaving behind angry-red crescents against his pale skin, you didn’t want the feeling to end. “Jon, please — don’t stop!” With a simpering moan, your head began to roll back slightly.

Spurred by your softly-spoken praise and breathy sighs, Jon did not relent, hands sinking into your thighs as he guided you against his cock. The angle allowed for friction to blossom, chests bumping together, bodies tangled up within one another.

He kissed his way along your collarbone, bringing you up enough to trap one of your nipples within his mouth. The head of his cock remained pleasantly buried within your cunt, the warming of it making you writhe. He held you steady, greedily kissing at your pert breasts.

One of your hands fisted into his dark curls, tugging on them as if you were attempting to wrangle him into submission. His mouth peppered warm, needy kisses around the valley between your breasts before he let you sink yourself back down, cunt clenching around his cock.

Shameless strings of sinful noises left you in droves, eyes closed in a state of ecstasy. Jon groaned with you, vocalizing his own pleasure as he coaxed you down towards the furs, not wanting to place you there unless you consented.

With a brief bob of your head, you found yourself beneath Jon, his musculature covering you, content between your legs as he hitched one around his hips. The calloused plane of his palm wrapped around your calf, causing you to shiver at the foreign contact.

He could look upon your face, see the way your visage contorted into pure pleasure when he rocked forward, cock burying itself deep into your cunt. His skin was flushed, expression somewhat doe-eyed and awestruck, even if you were too lost to notice.

Your hands moved, one finding its purchase against his bicep, the other on his shoulder as his pace began to intensify. It was a chase, galloping after his release as he bent to kiss you, releasing a grunt into your mouth when you rolled your hips forward.

The wooden frame of his bed began to creak, groaning in protest from the vigor of his ministrations. You didn’t care if he was a touch rougher with you — Gods, you needed him. Heat swirled within your stomach, gnawing at your bones, making your toes curl in delight.

“Jon!” You cried, and that nearly sent him soaring over the edge, cock throbbing inside of you. The friction of your pelvis grinding against him almost made his resolve shatter into two. He lost count of how many times his cock sank into you — it was all blurring together.

The inevitable rush of euphoria reached him when his release came, hot and blistering, making him see stars as he groaned your name. Your nails were digging into his bicep, a gasp emerging from your throat when he thrust into you again.

Ropes of warm spend painted your insides, and he very nearly collapsed on top of you. He had the decency to hold himself afloat, hand tracing along your calf and to the crook of your knee, letting you unhook your leg.

Jon removed himself from you, attempting to gather his breath as he laid at your side, gazing at the dark ceiling above. Your breathing was just as unsteady and erratic as you drifted down from your buzzing high, wiping beads of perspiration from your brow.

Once he recuperated, Jon looked at you, noticing the smile on your face, the unrestrained delight you were experiencing as you rolled over. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He murmured, watching as you began to shamelessly crawl into his arms.

“Quite the opposite,” You hummed, feeling him adjust the furs, drawing them both around you. Despite the feverish pitch of the room, the frost would settle in again soon, especially at the hour of the bat. “Were you jesting when you said you dreamed about this?”

Bewildered, Jon cast his eyes toward you, canting his head to one side. “Of course I was serious,” He huffed, surprised that you would think otherwise. “You were all I could think about, north of The Wall.” His confession was genuine, sweetly-spoken.

“You don’t have to dream about it anymore,” Your voice soothed him, a sound that he had yearned for with a blistering ache. He felt as if you would slip away from him if he let you go. “I won’t leave you.” Your smile was warm enough to melt even the hardiest of frost.

Jon’s lips tugged into a smile, one that you rarely saw beneath the brooding curtain of his visage. He pressed a kiss against your forehead, allowing you to get comfortable against him. The silence that followed allowed for some contemplation, absorbing all of what had transpired.

His scars seemed so fresh when they caught your eye. With a forlornly look, you dragged your fingers over the scar above his heart, feeling him shiver beneath your touch. Your body still felt as if it were caught in some haze, coming down from the blissful aftermath of your coupling.

“If you hadn’t come back …” You trailed off, attempting to refuse to think of some painful reality where Jon perished, but the thought briefly crossed your mind. If he had, none of this would be happening — he wouldn’t be holding you in his arms.

“But I am here,” Jon’s husky timbre shook you to your core as he planted his palm against your cheek, guiding you to look at him. “I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not leaving you.” It was a promise — insistent, spoken from a man who now fully understood the weight of love, the weight of sacrifice.

You nodded, wordlessly reaching to hold his hand, feeling the arm he had caged around you plant itself against the small of your back. He drew circles there, brows knitting together as he leaned in to kiss you. It was hard and warm, so real — he made sure that you understood exactly what he meant.

Within the warm embrace of his arms, you let your head recline against his chest, feeling him draw you closer, until there was no space left between the both of you. He listened to the steady, shallow sound of your breathing afterwards.

At the edge of the world, he had you — and that was all he would ever need.

[peachessndreamss]

Wolfswood

Summery : Cregan receives an injury while out hunting, his wife cares for him

Characters : Cregan Stark x f!wife reader (no use of Y/N)

Warnings : Cannon typical injury and first aid/wound care, cannon typical hunting

Word count : 4k

A/N : Cregan Stark I love yooou. Also, apologies in advance if this is the most boring thing you've ever read.

Winter had arrived with devastating speed and brutality in the North. The first heavy snowfall had destroyed the last remaining crops left out in the fields and the woodpiles stacked as high as two men and just as wide had looked like enough to see them through two winters but soon began to deplete at an alarming rate. 

And when a great boar had been sighted at the edge of the Wolfswood, Lord Cregan Stark quickly called the men of his house to a hunt, knowing it was better to find the creature now and make use of it rather than let it be starved by the winter. 

They had set out in the pre-dawn, 10 men of House Stark, wrapped in layers of leather, wool and fur, mounted on the most surefooted horses the Winterfell stables had to offer. Lord Stark rode at the front of the group, his steward and close friend Martyn Snow riding beside him, the two of them talking as they disappeared from sight. 

Once in the Wolfswood Lord Stark had led the hunt, first on horseback as they tracked the creature deeper into the cover of the dense wood and then on foot, when the terrain had become too dangerous for the horses and the boar needed to be harried out of its hiding place.

Cregan had been moving slowly north, stepping over tangles of brambles and avoiding tree roots thicker than his thighs, the men of the group formed a large crescent shape as they moved slowly, hopefully driving the animal toward a clearing. One of the men at the end of the line gave a sharp whistle to indicate the group should stop, instinctively his head moved toward the sound and in that split second of distraction Cregan missed the rustling of dead leaves and the heavy breathing of an animal charging. 

The great tusk of the boar gored his left thigh. Cutting deeply through the skin to the muscle beneath, bright red blood immediately falling to the leaves at his feet. The power of the blow from the animal knocked him off his feet and sent him slamming into the cold ground, the back of his head knocking hard against a tree root. The metallic stink of blood filled his nose as shouts went up from the men of the household, they abandoned the hunt and gathered around their injured lord. 

“Get the beast,” was all he managed to say before the wintery sunlight faded from his view and he wasn't aware of pain or cold anymore. 

Lady Stark watched the hunting party return from the covered walkway between the Great Keep and the Armory. She expected to see Cregan leading the party, a triumphant smile on his cold reddened face with the great beast slung over the back of his stallion. 

Instead it was Cregan's steward, Martyn, who galloped in at the front of the procession, his horse wet with sweat, its nostrils flaring as it snorted. The animals rider didn’t look much better, the steward’s face was fearful and the same colour as the bark of the weirwood tree, his pale brown leather jerkin was darkened with blood. 

“My lady,” he called when he saw her watching, “Lord Stark’s been hur’, cut by the boar. Please send for the maester,” 

His words caused a lump of ice to form in her stomach, chilling her from her heart outward. There was always a risk when the men went hunting, and more often than not her husband returned home with some small injury or another but this had to have been serious. As she dashed into the Great Keep she caught sight of a wagon being drawn by two great horses, on the bed of the wagon a tangle of fur and blood, she fought a wave of nausea at the sight and ducked inside the keep. 

Her feet were light and silent as she reached the maester’s chambers, not bothering to knock on the old man’s door she threw it open with a crash. 

The maester was startled by her sudden interruption, jumping up from his stool at the desk with surprising speed and agility for a man who was nearing 70. He opened his mouth, ready to scold whoever had so rudely burst into his rooms, but his words died on his lips. 

“Lord Stark’s been injured in the hunt,” she said, praying her voice didn't waver and give away the fear that was gripping her throat like a claw. 

“Injured how?” The maester replied, moving toward the large wooden sideboard that dominated the room. On the shelves were jars, bottles and boxes containing every substance needed by a maester, and probably a few they didn’t need as well. 

“Gored, I don't know where, they've just arrived back, please come now,” she said firmly, not willing to keep Cregan waiting. 

The maester nodded and gathered his heavy leather case from the side, the bag was filled with sharp tools and simple herbs and mixtures for most every day healing.  He followed behind Lady Stark as she led them to the undercroft of the Great Keep, where there was a great deal of noise and disruption. 

The undercroft was a dark, cool, enclosed space usually used for storage, most days it would only see one or two visitors but now it was alive as men lit torches around the walls while others heaved Cregan’s limp form onto the huge oak table that sat in the centre of the space. They stripped him out of his blood soaked outer clothes and left him lying in his linen shirt and woollen trousers. 

The left leg of his trousers was ripped open at the mid thigh, revealing a 5 inch gash, skin and muscle had been torn apart and glistened dark red. A tourniquet above the wound had stopped most of the bleeding but his face was ghostly pale and his lips an unhealthy shade of blue. 

Lady Stark moved slowly toward the head of the table where Cregan’s closed eyes made him look almost peaceful, the maester went straight to the wound and began cutting away at his trousers. 

“Has he been talking?” he asked as he began to inspect the wound more closely. 

“A little, but he was unconscious for a minute or so after it happened,” the steward replied, standing by Cregran’s right hip, wringing his hands together. 

“Hello my love,” Lady Stark said softly, brushing her hand over his forehead, willing herself not to fall to her knees and weep when she felt how cold his skin was. 

His grey eyes fluttered open and blinked slowly, trying to bring his wife’s face into focus, the world around him seemed to shift violently, left and right, up and down but her warm hand on top of his head held him steady. 

“Now, what have you been up to?” she asked softly, as if addressing one of their children. 

Cregan’s whole left leg throbbed painfully and his stomach roiled with nausea, he swallowed once, finding his mouth and throat dry. 

“It's barely a scratch,” he croaked. Lady Stark gave a small huff that might have been out of amusement and stroked her fingers over the crown of his head. 

“‘Tis a dreadful looking scratch,” she replied, “still, the maester’s here now,”. 

Cregan hissed with the pain as the maester applied a green tinged ointment to the wound. Sweat broke out all over his body and he felt his hands start to tremble. 

“Did they get the beast?” Cregan asked, once the initial wave of pain had passed and faded back into a constant throb. 

Lady Stark glanced at Martyn who gave a small nod of his head. 

“Of course, and you shall have the beast's head for your chambers if you want”. 

He gave what appeared to be a weak nod before closing his eyes again and taking a deep breath. Cregan had known pain before but dislocated shoulders, broken bones and the sharp bite of Valyrian steel were nothing compared to this. 

At his thigh the maester had soaked a small piece of linen in a clear, strong smelling substance that he placed over the wound before tightly wrapping a clean bandage before removing the tourniquet tied high up his thigh. As the blood was allowed to flow back into the lower leg the colour returned to the skin but there were no signs of excessive bleeding at the wound. The maeester turned his attention to Lady Stark. 

“It’s as clean a cut as we can expect from a tusk, most importantly there’s no sign of dirt within, I have great faith that it will heal well,” the maester explained, wiping his hands on a clean piece of linen that was tucked into the belt at his waist. 

“I'll go to my rooms now and make a poultice to fight infection and in the meantime he can be moved to his rooms to ensure he's comfortable,” he added. 

With a small nod from Lady Stark the men still standing around the room went into action, they brought a stretcher and carefully moved Cregan from the table to the stretcher. He was then carried slowly through the Keep and up to his rooms. The masters chambers were the largest but the least used within the Great Keep, Cregan and his wife favoured the smaller but warmer Lady’s chambers, especially as they were the closest rooms to the children’s rooms. 

Once he was settled on the bed she sent for two bowls of water and a cloth before stripping him of the last remaining pieces of clothing. Unable to lift him from the bed to get his shirt over his head she cut the fabric straight up the middle with a small knife, pushing the two halves over his chest and cutting the sleeves apart to expose his arms. She also had to cut away what was left of his trousers, finding some of the material stuck to his skin with blood. 

Once he was as bare as the day he’d been born she soaked the cloth in warm water and set about washing him. Somehow the blood had managed to get up to his neck and down to the bottom of his left foot. She started at his neck, watching as droplets of reddened water ran down onto his chest and collected in the dark mess of curls that started at his collar bone, completely covered his chest and then funnelled into a thick strip that ran all the way down his stomach to the apex of his thighs.  

“I swear you're more beast than man sometimes,” she said softly as she dabbed at his chest, lifting the blood from his skin and hair. 

“It's the wolf in me,” he replied softly. 

Her head snapped towards his face, she’d had no idea he was awake and seeing his soft gaze on her face brought a wave of emotion flooding through her body. The usual surge of love she felt whenever she looked at him, intense relief at seeing his cheeks a healthy flushed colour after how deathly pale he’d looked before and bubbling anger brought on by the extreme fear that still sat in her stomach like a block of ice. 

“The wolf couldn't smell the boar sneaking up on you?” She asked as she felt tears burn her eyes. Cregan offered her a small, reassuring smile. 

“The wolf is more,” he paused a second while he thought, “passive...”. 

Unable to resist him, Lady Stark felt herself smiling and the two of them shared a laugh before she continued to wash him, revealing the pale skin under the dark curls and dried blood. 

“You're lucky it wasn’t more serious,” she said softly as she wrung the red water out of the cloth into a mostly empty bowl before dipping the cloth back into clean water, “if it’d caught on the inside of your leg you'd have been dead before they got you home,” she added, an icy edge to her voice as the fear that had gripped her throat now throbbed behind her eyes. 

“But I wasn't,” he placated gently, reaching out and taking hold of her wrist as she dabbed at his stomach.

“I'm fine,” he added when he noticed the tears gathering in her eyes and the angry wobble of her bottom lip. 

She snatched the hand from his, throwing the cloth into the bowl of clean water at her feet. The water splashed up, catching the skirt of her dress. 

“And what if you weren't? What if you weren’t fine?  Your son is barely 9 months old Cregan, do you expect me to hold the entire North until he comes of age? Fighting off every grasping lord from The Wall to Dorne trying to get to him and steal his birthright?” An angry tear tracked down her cheek.

“I cannot be regent, Cregan, I cannot be here without you,”. 

He reached out again and took hold of her balled first at the wrist, bringing her hand towards his face, pressing a soft kiss to her curled fingers. 

“And nor will you be,” he said softly, his lips still touching her fingers, “you and I are going to grow very old together, so old they write songs about us when we're all but turned to dust,”. 

She gave a small, watery laugh through her tears and pulled her hand out of his again. 

“Now you're just placating me,” she said, reaching into the bowl for the cloth and ringing it out. 

“Of course I am,” he replied with a smile, stretching his right arm up and settling it behind his head, the bend in his arm causing his muscle to flex and bulge under his skin. Were it not for the bandage around his leg he would have looked as if he was just relaxing for the evening. 

“I understand well that my most important duty is keeping you happy,”. 

Lady Stark scoffed at him and returned to the gentle washing of his stomach. A small smile tugging up the corners of his lips as he watched her tending to him so carefully. He'd been in a fair few scrapes before this one and was always happy to be tended to by his wife, the mixture of her gentle hand and sharp words always made him feel better. 

“Am I permitted to say how I'm enjoying your undivided attention?” He asked. 

“You may not say it” she replied, flicking her eyes to his face and catching him grinning at her. 

“I shall just think it then,”. 

They both fell into a tense silence as her cloth inched closer to the bandaged wound. The maester had said he would come by later that day to stitch the wound closed once it had time to dry and he could be certain there was no rot. Sweat broke out across his body as her gentle touch began to feel like needles piercing his skin, he kept his jaw firmly shut, unwilling to let a single sound of pain pass his lips.

“Would you take something for the pain?” She asked, not needing to hear him cry out to know he was in great discomfort, she wrang the cloth out again wetted it with clean water again. 

“I would rather keep my wits,” he replied, his voice strained. 

“Then perhaps a little when we’re finished and you can rest?” She pressed. She knew he disliked the effects of milk of the poppy but seeing him in such pain made her heart ache. 

“Perhaps,” he nodded before pressing his lips tightly closed, redoubling his efforts to stay silent.

She finished his bed bath at his left foot, cleaning the dried blood from the bottom of his toes and the ball of his foot. And all the pain that had passed before paled in comparison to the agony he felt as her hands gently tended the most ticklish part of his body. He fought with every ounce of willpower to stay still and not curl his toes and kick his foot out of her hands. 

Once finished she rung the cloth out one final time before standing and carrying the two bowls of water across the room and setting them aside to be cleared away later. 

“Will you sleep for a while? She asked him, moving back toward him and running her hand over his forehead before drawing a soft woollen blanket over his nakedness. 

Cregan nodded, suddenly feeling exhausted and wanting nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep until the dawn of the summer. 

“Alright, will you take a little milk of the poppy?” she asked.

He nodded again, opening one of his eyes to peek at her face. 

“And a kiss to sweeten it?” He asked, letting the corners of his lips quirk up just a touch. 

She laughed softly, taking the small bottle of white milky liquid from the table beside their bed. She unstopped it and helped him lift his head off the pillow, she held the bottle to his lips while he took a small swallow before dropping his head back onto the pillow with his eyes closed. 

“And to make it sweet,” she said, bending and pressing her lips to his. 

As she stood he opened his eyes again although she could already see he was fighting the effects of the milk of the poppy. 

“Kiss the babies for me as well?” he asked. 

“Of course,” she replied, stroking his forehead again and watching his eyes close as he finally gave in and allowed himself to be dragged into a dreamless sleep. 

She watched him for a few minutes, keeping an eye on the steady ride and fall of his broad chest. In sleep he always appeared to be younger, his features softened as sleep took away the worries and the duties he carried on his shoulders every day. 

Once she was happy he would sleep for a while and there was nothing else she could do for him, Lady Stark went in search of Martyn the steward, she knew he would be worried and was waiting for news of his lord and friend. 

She found him outside the stables, running a brush over Cregan’s stallion. 

“Is he alright?” Martyn asked as she approached him. There was a panicked edge to his voice and his face betrayed his worries. 

“He'll be fine,” she soothed with a nod, “he's made of strong stuff,” she added as she placed a comforting hand on his forearm. 

“I'm sorry he was hurt, my lady,” he said, already looking lighter knowing Cregan was alright. 

“You've nothing to be sorry for, he's a man grown and it's his own fault if he doesn't hear a boar sneaking up on him,” she said, making her voice playful and teasing. 

“I'll pray for him,” the steward said, returning to brushing the huge grey horse that stood patiently in front of him.

“Thank you, I know he'll appreciate that,”. 

She stayed talking to the steward a little longer, the two of them discussing how to make the best of the creature that’d been killed that morning. The sky was quickly darkening and the air turning colder by the minute, although no new snow had fallen that day there was a crisp smell of it on the air and dark, heavy clouds covered the sky, threatening a heavy snowfall that night. 

She left Martyn to his final tasks for the day and returned to The Great Keep, she went first to the nursery to look in on their children. The eldest, Aly, was playing on the floor with her nurse, the two of them racing carved wooden animals across the floor. She paid no attention to her mother when she entered the room, too caught up in her game, while their son slept in his cradle. 

She lifted the boy from his crib and carried him to a chair beside the fire where she sat, focusing on nothing other than the small sound of his breathing and the tiny movements as his chest expanded and contracted with every breath. 

After a few minutes Aly got up from her spot on the carpet, her wooden horse still clutched tightly in her small hand as she walked toward her mother. 

“Where's papa?” She asked, coming to stand beside the chair, reaching out her own empty hand to take her mothers. 

“Resting, the men went hunting this morning, do you remember?”. 

“Will he put me to bed?” Aly asked, letting the toy horse drop from her hand with a small thud. 

“Not tonight, I can do it tonight,” Lady Stark replied. 

The girl sighed heavily, like she'd received some truly dreadful news, her small shoulders slumping. 

“But Papa tells the best bedtime stories,”. 

“I know he does, and I’m sure he’ll have a very special one for you tomorrow night,”. 

After another heavy sigh Aly climbed up into the chair with her mother and younger brother, curling into Lady Starks chest and closing her eyes. The girl found a loose thread on the bodice of her mothers dress and begin to twist it around her finger, in a few minutes she too has slipped off to sleep. 

The warm weight of her children soothed the Lady’s fractured nerves, this wasn't the first time her husband had returned home injured, his body was a tapestry of scars, each one she'd lovingly touched and kissed in turn, learning his scars as closely as a traveller learns a map. 

When she heard the first spatterings of wet snow from the nursery window Lady Stark decided it was time for her to look in on her patient. Calling the nurse over and letting the young woman take the sleeping girl from her lap. 

“Let her sleep a few more minutes, then wake her or she’ll never sleep tonight,” Lady Stark instructed as she stood and carried her small son back to his crib. 

“And I'll be back to feed this one once I've looked in on Lord Stark,” she added, lowering him into the cradle and watching as he settled. 

The nurse nodded and smiled softly as she lowered Aly onto her day bed, covering the girl with a soft embroidered blanket. 

Cregan didn’t stir when the heavy oak doors of his chambers were opened and his lady wife stepped inside, she paused, watching him for a few moments to see that his condition was unchanged, the only difference was that he’d thrown the blanket off his body and was now lying naked, his whole body exposed to the cool air. Moving toward him she noticed his breathing was still easy and his cheeks were a healthy colour. She touched the back of her hand to his cheek and then his forehead. 

At her touch his eyes flicked open and he blinked slowly as the world around him came into focus. He made a small sound of approval that rumbled up deep from his chest as his eyes focused on his wife. 

“How are you feeling?” She asked softly. 

“Better for seeing you,” he replied, his voice gravelly. 

“You're a dreadful flirt Cregen,” she replied with a smile, knowing his ability to flirt was a far better indication he was on the mend than anything else would be. 

“Come lie with me,” he said, choosing to ignore his wife's chastisement.

“Only for a few minutes,” she replied, moving to the other side of the bed and climbing on it, settling herself beside him and placing her head on his shoulder. 

He wrapped one arm around her shoulders and encouraged her to roll onto her side, tightening her body to his in a familiar and comfortable way and she sighed contentedly. Her hand rested on his chest, her fingers pushing and playing with the dark curls of hair. Cregan turned his head and placed a soft kiss on her forehead, feeling the warmth of her body sink into his own flesh and bones. 

“I should ban you from future hunts,” she said, her voice muffled by having her face squashed on his shoulder, “make you take an oath never to put yourself in such danger again,”

“Even for you, I could not swear such an oath,” he replied, kissing her forehead again and keeping his lips pressed to her skin, breathing in the familiar and comforting scent from her hair. 

The two lay in silence for several minutes, Lady Stark listening to the steady and deep drum beat of his heart, the thumping sound reminding her that he was still alive, injured but alive and home with her and in their private moment it was easy for her to believe that was the only thing that mattered in all the known world. 

“But I can swear, it will only be death that keeps me from you,”.

[syndrossi]

Restoration AU: Jon I

Previous part, Ned I, here.

x~x~x

Jon knew where Robb would go next, and that his presence would be more unwelcome than ever, so it was the solitude of the godswood he sought instead. Better than roaming the castle halls or grounds, where he could already feel stares following him, and hear whispers falling to silence in his wake. Theon’s handiwork, no doubt.

Brothers. Jon stared into the dark pool at the base of the heart tree, feeling as though he might wake up from a dream at any moment. He had always longed to know more about his mother, and it was plain as day that those boys were kin. With the other Jon—my name, why would she give him the same name?—it had been like staring into a mirror. They looked even more alike to him than Arya, which surely meant they shared a mother too.

Why is she not here with them?

Jon burned with questions. He had been since Jory had helped the boys up onto the horses, the one named Jon with the captain, and the other with Robb. The choice had felt deliberate on Jory’s part, as deliberate as their return by the Hunter’s Gate, bearing further shame for Lord Stark.

Had he loved his mother, then? Jon knew that it did not take love to sire children, that base lust would suffice, but his father was no Theon. If he had gone back to her, that meant he had missed her.

He took me from her, but not my brothers. Had he known about them? There had been a wide-eyed recognition in his father’s eyes when he beheld them, but Jon did not know if that was because he had not expected them, or because he had not known of their birth.

They had been abandoned in the wolfswood, too, at risk of freezing in the cold. Two children who could not be older than Arya.

She is dead. Jon knew it in his heart. If she had kept his little brothers for this long without telling his father, then she would not have easily parted with them, and certainly not in such a way as to endanger them. She is dead and I will never know her.

But his brothers had, and he could not help the ache of jealousy in his heart. They had not known their father, he reminded himself. Each of them had grown up half-orphaned, mistrusted for their very nature.

And it was plain to see that they had grown up in a lord’s household as well. Their dress was fine, and they had been comfortable speaking to Robb. Despite their shivering, they had walked confidently through the halls of Winterfell. That sense of belonging was not one that a baseborn bastard would possess.

Had she been highborn herself then? There was so much he longed to ask his father, questions he had not dared before. If he will answer, even now.

Motion flickered in the periphery of his vision, and he turned his head to see his father approaching as though summoned by his thoughts. His little brothers were at his side, and they had been changed into warmer clothing that Jon recognized as belonging to him and Robb when they were younger.

I looked like that once, he thought as he watched the other Jon. There would be no confusing his other brother, Raymar, for Robb of course. Their mother must have had uncommonly fair hair, more silver than golden. It was a color Jon had not seen in the north. The closest he could recall was a blond-haired whore who Theon had favored for a time, and the memory of it brought a clench to his stomach. He could already hear Theon’s voice drawing the comparison.

“Jon,” his father called in quiet greeting once they had reached him. His face, which could be by turns stern or gentle, was neither. It was almost uneasy, as it had been when they had come upon Ghost’s mother, dead in the snow.

“Which one?” Jon asked.

His counterpart did not react to the bite in his question, though their father grimaced. “I am Willam now.”

Lord Stark put a hand on each of the boys’ shoulders. “These are your twin brothers, Willam and Raymar.” He glanced down at the boys, taking in a breath. “And this is your brother Jon.”

Jon had stolen sidelong glances at the boys on their way to his father’s solar. Now that they were right before him, no longer shivering with cold, he took his time in study. He and the other Jon—Willam—were not exactly alike, he could see now. His own face was slightly longer, his hair and eyes a shade darker. There were subtle differences in the shape of their eyes and mouth, though they were close enough that Jon felt like he was looking into a mirror some five years before.

He could easily see himself in Raymar as well, though his coloring made the differences more dramatic, the boy’s eyes a striking purple. Jon struggled to find their father in him, however. He must favor our mother, the way Robb does Lady Stark. Jon had been teased before for his own locks, which he wore longer than Robb’s or Theon’s, but Raymar’s were far longer, giving him an exotic look that did not match his name.

Both children were subdued, as though numbed by the shock of the day’s events, and there was a tension to either of grief held in check. Jon, who had been ready to demand answers of their father, felt some of his hurt-fueled anger falter.

They had been alone, abandoned, their lives upended. Winterfell was at least Jon’s home, and the Starks his family. But to his little brothers, they were all strangers. Jon tried to imagine someone setting Bran or Arya loose to wander alone in a cold summer snow, far from home, and his blood flared hot.

“Hello,” Jon said, softening his voice. “I am glad to meet you.”

Willam approached first, gaze solemn with understanding, and Jon hugged him. His brother did not relax, though he returned the hug. Raymar was next, his violet eyes taking in Jon’s features with the same intensity as his own study, shifting between him and Willam. His upset seemed to grow, and Jon could feel the shake of it in his limbs as Jon pulled him into an embrace.

I have true brothers and I never knew. But on the heels of that anger came guilt. Robb is no less my brother, nor are any of my siblings.

“What happened?” Jon asked, meeting his father’s gaze. “Why were they abandoned in the snow? Where is—”

Where is our mother?

“Come,” Lord Stark said. “Such matters must be discussed in the privacy of my solar.”

Jon felt his eyes narrow. “First I would have you stand before the heart tree and tell me of my mother.”

Lord Stark’s discomfort seemed to grow, only confirming Jon’s suspicions. He wishes to continue to withhold the truth.

It was Willam who spoke, moving to press his hand against the weeping face of the weirwood tree. “Our mother’s name was Rhea. She died two years ago.”

Jon had been expecting it, but still the blow caught him in the chest. Rhea. He knew his mother’s name at last, and she was dead. He could not help the sagging of his shoulders, or the sudden ache of his throat.

“Did you love her?”

His question was for his father, who stepped before the tree as well, his sorrow plain as he placed his hands on Jon’s shoulders. “I loved your mother, yes.”

Jon had dreamt of hearing his father say those words for most of his life, but they left him hollow now. He had been a product of love, born of a woman his father had perhaps wished he could marry instead, and yet it did not matter. She was dead, and the legacy she had left was one of regret.

“Come,” Lord Stark repeated, hand squeezing his shoulder.

The stares were even worse in Lord Stark’s presence, his father’s face a stony mask as he led his three bastard sons through the halls of Winterfell and into his solar. Jon sat down by the hearth, half-numb, while his brothers settled on the couch. He should have sat with them; they looked overwhelmed, but he could not bring himself to.

“Who was she?” he asked, knowing that he should be asking what had happened to his brothers instead. “What was her house?”

His father had chosen to stand by the fire, his back to it, shrouding his face in shadow, but it could not hide the tension in his frame at the question. Even now, with her two years dead, he does not wish to speak of her. Perhaps it was love or guilt or grief—or perhaps it was regret that the evidence of greater dishonor still had come knocking upon his door.

“Her family was from Lys,” Raymar said, answering the question instead. “House Perzane. We grew up in Gulltown, but were sent to live with kin there, after her death.”

House Perzane. Jon did not know much about the houses of the Free City of Lys, but it explained both Raymar’s odd coloring and the twins’ noble upbringing. He had never considered that his mother might not even be of the Seven Kingdoms.

“What did she look like?” Jon asked.

Raymar’s gaze dropped. “Me,” he said, his voice small. “She looked like me.”

And now he was surrounded by kin who looked nothing like her. Willam reached for his brother’s hand, but he snatched it away, angling away from his twin. Jon leveled a look at their father, whose fists had clenched but otherwise made no move to comfort his own child.

Jon stood then and joined them on the couch, squeezing in next to Raymar to gather him in for a hug. “I am sorry,” he told the boy. “I wish I had known her.”

“They were taken from their mother’s kin,” Lord Stark said stiffly. “I assume their abductors had learned of their relation to me and sought ransom.”

Or perhaps blackmail, Jon thought cynically. How much would Lord Stark have paid to keep their existence a secret, had they not been found wandering alone?

“How did you come to be on the edge of the wolfswood?” Jon asked, turning to the twins.

“Jon—Willam stabbed that man who took us,” Raymar said, still staring into his own lap. “We ran into the wood.”

“We were close,” Willam added. “We could see smoke from the castle rising into the sky.”

Jon wondered what their captor’s plan had been. To march them directly to the gates of Winterfell? Perhaps he had thought that Lord Stark would want his bastard sons, since he had taken Jon in as a babe, and had instead sought a reward.

“He did not hurt you, did he?” Jon asked, looking them over for signs of injury.

They shook their heads in unison, and it was his father who spoke. “They were dosed with dreamwine to keep them docile.”

A wise measure, given that little Willam had managed to wound their captor gravely enough for them to escape. “Has their captor been found?”

“I have sent men in search,” Lord Stark said grimly. “If he yet lives, I doubt he will come here.”

Jon frowned at the thought of the man escaping. “Let me join them.”

“No. Your brothers will need your strength.”

His meaning was plain. “You spoke with Lady Stark.”

His father grimaced. “I have not. Once your brothers are settled, I shall go to her.”

Who will she hate more? The bastard she knows, or the two that are proof that she comes second in his heart? Jon looked down at the dark and light-haired heads of his brothers, feeling a surge of pity. They do not deserve her scorn.

“Take them to your chamber,” his father continued. “They will stay with you for now.”

For now. “Do you mean to be rid of them?” Jon demanded.

“No,” Lord Stark said with a quiet sigh. His gaze swept the three of them, and Jon caught another glimpse of that unease. He is worried. Did he fear reprisal from House Tully? Unrest amongst his bannermen? Jon was unsure why. He would hardly be the first lord to sire three bastards. “You do not shame me, Jon, nor do they. The shame is mine alone.”

Only it wasn’t. A lord was untouchable to most, above jeers and japes. A lord’s bastard sons, however, were not. And it was not Lord Stark who had borne Lady Stark’s jealousy.

“When do you mean to introduce them to the rest of their siblings?”

Jon had shied away from thinking about them, especially Robb and Sansa. Robb had always admired their father, and held him as a man of upstanding character. It had been easy for his brother to dismiss his infidelity before as a young husband at war who had not yet had enough time with his new wife. He had not blamed Jon, but now—

And Sansa had never viewed Jon with particular kindness, preferring to keep a distance. It did not bother him too greatly these days, since she was just a girl while Jon was near a man, but his little brothers would not have the same armor if they had grown up with their mother’s family. 

“Tomorrow, perhaps,” his father said after a long moment in thought. “I need to speak with their mother first. It would be best if you took supper with your brothers in your chamber tonight.”

Jon smiled without humor. “But we do not shame you, of course.”

“Jon—”

“I will take them there,” Jon interrupted, not caring that their father looked sad and tired. He sprang to his feet, and held out a hand to his newfound brothers, forcing warmth into his smile. “Come along.”

x~x~x

They did not go directly to Jon’s chamber. He did not care if it was a bad idea to venture out, there was one thing capable of cheering him and comforting young boys, and he was currently nursing in the kennels, which were at least mostly out of the way of any would-be gawkers.

“Wait out here,” Jon bade them before slipping into the building.

Ghost was curled up next to his direwolf littermates, as well as their adoptive hound siblings, dozing lightly. He wriggled with excitement as Jon picked him up and tucked him into his shirt, and his smile felt like his first true one since finding the twins shivering in the snow.

It instantly faded as he stepped out to find Theon outside the kennels, leaning on the fence as he looked the twins over.

“I heard we had some fresh snow,” Theon said with a smirk. “I did not take the honorable Lord Stark for a man who would keep a mistress. Some pretty thing from Lys, maybe, with a bush as white as her hair.” He thrust a hand out, ruffling Raymar’s hair for a second before the boy ducked out of his reach. “Where did he find the time?”

“It must have been when he was on the way to crush the Greyjoy Rebellion,” Willam said, his voice cold as ice. “He made quite a few widows there before your father begged for peace.”

Theon’s mirth disappeared, hand twitching at his side as though he wished to cuff the boy, and Jon immediately stepped between them, fists balling. He was hungry for a fight, and he did not care that Theon was larger and close to full-grown. “Try it, Greyjoy.”

His father’s ward backed down after a moment. “They’re as mouthy as you, Snow. You would do well to teach them what a bastard’s place is in the world.”

With that, Theon shoved off, disappearing through the gate into the castle’s courtyard. Jon took a few breaths to reclaim his composure, not wanting to walk into the yard looking upset. Willam was glaring after Theon with a dark fury that surprised him, leaving him to wonder if bastards were treated differently in Lys. Perhaps it was more like Dorne, where it was said a man’s bastards were held as equal to his trueborn children.

The quiet shock that had yet to leave Raymar seemed to tell a similar story. Jon put a hand on his back. “Let’s go.”

Jon did not relax until they had successfully navigated the halls without running into Lady Stark. He did not want his little brothers to face her venom just yet, not without warning. Once they were safely in his chamber, he dragged his chair from the hearth over to his bed, and gestured for his brothers to take the bed.

“Here,” Jon said. He reached into his shirt and withdrew a sleepy Ghost, setting him gently on the bed between them. “This is Ghost.”

Their eyes went wide, both children extending a hand to the direwolf pup, which he happily nosed and then licked. But before Jon could feel any triumph at managing to comfort them, he realized that Willam was crying. He could tell the boy was trying to hold it in, but the bed practically shook under the force of his quiet sobs.

“It’s all right,” Jon assured him, though the words felt empty. 

His brother’s tears seemed to unleash a similar flood in Raymar, and Jon was faced with two silently crying children on his bed, their pain reaching deep into Jon as well. There was something hauntingly familiar about strangling the hurt until you choked, knowing that it was not your place to burden others with it.

If their birth came from the Greyjoy Rebellion, they cannot be older than Bran. They looked closer to Arya’s age, but it was said that bastards grew faster than trueborn sons. Jon abandoned his chair, clambering up onto the bed with them to pull them into a hug, one in each arm. Just because he had been alone with his pain in this room, it did not mean they need be.

“I want to go home,” Raymar said, the words half-mumbled into Jon’s chest.

“All will be well,” Jon promised. “I will look after you, and so will Ghost.”

He helped them out of their boots and their borrowed cloaks, noting their exhaustion through the tears, and tucked them in beneath the furs of his bed. Ghost licked worriedly at their faces, until the heartbreak on Willam’s face turned to a tremulous smile, his fingers burying into the pup’s fur with each stroke.

“Take some rest with Ghost,” Jon said. “I will wake you when it is supper, and I can tell you all about Winterfell.”