sons & daughters. part three.
— pairing: cregan stark x fem!reader
— type: part of a series
— summary: cregan gives you a tour of the crypts & you begin to open up to one another. sharing truths continue that afternoon in the godswood when you are alone together.
— word count: 6,777
— a/n: i hope this all flows together okay. the godswood portion was actually supposed to happen sooner, but then chapter 2 came along & i rearranged some things so it could still fit.
The next morn comes early with a rapt knock at your door, which interrupts your slumber.
It had taken some time, after parting from Lord Stark, for you to find rest.
You had spent a handful of hours in bed reading, even peeking outside from your balcony when you began to hear wolves howling in the distance. Instead of the sound frightening you, however, it had instead filled you with a sense of longing.
Their singing at the moon was what had eventually lulled you to sleep, though.
You slowly rise, rubbing at your tired eyes before throwing on a shawl and padding over to the door, ready to wring Jace’s neck—as if whatever he wants cannot wait another hour or two. Someone will most certainly become dragon meal, but it won’t be you.
You open the door and promptly shut your open mouth when you are instead met with the sight of Lord Cregan, standing tall before you. Dressed and ready for the day in polished black leather, looking down at you, his eyes trailing along your body before meeting your own once again.
You watch as he swallows thickly, licking his lips.
“Forgive me, Princess. I have woken you.”
You had not been aware he would wish to visit the crypts so early in the morn.
Yet another mistake by you. But of course. What else?
You shake your head, quickly tucking wild strands of hair behind your ears. “No, My Lord, it is I who should apologize. I…could not find sleep the night last. I’m afraid I thus overslept. I have not forgotten about your offer, to show me the crypts.”
You glance behind you, toward your wardrobe, then back to the young lord. “If you would give me a moment, My Lord, to dress, and I will join you promptly.”
You feel wholly off-kilter like this. Tired—just having woken—not properly dressed.
Forgetful.
He nods, once, eyes glancing to your bare feet. “Princess.”
Once dressed, you emerge from your chambers in a soft, warm gray gown, your hair braided and resting atop your shoulder with various pearl pins shoved into it, and you are bundled up beneath your dress, same as the day previous.
Cregan is leaned against the wall opposite your door, foot planted against it, wrist hanging loosely over the pommel of his sword, and when his head rises to look at you, a small smile graces his lips.
He steps toward you then, reaching out, taking your braid between his fingers, which slide gently down the length of it, fingertips brushing over the small baubles you’ve placed along it.
His eyes flit to yours then, as he drops his hand, offering you his arm. “Shall we go, Y/N?”
You merely nod, at a loss for words at his simple touch, as you wrap your own arms securely round his own.
The two of you walk quietly across the yard, crisp snow crunching under your feet, only a few about at this early hour, such as servants and kitchen staff—the sun just beginning to rise in the east. You pull your cloak more tightly around yourself, the morning chill biting against your skin.
And then Cregan leads you underground, down a winding set of stone stairs, until darkness envelops the two of you for only a moment—your heart pounding in your ears—until brazier upon brazier comes into sight, lining an endless dark tunnel—crypts on either side, of men and women both.
You suddenly release Cregan’s arm then, stepping up to the first one you see in wonder.
“Torrhen Stark,” Cregan remarks from behind you.
You look over his finely carved face, deeming him ruggedly handsome.
Cregan comes to stand beside you.
“Do you...regret what he did?” You ask quietly.
He glances to you with a raised brow. “I believe it would be considered treason to.”
You remain silent, awaiting a proper answer.
He sighs. “I suppose at times, perhaps. But had he not, you would not now be here.”
He would be all the more fortunate for it, you think.
“Had he not, had the kingdoms not been broken apart into seven pieces—truly eight, when you think about it—I doubt such a potential war would be brewing at the moment, making my presence here wholly unnecessary.”
“Even before the conquest, we still yet fought one another.”
You nod, stepping over to the next crypt. “Do you not think it better, for those who best understand their lands and customs and people to control them, as opposed to…an outsider?”
He is taken aback to hear you say such things. Northern Independence is not a new idea, but for you to desire independence for all from Southron serpents...
You turn to look at him.
You wrap your arms round yourself. “I only meant… The realm is very large, and to have one head leading it seems a miscalculation, mayhaps.”
There is a beat of silence before you speak again. “I am only glad it will never be mine own.”
You glance down to a direwolf crypt, smiling at it. You weren’t aware stonemasons designed such things. “My duties will, instead, lie in other areas,” you then state.
His brows furrow. “Such as?”
You grow quiet then.
“Y/N,” he presses.
You do not wish to speak on the matter, knowing soon enough such arrangements will come to surely pass. They nearly had once already, and not so long ago, at that.
Mayhaps…you should have agreed. But you know even if you had, things would still have transpired just as they have. Such a marriage would only have complicated matters, if not made them worse.
You’d had so many secrets as children—you and he—what is a proposal, if not another one?
You intend to keep it locked away in your heart—something to hold onto when you one day are forced to wed for duty, instead of want. Because you had wanted. Even for only a moment.
You walk further down the line and further still, and Cregan decides not to push the subject.
“I hope you do not find all of this macabre, Princess,” he states, placing a comforting hand against your back.
He is trying his utmost to maintain a healthy balance of referring to you by both names: your given, and your proper title. He fears growing too used to the former and slipping up amongst others, such as your brother.
Even if calling you by it is far more preferable. Comfortable, even.
You shake your head. “Not at all. I find it fascinating. It is, after all, a singular opportunity. Once my brother and I leave, I fear I will not be presented with it again. I imagine I will never, in fact, see the North again once we return to Dragonstone.”
He ignores his heart squeezing at the thought.
“Not even to visit?” He asks casually, fingers trailing along your spine.
You give him a forced smile. “I imagine I will be wed soon enough. So as to gain my mother an army or castle stronghold or coin to fund this war when the time comes. At that point, my place will be where my husband deems it be.”
You talk about it so flippantly that it unnerves even him, as if it is a fate you have already resigned yourself to: doing as you are told without quarrel. Your own wants and wishes be damned.
You continue walking—his hand eventually falling away—until you have reached closer to the end of the line, and are greeted with the sight of a young woman set in stone.
Cregan gazes upon her for just a moment, feeling an ache at her being so close, but yet so far from him.
He clears his throat then. “My late wife, the Lady Arra Norrey.”
You swiftly turn your head to look at him, while he looks at her and your heart breaks at the look of longing within his eyes.
“I’m so sorry,” you whisper, truly, truly meaning it. You cannot imagine such a pain.
He nods. “Thank you, Y/N.”
You look back to her. “She was very beautiful.”
“She was. My son looks much like her. When he was born—the same day the Gods saw fit to take her from me—he was my perfect reflection. As he has grown, he has come to resemble her more and more. Both a blessing and a curse. Through him, I will never forget her, but also yet reminded of what I have lost.”
You both grow quiet then, only the occasional pop or crackle coming from the lit braziers to break it.
Until you speak.
“I suppose in that much I will be fortunate,” you say, merely above a whisper.
He looks at you, waiting for elaboration. “Princess?”
You look at him, softly smiling. “I do not mean to say that I will not mourn, if one day I were to lose my lord husband. But…no one will ever want, nor marry me for love. So if I lost him, I think it would make the pain easier to carry. A small comfort, I know.”
He stares down at you with furrowed brows in disbelief at what you have just said.
You continue to stare up at him, feeling uneasy at the darkening look upon his face.
Oh Gods, you had offended him. Had upset him. How could you have said such a thing? Mayhaps he feels you have insulted her—her memory. This is why you prefer to be alone. Or, at the very least, when near others: utterly silent.
“Forgive me, My Lord, I did not mean to—”
“Do you truly believe such a thing?” He says, interrupting—his tone that of steel.
You take a small step back, now frightened. “I—”
Tears sting your eyes. You had been too open. Too ignorant. You should have known better than to speak so honestly with a man who is still yet a complete stranger to you.
What if you have now ruined everything Jace has been working so diligently to accomplish? Neither he, nor your mother, will ever forgive you. How could you have been so careless with your words?
He leans down toward you and you nearly flinch, but compose yourself, thinking he now seems the very wolf that is emblazoned upon his broad chest.
“You think no man could ever love you?”
You swallow down the lump in your throat.
His eyes flit between your own. “Whatever man marries you should be aware of just how blessed he is to have you to take to wife. By all the Gods—Old and New. And for you to, much more, one day be the mother of his children? I cannot imagine a finer fate. For if he does not realize it, he is wholly unworthy of having you.”
You stare up at him, wide-eyed and shocked. He…surely he does not mean it.
"That...is very kind of you to say, Lord Stark. But I am aware of my position in the world. What I am to prospective suitors. A means to an end. My title—my heritage—is something to bring them ever closer to the throne, mayhaps, or glory. At the very least remembrance, to be printed within historical texts. When men look at me, just as the same as they did with my mother when she was younger than even I, they do not see us for who we are, but rather, what.
"If I am fortunate, I only hope whomever I am wed to sees me as more than just a walking womb. If not...I must be content with that. At the very least, I will have my children, if nothing else in all the world."
You glance toward the exit, ready to leave.
You do not wish to discuss this any further.
You step past him.
Cregan refuses to let you leave with that. How can you possibly think so little of yourself? How can you care naught about your future? About your welfare?
He suddenly takes your hand in his, turning you back toward him.
Your brows furrow, glancing down to where he now has you within his strong grip.
"You would give up so easily? Just...let whomever is the highest bidder have you without dispute?"
"It is not up to me."
Even if it once had been. For only a moment.
You know you must let it go now.
For it does not do well to dwell on things that never will be.
"From what I understand, your mother was given a choice," he insists.
You slip your hand from his grasp. "War was not looming on the horizon when she was. Everything is different now."
You take a step back, putting distance between you.
He wishes to reach for you again, but withholds.
He grasps for something to say—anything—to make you see sense, but even he himself knows that what you say is the way of things for highborn ladies. That your lives are never truly your own.
And then he thinks of the meeting he is meant to have this morn with his advisors. Knowing that he, too, will be subjected to the same, as he has continually been since Arra's passing: further insistency that he wed again. And soon.
He has but one son—one heir. If something were to happen to Rickon—something as simple as illness—he will be without issue. And without a sibling to succeed him, he fears Winterfell falling back into his imprisoned uncle's clutches once more.
He who had thirsted for power, instead of righteousness.
He is not fit to lead the North. Not anymore. Not now that he showed his true nature those years ago.
Cregan follows silently behind you as you exit the crypts, not wishing to leave matters between you like this as you part ways for the day, but he knows not what else to do.
He knows that further false words of assurance would be of little comfort.
Once you have both reached the surface, he places his palm against the small of your back once again. Merely wishing to touch you. Have you close to him. "May I escort you back inside, Y/N?"
You merely nod, trailing along beside him silently.
Once you have reached your room, you reach for the handle, until Cregan speaks again. "If it was up to you, what would you wish?"
You slowly turn back to him. "Forgive me, I do not know what it is that you mean."
He steps closer to you, while you are forced between his towering form and the solid wood of the door behind you.
"If someone put your fate in your own hands to do with as you wished, what might you choose?"
It once again comes to mind, a conversation from only a few days past.
Then perhaps we steal away in the dark of night, married in secret by a septon, he had told you while holding you close.
You look down, gripping the fabric of your dress nervously. Wondering if you should disclose it.
If you did, whom would he tell?
At that, you do not need to provide him the man's name.
You sigh. "I had such an opportunity once. Not so long ago. And yet still, I put others before myself. Because I knew what would come of it had I said yes. Mayhaps I should have. Even if it would have only worsened matters."
You shake your head. "So, I do not know anymore. I've spent nigh on my entire life trying to prepare myself for the prospect of a loveless marriage, so I am not disappointed when I am finally thrust into one. And then I am given an opportunity to procure myself something otherwise, and I still repudiate it."
His brows furrow, heart hammering, fist tightening at his side. Already one has asked for your hand.
Whom?
He wants his name.
"You have received a wanted proposal," he states flatly.
You shrug. "We were close friends as children," you start.
Cregan thinks to himself how he much understands what such a bond feels like. That it is not something which is easily replaced.
And now he feels envious of a faceless man over a girl he barely knows. One who has shown little interest in him thus far.
But he does now understand why, at least.
The way you spoke of yourself...of course you would never think yourself as desirable by another. Not truly.
Not until him, whomever he may be.
He wishes to discover it.
"May I ask whom?"
You finally look up to him once more and he does not much like the glassy look in your eyes. You miss him, then. This suitor. This...friend.
"You may, but I will not tell. It is for he and I alone to have knowledge of. It is...personal."
A muscle in his jaw feathers. "Do you love him?"
You don't understand his deep interest in a matter which does not concern him.
You dislike this sudden inquisition into your own private matters. You regret discussing it at all.
It was just that he had shared something with you: his beloved wife's final resting place, so you had tried to offer a bit of truth in return. Mayhaps you should not have.
"As a friend, I did once. He has since changed. We simply grew apart. He became someone else, someone I no longer recognized."
That blade cut deeper than just the surface that night. It permanently scarred more than just his face.
Already, after leaving the Red Keep, your relationship had been precarious, but the way he had looked at you while holding tightly to his mother as blood seeped from his injured eye—even as you cried for him....you then knew he was lost to you.
That fact was cemented further when he stopped replying to your letters.
And then you stopped bothering with writing them.
He takes a step back then, allowing you, finally, to breathe. Being near him makes you feel so...enveloped.
"I am sorry to hear it," he replies.
"I am sorry it happened," you whisper, turning your back to him and finally slipping into your room.
Cregan stands there, head swimming. He'd thought that he finally had you figured out: sweet, demure, unable to see your own worth, yet now he comes to discover of a secret romance between you and an unnamed man, which you refuse to elaborate on.
As he turns, headed toward the solar to meet with his advisors, he hopes they do not stoke his ire, as his jealousy has already been set ablaze.
You remain in your private room for awhile, pacing, considering.
You know it is foolish to consider such a thing. Accepting...it would do naught against what has already been done, as you keep telling yourself over and over again—desperately trying to pound it into your head.
And what benefits would it bring to your mother's side, anyway? None. Besides, it would break her heart and lay at her feet yet one more betrayal. And so soon after the last...
But what of you? What will happen to you now?
It is becoming—as time rows on and you grow older—blaringly obvious that signing yourself over to a miserable fate is far easier said than done.
You do not want to be alone, even in marriage. Do not want to be afraid and miserable.
You want...
You want.
Eventually, you exit your room, knowing remaining indoors will do little to ease your troubled and anxious mind. You cannot dwell on such things. Not here. Not now.
Outside.
You need outside where you feel less suffocated and cloistered away.
Mayhaps you will journey into the Godswood to sit alone for awhile.
You wish desperately to stop thinking.
Your footsteps falter and you turn away from your current destination, deciding to instead head in the direction of clanging steel, curious to see how the men train here.
You imagine it can't be terribly different from how they do so in the South, but you are interested, nonetheless.
Something to distract you.
Yes, that is what you need.
When you finally enter the Courtyard, your brows raise at the sight of Jace sparring against Lord Cregan. You decide to keep your distance, not wanting to throw off your twin by him spotting you as he tries desperately to beat back his northern combatant.
Cregan is near-relentless in his endeavors to subdue his opponent, who—while you would never state it plainly to his face—falls woefully short in terms of swordsmanship skills against the stoic young lord.
Jace stumbles back as Cregan rains down blows from above with—you hope—a dulled sword. He seems somewhat irritated somehow.
You hope it is not with your brother.
You take a step closer, and then another, and notice that Cregan is speaking to him—educating him—as he fights.
"Pay attention to your opponent's feet, young Prince. Anticipate their next step."
Clang.
"Turn—yes. Hit hard—from the side."
Clang.
"Keep your head up, or I'll ring it like a bell. Good!"
Clang.
Jace swings forward, Cregan dodging the move with deft footwork.
Just then, their swords meet, Cregan pushing back against your twin with all his might, until Jace falls, sword clattering beside him. Before he can even attempt at reaching for it, Cregan quickly kneels, holding his practice sword close to his throat. "Does my opponent sue for mercy?"
They both grin then as Jace nods in reply.
You are surprised that Lord Cregan had not gone easy on him, out of fear of retribution for 'showing him up', not that Jace is that sort of young man.
Finally, he takes Jace's hand in his, helping him to his feet.
Just as he does, he spots you, a gloved hand held up to your grinning lips as you head in the direction of the Godswood.
Your smile quickly fades, however, as your stomach turns when you enter the empty wooded area.
It hadn't merely been a playful game between young men... It was training for war.
You suddenly imagine Jace dying with a sword in his hand—Vermax falling from the sky—your mother wailing in agony over the loss of her firstborn son and fire raining down upon the enemy for it. Even for they you have sympathy.
You round the large heart tree which stands before a glistening pond of cool blue water and lean back against it, squeezing your burning eyes shut, willing the tears away.
But it only gets worse—your imagination running away from you. Not even coming here was going to soothe you, then.
Lucerys, who is still yet a child, with a sword thrust into his terrified hands, and Joffrey, still yet practically a babe, who may not even remember those who will be forever lost to him in battle.
And then there is Viserys and Aegon—both so young and tender.
Who...if you are all gone, who will raise them? What if...what if the Greens, instead, use them as veal for their dragons?
You feel sick.
You choke down a sob, covering your mouth with trembling hands. Oh Gods, what is happening?
"Princess?" Calls a concerned voice to your right, utterly gentle in tone, his fire quickly extinguished at the sight of you in distress.
You quickly wipe your flushed cheeks, even if you know it is of no use: he has seen you.
"Lord Cregan," you manage to say through the stinging tears.
He comes closer, throwing 'propriety' and 'decorum' to the wind as he cups your face in his hands, his brows furrowed, hard eyes full of worry. "Has something happened? If someone here has—"
You shake your head. "No. It's—"
You burst into tears then, imaging the fall of your family. All of them. Even those you are now meant to call enemy and usurper and worse.
He then pulls you close to him, against his chest, and you press your face against his leather jerkin, which smells of smoke and steel, as he wraps sturdy arms around you.
He gently runs his strong fingers through your soft hair, before cradling the back of your head in his callused palm, shooshing you, desperately wishing to comfort you from whatever has you in such disarray.
Finally, once you have begun to quiet, you pull back from him, leaning against the tree behind you once more, hiccupping. "I'm so...sor—" You shake your head. "Please, forgive me, Lord Cregan. I—"
He takes your hand in his bare one. "There is nothing to forgive."
Your lower lip trembles.
He steps closer, his body-heat radiating onto you against the cold. "Will you not tell me, Y/N?"
It seems a strange dichotomy to you: him.
Last night, with Jace—much like your first night here—he had talked history and fighting and weapons and about the Wall; the grit of the North, which he seems to completely embody. And then his being relentless with a sword in his hand—one always at his side. And there is the way he carries himself: with surety and steel.
But with you he is...gentle. Has been so many times now.
"Watching the two of you, it initially filled me with joy to see: you both getting on so easily. And so soon. And then I realized..."
You look up, meeting his eyes and he cups your cheek, brushing hot tears away with the pad of his thumb, before settling his grip upon your forearm.
You continue. "You were not play-fighting. It's training for war. One that I..."
You trail off for just a moment, taking deep breaths, trying to calm yourself before bursting into another fit of hysterics. "I believe is truly inevitable. If it were not so, we would not be here now, with you, seeking the might of your realm to back my mother. Her...cause. I thought I had accepted it—that which looms before us, but seeing Jace with a sword. Oh Gods, I cannot lose them."
His jaw feathers as he watches you struggle to hold yourself together. You are far too gentle a creature to bear witness to this pending doom.
"She told me once, something which her father—my grandsire—told her at my age; younger, even."
You are quiet for a moment, snow falling softly around the two of you, the sound of a bird flapping its wings in flight.
"When dragons go to war, everything burns."
You meet his eyes again. "Never, at any point in our history, have so many dragons been alive at once. Even at that, my uncle, Daemon, has a score of eggs incubating at Dragonstone. Not that they will be full-grown for some time, if they do indeed hatch."
You let out a shuddering breath. "I...I am afraid."
He rubs soothing circles against your sleeved arm with his thumb, grasping for the right words to give you, which may provide some sense of security, but he, most unfortunately, has none.
He has failed you more than once in that: being unable to comfort you from your troubles.
"I don't want my family to die," you whisper, fresh tears slipping down your face. "Any of them."
He leans forward, pressing his forehead to yours, taking each of your hands within his own, holding them up to his lips as he blows warm air onto them, before clasping them firmly between his large hands.
"I wish I had words of wisdom—assurance—to offer you. It grieves me to see you like this, Princess. But in times like these, sometimes we must admit hard truths to ourselves." He's quiet for a moment. "I think you and I both know what those truths to be. That if an agreement—capitulation—is not soon reached, I fear your mother's warning may yet come to fruition."
You sniffle. "Coming here felt—feels—like such an escape. It is as if I'm in another world now. Far from politics and scheming and treachery. Like none of it—or they—can touch me in this place."
You close your eyes.
"Do you want to know the horrible truth?" You question quietly.
"Tell me. Please."
You swallow thickly. "I don't want to go home."
He pulls back then and you stare up at him, ashamed of yourself.
"Might I ask why?" He probes.
You shrug slightly. "I..." You pause.
You don't open up like this. Not to anyone. It's not that you don't have someone to do so with. You do. But it would hurt them to hear. Would break your mother's heart to.
Mama.
So, you have kept it locked away inside all this time. But here, before the Gods—his Gods—if they are listening, you feel it a safe place.
Feel that he is.
"I have always felt othered. Out-of-step. Out-of-place. Within my own life..."
You sigh. "King's Landing was...the sun and the warm water was pleasant enough. And, at night, when I felt lonely, all I had to do was stand on my balcony, and listen, to know that I wasn't. The noise could be too much at times, but at others it served to console me.
"And then we left for Dragonstone, and I had never felt so alienated. Living on an island, away from everyone—everything—I had ever known, and so soon after losing—"
You stop. You know the truth. You always have. You and Jace and Luke had discussed it late one night in your twin's room; that most unspeakable secret which everyone seemed to talk about anyway.
It had lost Vaemond his head to do so, per Daemon.
"Go on," he encourages softly.
You look at him, resolving to finally acknowledge it. You will not shove him aside. He had doted on you. Loved you so.
You could still remember it, even now—that night when you could've been no more than five-years-old, and drifting off to sleep in his broad arms when he had whispered it: 'I love you, my little girl, with all that I am'.
And you had loved him. Laenor as well. And then you had lost them both, and in such quick succession of each other. To fire, no less.
No wonder you had never desired a dragon of your own.
It's because fire takes—kills and destroys and burns away all that remains. Until all that is left is charred bone and ashes and nothing. And it will do it again, soon enough.
Your chin wobbles. "My father, Ser Harwin. And then Laenor..."
You shake your head, and you find that he does not react to you saying it, which you are glad for.
"I had never felt so alone. I had my siblings, but even at that: I was the only girl. And Daemon... I have never considered him a father. I've never understood why my mother married him. He is...selfish. Dangerous and self-righteous."
He straightens. He'd heard rumors of him: the Rogue Prince. Taken his own niece to wife, immediately after the death of his first. He cannot imagine moving past it so quickly; such a loss.
"I feel as if I walk between two worlds, and that neither will ever truly have me. I do not feel high-born. Do not entirely want to be, either. It is why I don't like being called 'Princess'. Do not like others bowing and scraping before me, who I refuse to see as lesser-than. Who I instead wish I can be friends with.
"But I know I am not like them, either. Because they will never see me as as much. How could they? How can I ever relate to their hardships of poverty and constant struggle, when I have never wanted for anything except for perhaps...companionship? Or a sense of belonging."
You gently remove your hands from his own, tucking them beneath your cloak. "But when we arrived here—stood outside your castle—I felt something I never had before."
"What was it?" He whispers.
"Home." Your eyes shimmer with tears.
His heart jumps to hear you say such a thing.
"This place feels like what I imagine home is meant to feel like. And to know that in a fortnight, perhaps a little more time, a little less, that I will have to leave it behind, and mayhaps never see it again..."
You look to the side of you where a white rabbit hops along quietly, sniffing the snow beneath its padded feet. "I must sound ridiculous. To feel so attached to it when I've only just arrived. I know that I do not belong here—"
"I do not believe that," he states firmly, in a rasping voice.
Your brows furrow. How can he not? You are an outsider if there ever was one.
He continues. "I have questioned it: destiny. If it does exist, or if our lives are simply a series of choices we are forced to make day-by-day. But then I think of the Gods. The beauty of our world. The mysteries. The stories and legends." He looks at you. "How can I not, then? You say my home also feels like home to you?"
You nod gently.
"Perhaps our destiny is something that chooses us, then, and not the other way around. At least for some. Others... We are forced to carve our own path. But, for those that remain, unable to see a way forward—mayhaps they have a helping hand guiding them closer. Until they finally find whatever it is that has been waiting for them. And that hand leaves—them able to then forge ahead on their own, the path before them lain plainly."
You think for a moment, trying to understand what he might mean. “Are you saying that you believe Winterfell to be my destiny?”
He stares down at you. “Did you not feel as much when that feeling of home overcame you when standing outside our walls? Something drove you to come here, Y/N. You did tell me it had been a late decision. But one you made, nevertheless.”
You had heard once that Northerners were a superstitious lot. But, at the same time, you cannot deny the things he says.
He notes your silence. “Do you believe in the Gods?”
You look at him from under your lashes. “Which ones?” You ask with a small smile.
“Any,” he says, stepping round the heart tree, looking upon the face that was carved into it so many centuries ago.
You come to stand beside him. “I was raised in the light of the Seven.”
He looks to you, while your eyes remain firmly fixed on the tree before you.
“But I don’t…know that I feel they’ve ever listened to me. I believe in them, yes. I just don’t really pray to them anymore. I can’t even remember when it was that I stopped now. I think not long after Harwin…”
You look to him with worried eyes. “You won’t tell anyone, will you? What I’ve said about my true paternity or—”
He shakes his head. “No worries on that account, Y/N. I would never betray your trust. I consider it a gift—a privilege, even—you sharing such hard truths with me.”
And he does. You have done it time and again, much to his appreciation. He only wishes for it to continue. For you not to close yourself away from him instead.
“Why did you ask? About whether I believe?”
He nods toward the tree. “I do. Believe. Pray. When I am able.”
He turns fully toward you, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear, then settling his arms behind him. “Perhaps you should speak to them. If your New Gods did not listen… I wonder if the Old may not be more agreeable.”
You step toward it, considering. “How do I—”
“Just speak to them. As you have me. Nothing else is necessary. No crystals or censers or choosing this one or that to hear you. Tell them what is within your heart, your soul. I cannot promise that things will change, much more for the better, but I always feel as if a load has been lightened after I have confided in them.”
You sit upon the stone bench positioned a foot or so away, looking up at the blood-red leaves swaying above you, a cool winter wind blowing them to and fro.
You tighten your cloak around you then, which Cregan takes note of.
You tuck your chin in close to your chest, to only be met a moment later with the feel of a very heavy and long fur-lined cloak—already warm from his body heat—being carefully draped over your shoulders.
You look up to him. “Oh, you don’t have to—”
“What sort of man would I be if I let you sit there and shiver against the cold while I stay warm? It grieves me to think of you catching a chill while under my protection. Even if it would, mayhaps, keep you in my company longer.”
You flush.
“Besides, I have many others,” he states with a smile.
You wrap it further around you, until only your head is visible and his lip twitches at the sight. Of you, in a way, covered in him.
You smile sheepishly, your cheeks warming, along with the rest of you as you nervously wring your hands beneath the black cloak, which smells of him; of winter.. “Thank you, Cregan.”
Hearing his name uttered from your lips like this—and here—moves something within him. Sends his blood racing in his veins.
“Shall I leave you, then?” He asks, cocking his head slightly to the side.
You nod once. “I will at least try.”
He goes to step away. “I hope, truly, that they listen.”
It’s not quite an hour later when you finally rise from your seat. You had felt foolish at first—talking to a tree—but once you began to pour your heart out, there had been no stopping it.
You had told the Old Gods everything.
Had told them about your true father, and your step, Laenor. You prayed for your brothers, to keep them safe from whatever is to come. And if they do die…make it swift. Painless. You prayed for your mother, and for her to regain her throne with minimal bloodshed. Prayed even for the Hightowers and Alicent’s children, because they were still your family.
And then you prayed for the Realm. That, if and when lives are lost—it makes you sick to even think of it—to let it not be in vain. Let their bodies not rot on battlefields, never to return home, or their corpses strung up on tree branches, to be used as examples. Let them be buried with dignity.
Let families not go hungry, or suffer from illness and disease. Let horses not fall from starvation due to rationing. Let the land not be razed and destroyed, homes burned, shops never to reopen, leaving many without means to earn money, or a way to purchase provisions to survive off of.
The more you thought of war, the worse off you felt. Until you began to cry again. So much so that you eventually exhausted yourself and felt sick.
You had finally risen, thanking them for listening—if they indeed had, before heading out of the Godswood, back into the courtyard and heading into the castle once more to lie down for awhile.
You had knocked on Cregan's door, so as to return his cloak, to no avail.
So you had taken it with you into your own, deeming that you would return it to its rightful owner that evening instead.
You hung it carefully upon a brass hook on the wall, then stopped mid-turn when you caught sight of a present laid upon your bed, concealed in brown wrapping paper.
You gently pull at the twine tied round it, then smooth the paper back to reveal a beautiful heavy black cloak, lined with incredibly soft fur. Set atop it, a small note: To keep you warm. —Cregan
It is only once you have tried it on and are looking at yourself in a floor-length mirror that you notice the small embroidered direwolf above your left breast.
You smile warmly at the sight, your heart squeezing at his kind gesture.
You much look forward to seeing him again that night.
And you then wonder...if he feels the same.
1K notes
·
View notes