Check Engine Light // John Logan x Fem!Reader - [Chapter Ten]
Synopsis: What starts as a simple repair turns into late-night diner runs, coffee deliveries to the garage, and a growing attachment neither of you expects. Logan likes that you talk too much when you're nervous. You like that Logan becomes softer when nobody’s watching.
But as pressure mounts with Logan's hockey career and real life starts pulling at you from opposite directions, you begin to wonder if you’re just a temporary stop in Logan’s fast-moving future.
And Logan realizes far too late that somewhere between oil stains and midnight drives, you became the closest thing he’s ever had to home.
Pairings: John Logan x Fem!Reader
A/N: Thank you to everyone who has been reading, reposting, and leaving comments!
The drive back to your dorm felt longer than it should have. You kept the radio off, which probably wasn’t helping, since you had nothing to distract you from what had just happened.
Normally, after a night at Malone’s, you’d leave with a smile on your face. Sometimes you’d replay a conversation you’d had with Logan. Sometimes you’d laugh, remembering something stupid Dean said. More often than not, you’d leave with Logan and spend the night with him.
Tonight, all you could think about was the look on Logan’s face when you’d stood up from the booth. It wasn’t the irritation or even the surprise; it was the hurt. You hated that part.
You hadn’t left to punish him or because you wanted him to feel bad. You’d left because staying suddenly felt impossible. For weeks, you’d been swallowing little disappointments and brushing them away before they could become real.
Each one had seemed too small to fight about, and too small to make a big deal out of. But sitting in that booth tonight, hearing that sharp edge in his voice, something inside you had finally cracked.
Your phone buzzed when you stopped at a red light. You didn’t need to look to know it was him. Still, you waited until you were parked outside your dorm before checking. There were three texts.
Logan: Did you get back okay?
Logan: Y/N?
Logan: Can we talk?
The knot in your chest tightened. Of course, he wanted to talk. The problem was that you didn’t know what you would even say.
You typed the only honest thing you could think of.
You: yeah. I’m back.
A response came almost immediately.
Logan: Can I call?
You took a breath.
You: I’m tired.
The bubble popped up showing he was typing, and disappeared, before reappearing again.
Logan: okay
Logan: I love you.
The words hit you right in the chest. You believed them. You never doubted that Logan loved you.
You: I love you too
You set your phone on her nightstand and climbed into bed. For a long time, you stared at the ceiling. Sleep didn’t come quickly. Every time you closed your eyes, you found yourself replaying the same thought.
‘What if he doesn’t have anything left to give?’
That thought followed you into sleep.
--
The next morning felt strangely normal.
You woke up to a text from Logan.
Logan: Morning
Logan: Hope you slept okay
You stared at them while sitting up in bed. A month ago, you would’ve smiled immediately at those texts. Now, you felt something closer to sadness. You felt farther away from him than you had a month ago.
You answered anyway, and you texted throughout the morning. Nothing important, just surface-level things; as well as Dean apparently setting off a smoke alarm while trying to make breakfast.
By noon, he called. You answered on the second ring.
“Hey.”
“Hi.”
His voice sounded rough. You talked briefly about what was happening that week and about an upcoming game.
Neither of you mentioned Malone’s, not once. The omission sat between you the entire time. When the call ended twelve minutes later, you stared down at your phone.
You used to regularly spend an hour on the phone without realizing it. Twelve minutes. Now, it felt like you were both rushing toward the finish line.
--
Mel noticed something was wrong on Monday. You should’ve known better than to think you’d get away with pretending.
You were sitting in a coffee shop near campus, both working on your laptops and accomplishing very little.
Mel had been watching you for nearly twenty minutes. Every time you looked up, Mel was looking at you.
Finally, Mel snapped her laptop shut.
“Okay,” Mel said.
You blinked, “What?”
“What’s going on?”
You immediately looked back at your screen.
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?” you asked.
“The thing where you stare at your phone every five minutes and pretend that you’re not doing that.”
You sighed and eventually closed your own laptop. The fight drained out of your shoulders.
“I don’t know,” you said.
Mel’s expression softened.
“What happened?” Mel asked.
For a moment, you considered giving the easy answer. Instead, you surprised yourself by telling her the truth.
“I just miss him all of the time.”
Mel frowned, “He’s your boyfriend.”
You let out a laugh, “I know. It’s just… I can be sitting right next to him, and he always feels like he’s somewhere else.”
The confession hung between you. Once it was out, you couldn’t take it back. Mel reached across the table and squeezed your hand. And for the first time in weeks, you admitted how exhausted you were, too.
--
By Tuesday, you had convinced yourself that you were being dramatic. Not completely, just enough to make yourself feel guilty. Every time you thought about Malone’s, you thought about everything Logan had on his plate: practice, games, scouts, classes, family, and the garage.
The endless stream of people who seemed to want something from him every hour of the day. Then, you’d think about the look on his face when you’d walked out of Malone’s, and you’d feel terrible all over again.
The problem was that feeling terrible didn’t make you feel better or make you less lonely. It didn’t make you miss him less.
Your phone buzzed while you were sitting in the library trying to finish an assignment.
Logan: Can you come to the garage after class?
You stared at the message. Not because you didn’t know what it meant, because you did. You had spent days carefully stepping around the thing neither of you wanted to discuss, and eventually, one of you had to force the issue. Apparently, that day had arrived.
You: okay
Logan: Around 5?
You: sure
The conversation ended there. There were no hearts, no jokes. Just a plan. The simplicity of it made knots in your stomach.
--
Logan & Sons looked exactly the same as it always did. The glowing, neon sign, the same cracked pavement in the parking lot, the same smell of oil and metal drifting from the open bay door.
You parked and checked the time; it was 4:52. You were early.
You headed inside, seeing Jeff working on a truck. He looked up when he saw you.
“Hey, Y/N,” he said.
You gave a small wave, “Hi, Jeff.”
He took one good look at your face and sighed. That wasn’t encouraging.
“That obvious?”
“Painfully.”
You gave a small laugh. Jeff set his tools down.
“He’s coming, right? I know he’s supposed to work on a car tonight,” he asked.
“Supposedly,” you said, the word slipping out before you could stop it.
Jeff’s eyebrows rose slightly, and you immediately regretted saying it. But Jeff was Logan’s brother, and probably could tell something was off.
“He’ll be here,” he said.
The certainty in his voice should have reassured you, but it just made you tired. That wasn’t really the issue anymore.
You sat on the edge of a workbench near the office while Jeff went back to work. For a while, the only sounds were music drifting through the garage speakers and the occasional clank of tools against metal as Jeff worked.
You checked the time. 5:01.
Then, 5:07. 5:12.
By 5:15, you’d stopped pretending you weren’t watching the parking lot.
At 5:18, your phone buzzed.
Logan: running late, coach kept us
You just stared at the screen. Always something, always another reason, another obligation.
You: okay
The clock ticked toward 5:30. As ridiculous as it was, you found yourself thinking about every other time that you’d waited. Standing outside the locker room after the game, showing up to movie night, checking your phone at night, waiting for him to call you, waiting for plans, and waiting for conversations that never seemed to happen anymore.
The realization made your stomach hurt, because you hadn’t even noticed you’d started keeping score.
At 5:38, you heard the familiar sound of Logan’s truck pulling into the parking lot. Your heart reacted before your brain did, and you felt the stupid, automatic flutter you’d gotten since the day they’d met.
Logan climbed out of his truck, moving fast into the building. He had spotted you immediately, his expression softening and the tension in his face easing. For a second, you remembered exactly why you fell in love with him. Then, he looked at his watch, and the moment vanished.
“Hey,” he said, reaching you and leaning down, pressing a quick kiss to your lips.
You kissed him back, out of habit. Out of love. Out of confusion.
When he pulled away, he let out a breath, “Sorry, coach kept us late.”
His hair was damp from practice, and his shoulders looked tight. He looked exhausted. Somehow, that made you angrier, because you knew exactly what came next. The explanation. The reason for what prevented him from being here. Something inside of you finally gave way.
“You’re late.”
Logan blinked; the words clearly caught him off guard.
“What?”
“You’re late.”
His expression tightened immediately. Not with anger, but confusion.
“I texted you.”
You laughed, and the sound came out sharper than you’d intended.
“Yeah.”
Now Logan frowned. The familiar defensive look appeared almost instantly.
“I don’t understand what you’re upset about.”
The sentence landed very badly. You crossed your arms.
“Really?” you asked.
“Yeah, really.”
The frustration in his voice was impossible to miss now. For the first time in weeks, neither of you backed down. You knew exactly where this conversation was headed.
For a few seconds, neither of you said anything. The tension settled heavily in the garage. Somewhere behind you, a song changed on the speakers. Jeff looked up from the truck, took one glance at your faces, and immediately disappeared into another part of the garage.
“Y/N, I texted you the second I got out of practice.”
You laughed again, the same humorless sound you’d started hating. Every time it came out of your mouth, you felt like someone you didn’t recognize.
“Do you honestly think this is about 30 minutes?”
Logan stared at you, “No. I think this is about something else, and I have no idea what it is because you won’t actually tell me.”
The words hit harder than they should have, mostly because there was some truth buried inside of them. You hadn’t told him, not really. You’d swallowed things down, ignored them. You’d made excuses for him, for yourself, and every time that something hurt, you’d convinced yourself it wasn’t important enough to bring up. Now all of it was sitting in your chest at once.
Logan scrubbed a hand over his face. He looked exhausted. The sight softened you for half of a second, but then you remembered. You remembered standing in the doorway of his house when Dean realized he had forgotten about movie night. You remembered watching Dean’s Instagram story from Malone’s.
“You forgot me.”
The words came out quietly, so quietly that Logan didn’t react at first. Then, his brow furrowed.
“What?”
“You forgot me.”
“Y/N, what are you talking about?”
You stared at him. Part of you couldn’t believe you were actually saying any of this out loud. The other part wondered why you waited so long.
“Malone’s. Movie night. The lack of calls. Texts. Conversations.”
Logan opened his mouth and closed it again. For the first time since you'd known him, he genuinely looked at a loss.
“You think I forgot about you?”
The hurt in his voice made something twist painfully in your chest. You knew how that sounded; cruel, unfair.
“Yes. No. Kind of.”
“Then what are you saying?”
You let out a shaky breath, “I’m just saying I feel like I keep ending up at the bottom of the list.”
Logan stared at you, and then actually looked angry. He wasn’t furious, he wasn’t yelling, but he looked angry. The kind of anger that came from feeling misunderstood.
“That’s not fair.”
There it was, the first real spark.
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
Logan took a step back and ran both hands through his hair.
“I’ve been trying to balance a hundred different things.”
“I know you have.”
“Do you?” he asked.
The question landed hard. Suddenly, Logan wasn’t just frustrated; he was hurt, too.
“I don’t think you do,” he added.
“What?”
“I don’t think you understand what the last few weeks have been like.”
The words were sharp enough to sting. He gestured vaguely toward the garage, and just everything.
“Every day it’s something. Practice, scouts, coaches, classes, interviews, meetings, the garage… everyone wants something from me all of the time.”
You folded your arms tighter across your chest.
“And you think I don’t know that?”
“No, I think you know it. I just don’t think you get what it feels like.”
The sentence hit you like a slap. You stared at him. Then anger arrived. Real anger.
“You’re right.”
Logan frowned.
“Y/N—”
“No, you’re absolutely right.”
You laughed once, and it was bitter.
“Because clearly the last few weeks have only been hard for you.”
His expression changed immediately, but you couldn’t stop now.
“You know what the worst part is?” you asked.
“Y/N.”
“The worst part is that I know you’re trying,” you said. Your voice cracked, “I know you are.”
You swallowed hard and then forced yourself to continue.
“Every single time something happens, I tell myself it’s not your fault. I tell myself you’re tired.”
Logan’s jaw tightened.
“Or stressed, or busy. Maybe that’s true,” you said, the anger draining, leaving something sadder behind.
“Maybe every single reason you’ve given me is completely valid.”
Logan didn’t interrupt; he just stood there listening.
“You didn’t see the look on Dean’s face when I showed up to movie night. I stood there like an idiot.”
“Y/N—”
“No. I don’t think you understand how humiliating that feels.”
The words echoed through the garage, and Logan looked stunned this time. But, you weren’t finished.
“Or seeing everyone at Malone’s because Dean posted a video. Or you snapping at me that night.”
You looked directly at him.
“I feel stupid waiting for you all the time,” you said.
The sentence landed between you. Logan didn’t look angry anymore; he looked devastated.
For a long moment, Logan didn’t say anything. The garage felt impossibly still. All of the anger that you had been carrying for days had finally come out, and now you felt exhausted.
“I didn’t know all of this,” he said quietly.
“That’s kind of the point.”
Logan looked away briefly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.
“I didn’t realize it was this bad.”
You stared at him. Part of you wanted to laugh, and another part of you wanted to cry. Instead, you just shook your head.
“How could you?” you asked.
Logan’s eyes snapped back to yours. The question clearly caught him off guard.
“You’ve been so busy trying to survive every day that I don’t think you’ve noticed anything else.”
The words weren’t meant to be cruel. Logan wanted to argue; you could see it, his instinctive defensiveness. However, he stopped. Maybe he was finally hearing you.
“I spend half of my time missing you. I miss you all the time,” you whispered. The words hit him exactly where you’d expected them to.
Once you started talking, you couldn’t stop.
“I miss talking to you. I miss hanging out with you. I miss being excited to tell you things. I miss sitting next to you without wondering if you’re actually listening.”
You saw him flinch and the guilt arrive. Logan took a slow breath.
“I’m right here.”
The words hung between them, and you closed your eyes. It was the thing you’d been terrified he would say, because you knew he believed it. You knew he meant it.
You felt tears prick behind your eyes.
“I’m saying you’re not.”
You didn’t want to hurt him. You loved him. You loved him so much. If you didn’t love him with your entire heart, none of this would matter.
“You think this is about being late today?” you wiped quickly at her eyes, “I don’t care that you’re late.”
That lie lasted half a second.
“Okay, I care a little,” you said, a small laugh escaping you, “That’s not why we’re here.”
Logan looked exhausted emotionally, like the weight of the conversation was finally settling onto his shoulders.
You took a shaky breath and then said the thing you’d been carrying for weeks. The thing you’d been terrified to admit.
“Why am I always the thing that gets forgotten?”
Just like that, everything went silent. Logan didn’t have an answer, at least not a real one. Not one that would make any of this hurt less. You watched John Logan stand there completely speechless.
The question had been sitting somewhere deep in your chest for weeks, gathering weight every time you waited for a text that never came, or every time you watched Logan get pulled away by something else. Now it was out in the open.
Eventually, Logan looked away first. He dragged a hand through his hair and turned toward the workbench behind you, bracing both palms against the metal surface.
“I don’t forget you.”
His voice was quieter now.
“You make it sound like I don’t care about you, Y/N.”
You hated that you were hurting him. You still wanted to walk across the garage and wrap your arms around him.
“I’m not saying you don’t care. I’m just tired of being understanding all the time. I’m tired of always making excuses.”
“But it’s true.”
“I know it’s true, John. I know every reason. I’ve memorized them.”
“So what? What do you want from me?” he asked quietly.
You didn’t want flowers, or more texts, or grand gestures. You just wanted him back. Not the version everyone else got, just Logan. You wanted the guy who would sit up with you until two in the morning, talking about absolutely nothing. You wanted their dinner nights back at the diner.
“I know I’ve screwed things up. I know I’ve been distracted,” he said, his voice rising slightly, “You think I wanted to forget movie night?”
You looked at him, tears welling up in your eyes again.
“I feel like I’m standing here getting ripped apart over things I already know I fucked up.”
“John—”
“I don’t know how to fix this.”
“You’re going to keep being busy. The scouts aren’t going to go away. I just feel you disappearing. I don’t know what happens now,” you whispered.
The truth was you loved each other, and you were both hurting. Neither of you knew how to bridge the distance that had grown between you.
Logan pushed away from the workbench and made his way a little closer to you.
“I kept telling myself it was temporary, and that I’d get back to normal. Then the next week came, and it was still busy.” He said.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated.
“Somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling like your girlfriend,” you said honestly, “I started feeling like somebody trying to squeeze into whatever space was left.”
“I never wanted you to feel that way,” he said honestly, more sad than anything. That was the tragedy of it. Not once had you thought that he was purposely trying to push you away.
The painful part was that intentions weren’t enough anymore. Some people could love each other completely and still end up here. What scared you most was standing here in the garage, neither of you knew how to make it better.
You wiped the tears from your eyes. Later, when you thought back on the conversation, the details blurred together. The argument itself remained painfully sharp in your memory, every word etched into your mind with clarity, but the ending felt softer somehow.
Maybe because neither of you had wanted it; maybe because there wasn’t a villain. Maybe because you were both standing there, realizing that love wasn’t fixing the problem anymore.
The sun had disappeared by the time you looked at your phone. The sight of the time startled you; you’d been talking for nearly two hours. Both of you just felt exhausted.
For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, you picked up your bag from the workbench. The movement felt small, but it changed everything. Logan’s eyes dropped to the bag in your hand, and something shifted in his expression. Sadness. As though he knew what the gesture meant.
“I should go.”
Logan nodded once; the motion was barely visible. You thought he might tell you to stay. Instead, he looked down at the floor and shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants. It was a familiar gesture, one you’d seen a hundred times. Only this time, he looked completely defeated.
“Okay.”
That was all he said. No promises. No speech. No desperate attempt to fix everything before you reached the door. A lot of things were said tonight, and you both needed time to process them.
You took a few steps toward the open bay door and then stopped. Despite everything, you couldn’t just leave, not like this. Not after all of this.
When you turned back, Logan was exactly where you’d left him. He was standing beside the workbench, watching you. The distance between you wasn’t very far; it was maybe twenty feet.
“I love you.”
The words slipped out of your mouth before you could stop them. Logan’s eyes closed briefly. When he opened them again, you could see exactly how much those words had cost him, because he looked devastated all over again.
“I love you, too.”
His voice sounded rough, but his answer came immediately and without hesitation. You nodded lightly before forcing yourself to turn around.
The evening air felt cooler than you expected when you stepped outside. You reached your car and opened the door. You looked back one last time, and Logan was still standing in the garage, exactly where you’d left him. The sight lodged itself painfully in your chest, because he looked alone. The same way you’d felt for weeks.
You climbed into your car before you could change your mind and walk back inside. By the time you pulled out of the parking lot, he was still standing there, watching you leave.
𝗢𝗥 𓈒 𓈒 logan finds out that calling your drunk girlfriend jealous means instant tears
contains : established relationship fluff angst? dramatic and drunk reader she’s a mess but he loves it 𝘄 ｡ 710
“You were talking to her! And you were smiling!” You shouted, your words coming out slurred from all the alcohol you had consumed throughout the night with your friends. You had your arms crossed, and you were swaying on your feet as you tried your best to glare at your boyfriend, who was standing across from you in his dorm room. Your glare was more adorable than angry.
“I was being polite! She was asking for suggestions on how to get her and her girlfriend home,” Logan voiced loudly, emphasizing the girlfriend part. The whole ride back from Malone’s, you were giving the silent treatment, leaving Logan to sit there as he tried not to let it affect him, reminding himself that his adorable and dramatic girlfriend was very much drunk.
The two of you had been at Malone’s with your group of friends for karaoke night. You had been dancing with Allie and Hannah when you noticed your boyfriend talking to another girl at the counter. You didn’t like how close she stood to him, and you hated even more that he had a smile on his face. Your mind was too clouded with all the fruity drinks you had with Hannah to notice how it was just him being polite.
Now the two of you stood in his dorm room, your clothes and shoes thrown over his floor as you wore one of his shirts that was definitely on backwards, you swore that you didn't need his help to change. Logan nearly had a heart attack at the sight of you almost tripping over your own feet as you pulled off your shirt, too drunk to stand still. Logan was still in the clothes he wore out, too focused on defusing the situation to change.
“She stood too close to you, and you didn't even care.” Your voice was much softer this time, your throat hurting from all the screaming and singing you had done tonight with your friends. You blame it on Allie. Your clearly altered mind started to play tricks on you as your imagination went wild; you couldn’t help but tear up.
“You’re the most jealous woman I know!’ Logan threw his head up as he shook his head in disbelief before resting his hands on his hips. He wasn't upset with you by any means; he was just tired and strangely very entertained. How did he get himself into this situation? Logan clearly didn't notice your watery eyes because if he did, he would never have raised his voice.
“You know other women?” Your whisper came out small and pitiful, tears slowly rolling down your face and mixing with your mascara as your arms fell at your sides in dramatic defeat.
Logan’s shoulders sank as he sighed. His poor girl was just way too drunk to fully understand what was happening and her feelings. He stepped towards you and was quick to pull you into his arms for a hug that both of you desperately needed. “Aw, baby.”
“Pretty, you are the only woman for me,” Logan whispered sweetly as he held you close to his chest. He felt you melt into your arms at his reassuring words, wasting no time to wrap your arms tightly around his waist.
“Promise?” You sniffled, your voice coming out muffled from your face being pressed against his chest, but Logan heard you just fine. You closed your eyes, you felt so tired all of a sudden, and the safety and warmth of your boyfriend's arms were not helping you want to stay awake.
“I promise pretty.” He promises as he rubbed your back softly, a small smile forming back on his lips when he notices your sniffles quiet down and stop. After a couple of minutes, you lift your head up to look at him, your chin resting on his chest. Logan smiled fondly and leaned down to softly peck the tip of your nose before placing a soft kiss on your lips.
His thumbs softly wiped away your tears and traces of mascara on your pretty face. He spoke quietly with a grin, seeing the tiredness in your eyes. “Now, let's go to the bathroom, you forgot to take your makeup off on your left side.”
┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜
Ი𐑼 there’s just something about the concept of logan taking care of his drunk girlfriend that absolutely drives me insane 😻 okay this was short but sweet , please tell me your thoughts and opinions , feedback means everything mwah 💖
᧔᧓ if this seems familiar it’s because I’ve taken it from my old blog and rewrote it with someone new !
𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 : john logan x fem! chronic fainter! reader
𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : little bit of angst, self-sabatoge! reader, ermmm, healthy communication? Logan..being a green flag? comfort!
𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : You couldn't get it out of your mind. the devastated, unbearably broken look on your boyfriends face from that evening. The evening where you didn't recover as easily as you did, all those times before. You noticed it the next day, how wound up he was- how tired and exhausted he looked. And if 1+1=2, you calculated that he must be done with you, done with your baggage and your inbuilt extra effort. So you did the most logical thing you could think of, create distance, let him make you the villain in your untimely end and break it off.
What you didn't anticipate was that he was more stubborn than you ever could've imagined.
𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 8.9k words
𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : I told ya'll this was a big mama fic. almost double the amount of words than pt 1! I got so so so many requests for a part 2, so I thought I'd do it right. Hopefully it doesn't disappoint, I decided to end it on a good note (spoiler!) since I felt bad for leaving ya'll with an unintentional cliff hanger. Enjoy!! Thank you @pinkyups for the gif and @somebitchprobably-graphicdump for the dividers !
𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 : I would really appreciate if you could send in an ask to be on my taglist, it's easier for me to manage and make sure everyone is added!! here is the post of my current taglist. Also, if your user is bolded, I'm going on a prayer that youve been tagged but Tumblr wouldn't let me properly do so. I would recommend checking your privacy settings to allow other people to tag you.
You woke up the next morning, head still laying in Allies lap with drool dribbling down your chin and onto her leg, against your thigh Hannah lay soundlessly, her mouth parted with her hair splayed across her face. The room was a sight for sore eyes, in front of where the three of you lay sprawled, a small mountain of empty ice cream tubs, bottles of wine and tissue boxes half full sat- waiting for your attention.
You smacked your lips together, wincing at the foreign, dry feeling that paired with the tangy taste of leftover wine stuck to your mouth. Stretching as carefully as you could, you managed to wiggle out from beneath Hannah, substituting your thigh with a throw pillow and got to work making your living room seem somewhat presentable.
As you padded around, memories came back in chunks with each new piece of trash you picked up.
Used tissue pile by the money plant? Hannah and Allie had found you curled up on the floor next to it, one hand messily discarding and using the tissues on your eyes while the other scrolled through Pinterest- a new wave was activated when you came across some cute couple on your feed.
Plastic cups smelling like coke and rum? Allie had suggested something stronger after you finished the stash of wine in the cupboard, perfect to pair with the magic mike re-run you were watching.
A small pile of Logans hoodies and t-shirts, soaked in…was that vodka? Hannah had drunkenly collected anything she could find in her haze, and somehow emerged with a half-full bottle of smirnoff. You and Allie had stopped her before she somehow found a matchbox.
Slowly, the night was coming back to you in chunks and by the time the two girls on the couch had begun to wake at 11:00am, you had removed any trace of your, as you liked to call it, heart-broken psychotic adventure.
You actually managed to use the shower first, returning to the main room whilst towel drying your hair- Allie called your name from her sleepy perch, “So..” She wiped at the crusted drool on her cheek, “Logan texted you? Is it actually over?”
Your eyes widened, that part didn’t register to you until now. You assumed that whatever conversation you had back at the house constituted an implied breakup, but that wasn’t Logan’s style. He would never leave things unsaid if he truly believed in following through. So, you lunged at your phone that sat innocently on the table, sure enough there were a few messages from Logan- along with one missed call and a few from the other boys.
The phone mocks your bated breath, taking you through the lock-screen and slowly loading the messages that you were waiting for.
“He said..” You squinted at them, that couldn’t be right? “Good morning? And… He can’t wait to see me in accounting?”
Thumbing at the phone you scoff and shake your head, “Is that it?”
Hannah had woken up during your narration and had scrunched her face up in disapproval, “Wow how avoidant of him,” She slowly rises from the couch, unbuttoning her sweater while yawning, “I’m next for the shower, tell me if he says anything else nonchalant.” She mocks your boyfriends..well? Ex? Or not? Behaviour with a silly voice and stumbles into her room.
Allie groans and thumps her head against the headrest, facing away from you, “Great, I’ll take a cold one,” She lifts her hand and crooks her finger at you, “Get over here and show me those messages.”
Shrugging, you hand her your phone and continue to dry your hair, “Should I ask about yesterday?”
You watch her analyse the texts like they would tell her the next bond movie lead, “I don’t know babe, I think he might just be trying to brush past it. Y’know, maybe he’s got used to it.”
“Yeah maybe.. He seemed so out of it yesterday though.” You chew your lip, getting up to start breakfast. Or lunch. You settle for brunch.
Allie stretches her legs out and slumps into the sofa humming whilst wrapping herself in the discarded throw, “We all were, you did pass out like. Fully.”
You roll your eyes and have half the mind to throw a rogue blueberry at her, but you decide against it when she continues, “Not saying it was fun for you- but in his eyes. He was in class and then suddenly got messages about his girlfriend not waking up.”
“It’s just,” You shake your head and break an egg into the pan which had been heating some oil, “You didn’t see him, Allie, he was so tired. Exhausted. Because of me.”
The scrambled eggs go blurry for a second before you blink it away, “I don’t want him to end up resenting me- especially for something I can’t control.”
The girl sighed sympathetically, “I don’t think he could resent you, even if you crashed his car into the workshop.”
The pan sizzled behind you as you turned, spatula in hand, “I’ll ask in person, if he doesn’t want to talk about it. Then he must be okay.”
Allie nodded, the thin blanket slipped off her shoulder as she dashed to her room, Hannah had emerged from the bathroom and was tapping some moisturizer into her face.
“Yeah, and if all else fails- just get with his brother!” The door slams, and the sound of the shower turning on replaces her voice.
You stare at where she was sitting, Hannah slowly turned away towards you her mouth popped open in an O, “So..what did I miss?”
Logan claimed he was fine, so fine in fact that he had brought you your favourite breakfast to class. A brown paper bag that smelt suspiciously like an almond croissant sat at your desk, along with an iced latte. You smirked at the display and your gaze dragged to the seat next to you, rolling your eyes when Logan grinned at your amused expression.
You kissed his cheek and thanked him, already sipping at the sweet drink as the professor walked in, papers flying out of his satchel with each hurried step he took; it gave you the perfect opportunity to turn to Logan, leaning closer to whisper into his ear, “So about yesterday..”
The area between the two of you seemed to chill, a frigid feeling settled deep in your bones and made your smile fall. Logan had stilled, the fingers that twirled his pen between them froze, “We don’t need to talk about it,” he cleared his throat and adjusted in his seat, hunching his shoulders forward to bow his head down.
“Oh,” You avert your eyes, fiddling with the straw in your coffee that somehow tasted bitter despite the gallons of sugary syrup pumped into it, “Yeah… of course. You just seemed so off, and I want-”
“It was nothing.” He gritted out, turning to you.
His eyes were dark, as if overnight he had built a large, looming wall over them- just tall enough to keep his emotions at bay, and you out.
You nodded silently, thankful for the fact that your professor had finally re-organised himself and was beginning the lecture.
The worst scenario your brain could think of last night, had come true. He was tired of you, tired of what you brought to his life but just couldn’t find a way to tell you. So, in that moment, despite the fact that Logan had relaxed back into his seat, scribbling notes down as if he hadn’t ripped your heart in two with his words- you decided that if he wasn’t going to pull away, you were going to run.
Thereafter, the entire week had been your own personal hell. You felt like a little doped up hamster, burdened to never leave its wheel- because nothing even changed.
You still woke up to good morning texts.
Still got updates about practice. Still got stupid blurry pictures of Tucker doing something deeply concerning in the background of the hockey house kitchen. Logan still sent you reminders to eat like muscle memory had taken over his nervous system.
Johnny boy 🏒 :
have u consumed anything today besides caffeine and academic suffering
You:
rude.
You:
and yes
Johnny boy 🏒:
that pause was suspicious
You:
i had pasta at like 3
Johnny boy 🏒:
okay good
Johnny boy 🏒:
proud of u baby
And every single time your phone lit up with his name, your chest hurt, because he must have been trying so hard, to be normal, to make any of this normal. But you knew the truth, you couldn’t stop replaying the look on his face from that evening, the pure, exhausted fear etched into the deep lines of his face.
That look followed you everywhere.
Back to your dorm.
Back to class.
Back to the library where you’d sit for hours pretending to read the same paragraph while your brain looped endlessly around the same horrible thought:
How long until he gets tired of texting you, tired of the constant check-ins, from the random times you'd become an inconvenience.
Ever since the fainting started, you loathed your body- your brain, the elementary functions you were meant to be able to complete on a daily basis. But you couldn’t and it made people look at you differently. Like you were some sub-terranian alien, one that couldn’t handle the complexities of earth and would choose the most annoying parts of life to announce it to the entire world.
The thing that nobody fully could comprehend was that the fainting itself wasn’t even the worst part anymore. Embarrassing sometimes, inconvenient always, but manageable. You’d lived with it long enough that it barely felt dramatic inside your own head.
It was everybody’s reactions that exhausted you, the panic, the hovering, the carefulness afterwards- the way they’d treat you like you were fragile. You learnt ways to make it easier for them, learning how to throw the first joke into the room, how to brush it off fast enough for the benefit of everyone, so that they would unpause and move on before it got weird.
And it worked, most people would continue on. Which was exactly how you liked it.
Logan never really had, you noticed it in the tiny things, the way he tracked whether you’d eaten without even realising he was doing it, the protein bars he shoved into every bag you owned, the way his eyes snapped toward you anytime you stood up too fast.
And maybe it should’ve felt romantic, and maybe a part of it did. But another part of you - the ugly, exhausted, matter of fact part - felt guilty every single time.
Because loving you looked stressful.
And somehow, against all odds, he made it look worth it. Which only made you feel even worse.
𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊
The first time you actively hid a dizzy spell from him had been months ago, before the others really noticed how bad your stress had gotten during midterms.
You’d all gathered at the hockey house, a break from your regularly scheduled academic meltdown and junk food hoarding. You, Hannah and Allie were in the kitchen, grabbing some drinks and glasses while Logan and the boys argued loudly over some game in the living room.
You remembered leaning against the counter while Hannah talked about one of her classes, your vision slowly fuzzing around the edges in that horribly familiar way.
“Oh no,” you muttered quietly.
Allie looked over immediately, “What?”
You pressed two fingers against your temple. “I think I stood up too fast.”
“You say that every single time before you’re not.”
You ignored her and reached for the fridge handle instead, horrible decision. Your stomach dipped sharply and the kitchen tilted for half a second.
“Okay,” you whispered immediately, grabbing the counter. “Maybe not fine.”
“Whoa, hey,” Allie rushed to your side, rubbing your back.
You squeezed your eyes shut, breathing carefully through the dizziness. From the living room, you could hear Logan laughing at something Tucker said, the sound made your heart twist, he sounded carefree, happy.
The kind of happy that someone would be if they were operating under the pretense that their new girlfriend was only fetching drinks from the kitchen with her friends, not currently making a mental deal with god, begging him to save her the ordeal of fainting in the kitchen.
“No,” you said quickly when Hannah glanced toward the doorway.
“What do you mean no?”
“Don’t call him.”
Allie frowned. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.” You breathed out too fast. Too desperate, “Please.”
The girls exchanged a look.
“He’ll freak out,” you admitted quietly, still staring at the floor. “And it’s literally fine. I just need a second.”
Hannah softened, “Oh,” she opted to hand you a glass of cold water.
You laughed weakly, even though your throat felt tight, “Everyone else gets over it eventually. I’ll tell him when it feels right. ”
Allie’s face fell slightly at that but before either of them could say anything, voices got louder from the other room. You could make out the familiar, soothing sound of Logan calling your name paired with footsteps approaching.
Your eyes widened.
“Pretend nothing happened.”
“You’re insane,” Hannah hissed.
“Please.”
And somehow, against their better judgement, they did.
By the time Logan wandered into the kitchen, you were sitting on the counter swinging your legs like nothing had happened.
His eyes landed on you instantly anyway.
“You okay?” he asked. His eyebrows furrowed when you blinked slowly and hummed, your knuckles whitening as your grip tightened on the platform.
You smiled too quickly, “Peachy.”
You could practically see him sensing something off in the air, the way his gaze flicked between you, Hannah and Allie.
“You look pale.”
“I’m literally always pale.”
“That’s true,” Allie cut in suddenly, way too loudly.
Hannah stared at her.
Logan narrowed his eyes, “You guys are being weird.”
“No we’re not,” all three of you said at once.
Then Logan snorted softly and kissed your forehead, reaching for the pack of beer that had been thawing out next to you, “Okay. Freaks.”
You rolled your eyes at him, ignoring the throb that emanated from the action, and accepted his hand that helped you off from your perch.
And just like that, the moment passed.
At the time, you’d felt relieved. Victorious in some sick, twisted way.
Now, sitting alone in your dorm days after the fight, the memory made your chest ache instead.
Because maybe that had been the beginning of it, the beginning of you quietly teaching yourself that it was easier if Logan didn’t know everything.
Easier if he didn’t see too much.
Your phone buzzed against your blanket.
Johnny boy 🏒:
u alive?
You:
unfortunately
Johnny boy 🏒:
good
Johnny boy 🏒:
miss u
Your throat tightened instantly and you stared at the message for way too long before finally typing back.
You:
miss u too <3
This felt worse than fighting, you felt like a fraud, because he still loved you exactly the same. And you still hadn’t been able to force your feet through the front door of the hockey house.
The problem with dating John Logan, and subsequently trying to avoid him. Was that it required an almost military level of strategic planning.
And unfortunately for you- he was everywhere. This wasn’t in the metaphorical sense, though you did feel the emptiness of your heart every night when you slept alone, without him. This was in the literal sense.
You saw him in the cafeteria holding three protein shakes and arguing with Tucker about whether ketchup belonged on eggs. You saw him outside the lecture hall one afternoon with wet hair curling slightly at the ends from practice, hockey bag slung over one shoulder while Dean tried to wrestle his headphones away from him. You saw him through library windows, through crowds, through reflections on your phone screen when you accidentally opened old photos.
And every single time, your body reacted before your brain did, you felt it in the automatic loosening of your shoulders, the daily frown melting from your mouth, a deep exhale of breath you didn’t realise you were holding. Like you subconsciously still recognised him as your ultimate release.
Which was deeply irritating considering you were actively trying to avoid being alone with him.
It also didn’t help that he was still oblivious. From the outside, you could've passed for your usual selves.
Because he still texted you, at the same times with the same gentle tone that he had reserved for you.
Good morning baby.
Did you eat?
Professor still annoying as fuck?
Miss you.
And you answered. Always, which was betraying the very essence of your Logan-cleanse. Matching his energy so perfectly that it almost became cruel.
Miss you too <3
Yes mom.
No but I’m plotting murder.
Practice go okay?
There were heart reactions. There were jokes. There were even selfies.
Meanwhile, you had not willingly stood in the same room as your boyfriend for eight days.
You skipped hockey house movie nights because you “had work.”
You started studying in different library wings.
You left classes through side exits.
You timed your schedule around his practices without even meaning to.
He noticed early on, of course he did- and of course, at first, he tried to play along with whatever you were creating. His texts became impossibly softer, less pushy like he was trying everything in his power to not scare you off.
Each time his name popped up on your phone, you could feel the truth slam into your face like a wrecking ball.
You missed him. God. You missed him.
You missed being folded into his side on the couch while he watched terrible action movies. You missed the absentminded way he played with your fingers during lectures. You missed waking up to his stupid bedhead and warm hands and the smell of laundry detergent clinging to his hoodies.
But every time you thought about seeing him properly again, your chest tightened. Not out of anger, you just couldn’t fathom feeling the way you did when you first heard his voice break, the way your stomach fell when his lip quivered and how an acidic burn leeched up your throat when his hand tightened around yours just as you’d woken up.
You couldn’t stop hearing it.
I don’t know how many times I can do it.
You knew he hadn’t meant for it to be cruel, he’d said it like someone admitting they were drowning. And now every time you pictured yourself next to him, all you could think about was weight. Pressure that held his head below water. Responsibility that dragged him down to the sea-bed. Another thing for him to survive.
And you couldn’t be selfish and force him to survive you, just because you knew you wouldn’t make it out of the heartbreak alive.
The library lights flickered softly overhead as you rubbed at your eyes for what had to be the hundredth time that night. Your laptop screen blurred slightly, not in the way that made you push the device out the way in preparation for your body going limp, this was exhaustion.
The kind of exhaustion that settled somewhere behind your eyes after too many hours staring at academic journals while pretending your personal life wasn’t quietly imploding in the background.
Around you, the library had mostly emptied.
A few students still lingered in distant corners, faces illuminated by laptop screens and caffeine-fuelled despair, but the heavy silence of closing time had already started settling over the building.
You checked the time.
11:47 PM.
Jesus.
No wonder your spine felt compressed. You stretched slightly in your chair, wincing as your neck cracked.
“Still alive over there?”
You looked up.
One of the older library staff members smiled at you from the circulation desk while stacking returned books into a trolley. You offered a tired smile back, shrugging weakly as you gave him a wry grin.
“Debatable.”
He laughed softly, “You staying late again?”
You nodded with a sigh, “Big test tomorrow.”
“That boy of yours not dragging you home tonight?”
Your stomach dipped and forced your expression not to change.
“Oh,” you said lightly, eyes dropping back to your laptop screen, “he’s got late practice.”
It wasn’t technically a lie. That’s what you told yourself to soothe the childish guilt of lying to the sweet old man in front of you.
The librarian hummed knowingly before disappearing toward the back office.
You exhaled slowly once he was gone, fingers hovering uselessly over your keyboard.
You were tired. Not only physically, something more than that.
You were tired of thinking.
Tired of calculating.
Tired of trying to figure out whether love was supposed to feel this terrifying when someone finally saw all the ugly parts of you and stayed anyway.
Your phone buzzed beside your laptop. Flipping it over, you stared at the notification for a moment before opening it.
Johnny boy 🏒:
practice finally over. u awake?
Your chest ached instantly but you typed back before you could overthink it.
You:
Unfortunately.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Johnny boy 🏒:
Baby go to sleep.
A reluctant smile tugged at your mouth.
You:
Can’t. Studying.
A pause.
Johnny boy 🏒:
Library?
Your stomach dropped as the message glared at you, maybe, if you didn’t move the universe would decide to be merciful. It was not. The universe evidently, enjoyed your suffering.
Because less than three minutes later, footsteps echoed somewhere beyond the corner you had tucked yourself into. Heavy in a familiar way that made your heart skip a beat.
You looked up before you could stop yourself. And you couldn’t look away even if you tried.
John Logan stood halfway down the corridor in a backwards Briar hockey cap and grey hoodie, hair still damp from practice and curling slightly at the edges. His hockey bag hung from one shoulder while his other hand rubbed absently at the back of his neck.
For a second neither of you moved. Your muscles felt tight, yet somehow loose, as if you physically wanted to start packing up and haul ass- but mentally you knew there was nowhere you’d rather be; that staring into this man’s eyes was probably the calmest you’ve been throughout this entire week, and like an addict, it was better for you to get lost in the warmth of his gaze.
Logan looked up from his phone, scanning the area- the moment he met your eyes the tension seemed to melt away from his posture.
He looked at you like he loved you before anything else.
“Hey,” he said quietly.
Your throat felt weirdly tight.
“Hey.”
Logan adjusted the strap of his hockey bag slightly, glancing toward the study room beside you, “Forgot my charger here after practice last week. Thought I’d come by and grab it.”
You blinked once. Of course he did, the universe lacked both sympathy and subtlety. You looked back at your laptop quickly, pretending your pulse wasn’t behaving embarrassingly.
“Oh.” You pressed your lips together, brushing the pads of your fingers over your nails. The moment paused, hanging between the two of you.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
Straight to the fucking point.
Your hands went limp and you took a pen that had been discarded nearby into your fist.
“No I haven’t.”
Logan stared at you for what seemed to be hours, but what was probably a few seconds, “Baby,” he said gently.
For some self-loathing reason, you wished he sounded angry. Instead he didn’t, he sounded like all he wanted was to bundle you up in his arms and hold you close; the thought made you swallow thickly, suddenly the entire library felt too warm. Too quiet.
“I’ve just been busy.” You pushed off of your seat and began to walk towards the closest study room, hoping that despite its full glass exterior- it would somehow shield you from the crushing weight of this conversation, “Your charger should be in here..”
“How do you know I used this one?” Logan leaned against the door, tilting his head thoughtfully at you as you walked deeper inside, glancing momentarily at the plug sockets in search of this damn charger that brought him here.
Shrugging, you huff and fall into the sofa that sat on the edge of the space. “This one’s your favourite, perfect lighting.” You point outside where two large windows sat, normally during the day they’d spill the various hues of the hour onto the spacious desk in the centre, “Perfect placement where it’s not too noisy but not too quiet,” This was the second to last room, meaning it was never surrounded by too many students, just enough chatter to turn into a soothing white noise, “And I've been here since your practice started and nobody has used it since then.”
By the time you finished- he was looking down at his shoes, and you swore a faint blush had crept up to his cheeks, his hand came up to cover his mouth and scratch at his stubble. The nod he gave you was short, subdued- almost as if he had reigned himself in. He let himself shuffle further in, placing his bags down heavily.
Another beat of silence settled between you.
Then somewhere in the distance, a heavy door slammed shut, neither of you reacted- seeing as it was late, you figured it was the librarian closing up the other rooms for night. The overhead lights flickered. And then it went dark.
You both froze.
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
Logan looked toward the main entrance hallway.
Then back at you, “...Did they just lock us in?”
The first thing Logan did after realising they were locked in was laugh. Not because he was amused- he’d rather be doing 500 other things that didn’t involve the tension in this fish bowl of a room but probably did include his girlfriend. It was more self-preservation, or insanity that made him chuckle, “You have got to be kidding me,” he muttered, pushing a hand through his hair as he stared at the firmly locked study room doors.
Behind him, you stood frozen beside the table, still clutching the highlighter you had brought in absentmindedly between your fingers like your body hadn’t fully processed the situation yet.
The fluorescent lights buzzed softly overhead, a taunting soundtrack to this car wreck of an evening, the entire library had gone eerily quiet now that everyone else was gone, the silence somehow louder than it had been all evening.
You swallowed and mustered some hope, “Maybe they’re still outside?”
Logan looked back at you. The look in his eyes nearly undid you, there was no anger in it, no irritation at the unhelpfully positive suggestion and somehow no bitterness over the fact you’d spent nearly a week dodging him while texting him like everything was perfectly normal.
Just surrender, quiet surrender to the tiredness that had settled in his face.
“I already checked,” he said gently.
Guilt bloomed hot beneath your ribs.
“Oh.”
The hush that permeated through forced you to become painfully aware of everything.
The fact you were alone together for the first time since the fight.
The fact you still knew exactly how his hoodie smelled.
The fact his hair was damp slightly at the edges from practice.
The fact your body still reacted to him instantly, stupidly, helplessly.
You cleared your throat and looked away first. “Well,” you said lightly, forcing brightness into your voice, “at least if I die in here, I’ll die academic.”
Logan stared at you for a second, then he huffed out a laugh despite himself.
Your stomach twisted and you cursed yourself for the relief that coursed through your body in response to his dry chuckle. Logan rounded the table and you froze, unable to take your eyes off of him, you barely noticed the small slump in your shoulder when he paused halfway.
“You cold?” he asked absentmindedly.
“No.”
“You’re shivering.”
“I’m stressed.”
“That too.”
You rolled your eyes automatically.
Logan sat down heavily against the couch cushions, stretching his legs out in front of him with a groan, inches away from where you were perched before the both of you were locked in.
You tried not to look at him too hard. Because if you did, the realisation would come crashing back into you, the one that you fought tooth and nail not to face.
You’d missed him.
Not dramatically, not in a chick-flick, crying-on-your-bedroom-floor way. But there were several moments everyday you were close to those versions. You opted for the aching kind of grief, a constant pang in your chest.
You missed him every time something funny happened and your fingers twitched toward your phone.
You missed him every time you reached for coffee and automatically thought about how he always handed you the cream first because you hated black coffee.
You missed him every time you woke up in your dorm bed without the weight of his arm across your waist.
It had only been a week, maybe more and that countdown made your heart seize, you were terrified if this is what barely a week felt like, you weren’t entirely sure what longer would do to you.
Logan looked over at you eventually, interrupting the rollercoaster of thoughts that bustled in your mind.
“You gonna stand there all night?”
“I’m considering it.”
“You’re weird.”
“You’re trapped in a library at midnight because you forgot a phone charger.”
“That sounds like fate.”
“That sounds like an excuse.”
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and the feeling came plowing through you mercilessly. The one that made this entire situation unbearable.
This easy banter made everything work. Make all the noise fade away into the background until your brain was an oasis of calm.
You sat down finally, curling yourself up into the furthest corner of the couch. Away from him.
Logan’s eyes flicked toward the distance between you before returning to your face.
Outside the library windows, the campus had gone dark and sleepy. Streetlights glowed gold against the pavement below, shadows stretching long beneath them. You tucked your legs beneath yourself and leaned your cheek against the back of the sofa, ignoring the way he watched you do it- like he was grateful for the chance.
Then he broke the quiet, interrupting the sound of both of you breathing with a whisper, “Are you gonna tell me why you’ve been avoiding me?”
You shut your eyes, there it was. The other shoe dropped and thudded against your conscience. You were truly a terrible person. An emotional sado-masochist that had to enjoy the suffering, otherwise you wouldn’t have done this to either of you.
You stared down at your hands, “I haven’t been avoiding you.”
Logan blinked slowly, “Baby.”
The nickname hit you like a physical blow and you looked away immediately. If he noticed you flinching, he didn’t say anything, “Every time I ask to see you,” he said carefully, “you suddenly have somewhere else to be.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“You skipped movie night because you said you had a paper due.”
“I did have a paper due.”
“Hannah posted you eating Taco Bell in Allie’s room fifteen minutes later.”
You winced, “Traitor.”
Logan’s mouth twitched briefly before flattening again.
“Why?” he asked softly.
Your chest tightened, you would give an absurd amount of money to the higher power for him to stop looking at you like that. Like you were something precious he was trying not to scare away.
It made all of this harder. if he’d been angry, maybe it would’ve been easier. Instead his face was comforting, his hand itching to hold your face and coax your deepest darkest emotions out of you.
You rubbed your palms against your jeans, “I just thought maybe you needed space.”
“From you?” His brows pulled together immediately.
You laughed quietly, but there wasn’t much humour in it. “You make it sound ridiculous when you say it like that.”
“Because it is ridiculous.”
Your throat tightened, “No it’s not.”
Logan leaned forward slightly now, elbows braced against his knees, “You fainted,” he said carefully. “I freaked out. We had one bad conversation. That doesn’t suddenly make you unbearable to be around.”
The words hit harder than they should have, because that wasn’t what you’d been trying to explain.Not really.
“That’s not the point,” You looked down and shook your head.
“Then what is?”
You bit your lip and the room filled with silence again, like some cruel torture device, where air was replaced with a void that steadily rose to your chin and swallowed you whole. Logan waited, eyes full of patience. He was always so fucking patient with you.
You hated how close tears suddenly felt, “I don’t know,” you finally admitted
Which was partially true, how were you supposed to explain something that had lived inside you for years?
The constant awareness of yourself.
The humiliation of it.
The way every fainting spell turned you into a problem people had to manage.
You remembered being sixteen and pretending you needed the bathroom because your vision had started going fuzzy during lunch. Locking yourself in a stall until the dizziness passed because your friends already thought you were dramatic enough.
You remembered learning how to laugh immediately after waking up because jokes made people less scared.
You remembered how relieved you always felt when people eventually stopped reacting. Because if they stopped reacting, it meant they still saw you normally.
Logan still reacted every time.
And that terrified you.
Because you knew, eventually people got tired. Eventually people realised loving someone medically inconvenient was exhausting. And you weren’t sure you could survive watching Logan reach that point.
So instead, you’d done what you always did. Pulled away first.
Your voice came out quieter this time, “You looked at me like I was dying.”
Logan went still and your throat closed up at the look on his face, like his heart had paused and brain malfunctioned.
“And I know I wasn’t,” you rushed out quickly, “I know it sounds dramatic, but that’s what freaked me out, okay? Everyone else moved on and you couldn’t and I just…”
Your laugh cracked slightly, “I don’t know how to be with someone who cares that much.”
The silence afterward felt enormous.
Logan stared at you, heartbroken in a quiet, devastating sort of way.
“Baby,” he said softly.
“No, because you don’t get it,” you twisted your fingers together tightly, “this is normal for me.”
“I know.”
“No, Logan, I don’t think you do.” You finally touched his hand, ignoring the immediate warmth that spread through your fingertips, “so much of my life has been people staring at me after it happens. Asking if I’m okay every five seconds. Acting weird around me. Watching me constantly.”
You swallowed, “And you looked terrified.”
“Because I was,” his jaw tightened as leaned back slightly, eyes still fixed on you.
“You stopped answering me,” he said quietly. “You weren’t moving.”
Your chest hurt, “I know.”
“And all I could think was what if one day you don’t wake up.”
Your breath caught. He laughed softly then, but it sounded miserable.
“Which logically, I know is insane. Garrett literally told me it’s never happened like that before.”
“Because it won’t.”
“I know.”
“But?”
Logan looked at you for a long moment, “But I love you,” he rubbed a hand over his face before continuing more quietly, “I know you hate being treated like you’re fragile.”
Your throat tightened as he continued, “And I know I probably make it worse sometimes.”
You opened your mouth but he shook his head, flipping his hand over to intertwine your fingers on the empty seat between you, “No, let me finish.” After a deep breath, and approximately four seconds of gruelling silence, “But you avoiding me doesn’t make me less scared, baby. It just means I’m scared without you.”
The silence after that felt different, painfully honest. You envied him for that, for his ability to say such devastatingly honest things as though it was like water flowing out of him.
You stared at Logan from across the couch, your chest aching so badly it almost felt murderous. Slow understanding creeped into your mind, why he freaked out that evening, why he was so tense in class.
It was unadulterated fear that coursed through his blood, like someone had held a knife up to your throat and threatened him, and all he could do was stand there uselessly.
You wished he’d been dramatic, maybe you could've brushed it off. If he suddenly became controlling, maybe you could've gotten angry. If he treated you like glass, maybe you could’ve pushed back and shattered in his grip. Any emotional outburst would’ve made it easier for you to walk away, to take the burden away from him. But he didn’t all he did was sit there in his emotions, solid, ready to hold yours. Because he loved you, purely, wholeheartedly, in a way that terrified you to your very core.
Your eyes dropped to your hands, “I didn’t mean to punish you,” you admitted quietly.
Logan’s expression softened.
“Baby.”
“I know,” you interrupted quickly, rubbing at your face with exhausted fingers. “I know this whole thing probably feels insane from your side.”
“A little.”
Despite yourself, you laughed weakly, “There it is. ”
“There what is?”
“You, being annoying.”
His mouth twitched.
“You love when I’m annoying.”
“I tolerate it affectionately.”
“Liar.”
The ease of conversation made you want to bash your head against a wall, no matter how emotionally catastrophic things got between you, the two of you still somehow slipped naturally into this rhythm that belonged entirely to you.
You hated how much you missed it.
Logan watched you carefully for another moment before speaking again.
“Come here.”
Your stomach flipped and you looked up at him.
“What?”
“Come here.”
You stared at him suspiciously, “You could also come here.”
“I could,” he agreed. “But you’ve been sitting as far away from me as physically possible for the last twenty minutes, so I’m trying to make a point.”
Heat crawled up your neck.
“I was not sitting as far away as physically possible.”
“Baby, there’s an entire couch cushion between us like we’re in couples therapy.”
You snorted, but you softened when he smiled at you, like hearing you laugh loosened something in his chest. Tearing your gaze away from him, you looked down at your intertwined fingers, tapping them randomly against his palm.
“I’m still annoyed at you,” you muttered.
“What did I do?”
“You made me emotionally confront things.”
“Oh, tragic.”
“It was horrible actually.”
Logan huffed out another quiet laugh, and then let out a shaky breath, “Please come here.”
There was something almost unfair in the way he said please, like he was asking for something so delicate, that you couldn’t possibly say no.
Your chest squeezed painfully as you shuffled slowly before your brain stopped you. The second you were close enough, his entire body relaxed and he tentatively wound an arm around your waist, pressing into the briar hoodie that you had carelessly thrown on that morning. He tugged you closer and unwrapped his hand, resting it instead on your thigh, like touching you was muscle memory.
You nearly started crying right there, sniffing quietly you looked down at your lap, “I’m sorry,” you whispered.
Logan looked down at you, his eyebrows pinched, “For what?”
“For making you feel crazy.”
His expression softened so fast it hurt.
“You didn’t make me feel crazy.”
You gave him a look, this close you could see the small lines in his face, grooves that had implanted themselves into his skin- like he had slept with a small frown on his face for days.
“Logan.”
“Okay,” he admitted reluctantly. “Maybe a little crazy.”
“A little?”
“You were texting me hearts while actively fleeing every building I entered.”
You winced, “In my defence, I didn’t realise how often you exist.”
“I go to this school.”
“Unfortunately.”
His thumb brushed absently against your knee.
“You could’ve just told me you needed a second.”
Your nose burned, “I didn’t know how.”
He nodded slowly, watching you tuck a piece of hair behind your ear- he rested his chin on your head, before exhaling, “I need you to understand something.”
You glanced up.
“When you faint,” he said carefully, “I’m not upset at you.”
“I know.”
“No,” his voice stayed gentle as he murmured into your hair, “Baby, I’m scared because I love you. Not because you’re inconvenient.”
You didn’t say anything, scared that whatever words would spill out from your mouth would be garbled with emotion, instead you pulled at the hair tie around your wrist. His hand shifted from your knee, fingers curling lightly around where your fingers plucked.
“Hey.” He shifted, bent his head down to meet your eyes, “You don’t have to do that with me.”
“What?”
“Act like it’s not hard sometimes.”
You looked away from him, choosing a point on the grey carpet to focus on, “It is hard…” you admitted finally, voice small now, “for you, I know it is.”
Logan looked genuinely confused.
“Taking care of me.”
His entire face changed, something that resembled a profound sadness mixed with disbelief that made his eyebrows shoot up and mouth part, “Baby,” he said slowly, “do you seriously think I’m with you out of obligation?”
“No.”
“But?”
You laughed weakly.
“But eventually people get tired.” The words rushed out of you, like a fact. A proven knowledge in the world, that after a few bouts of your dizziness, people would stop trying.
This ugly truth that was patiently sitting beneath everything, was now visible. Exposed and ready to be poked at.
Logan went very still beside you, and suddenly a wave of embarrassment and self-awareness washed over you, like you’d accidentally exposed something too raw.
You shrugged lightly, pretending your exterior hadn’t just cracked, “It’s just easier when people move on quickly after it happens,” you admitted quietly. “Because then I can pretend it wasn’t a whole thing.”
Logan stared at you.
“You think I should care less?”
“No!”
You groaned immediately, pressing your palms over your face.
“Oh my god, this is why I avoided this conversation.”
Logan actually laughed softly then.
“You’re terrible at emotional vulnerability.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’re literally hiding inside your own hands right now.”
“Because this is awful.”
Warm fingers wrapped around your wrists gently.
“Hey.”
You resisted for approximately two seconds before letting him pull your hands away from your face. And he came into view again, a small, encouraging smile on his face- looking at you like you mattered more than anything else in his life.
“I don’t want you to care less,” you whispered.
Logan’s thumb brushed softly against your skin.
“Okay.”
“I just…”
Your voice wobbled slightly.
“I don’t know how to let someone love me this much without feeling guilty for it.”
Something in Logan’s expression shattered, “Oh, baby.”
You blinked hard and Logan moved before you could stop him. One second there was still a respectable distance between the two of you, the next he had shuffled closer, thighs pressing against yours- his hands cupping your face carefully. Warm palms and calloused fingers grazed against your cheeks tenderly, the familiar smell of detergent, cold air and Logan surrounded you instantly.
You exhaled shakily, a hand coming up to wrap loosely around his.
“You are not a burden to me.”
“Logan-”
“No.”
His voice stayed soft, but firmer now, “You don’t get to decide for me what loving you feels like,” he bumped his forehead against yours and admitted quietly, “yeah, sometimes I get scared.”
You swallowed.
“But that doesn’t make me love you less.”
Your chest hurt so badly now it was unbearable.
Logan’s eyes flitted between yours, “It just means I need you here long enough to keep doing it.”
That was what finally broke you. A small, devastated sound left your throat before your face crumpled against his shoulder.
He wrapped his arms around you, tucking you into his front with such certainty like there would never be world where he wouldn’t
“Oh baby,” he murmured softly into your hair.
Your fingers twisted into the fabric of his hoodie.
“I hate this,” you whispered thickly.
“I know.”
“I feel insane.”
“You’re a little insane.”
You laughed through your tears.
“Shut up.”
“There she is.”
You shoved weakly at his chest, Logan held you tighter- burying his face into the crook of your neck.
His hand rubbed slowly up and down your back, as he pressed soft kisses below your ear and whispered soft assurances whilst you sobbed into his sweatshirt. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your cheek and you stayed like that for a long time, enough for your breathing to even out, hiccups turning into slow drags of oxygen.
You pulled back slightly and Logan looked at you with an unbearably soft expression that made your stomach flip
“You done avoiding me now?” he asked quietly.
You sniffed.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“I need time to recover from being emotionally perceived.”
His smile finally appeared properly then. God, you missed his smile.
Logan brushed his thumb beneath your eye gently, wiping away the last stray tear that leaked from the corner of your lashes.
“You know,” he murmured, “most people just buy flowers after arguments.”
You stared at him.
“Did you just compare this to a normal couple disagreement?”
“Absolutely.”
“We got trapped in a library and trauma bonded.”
He grinned at you, like a vintage actor who was closing off the impossibly long black-and-white romcom, “That’s romance, baby.”
You laughed again.
And this time, Logan looked like hearing you laugh was the greatest relief he’d felt all week.
Eventually, the emotional devastation settled enough for both of you to remember you were still physically trapped inside a university library. You were curled against Logan’s side on the couch now, one of his arms wrapped loosely around your shoulders while the other lazily scrolled through his phone.
His thumb paused on Garrett’s chat.
Cap’n crunch 💪 :
where are you?
Cap’n crunch 💪 :
wait are u both together rn
Cap’n crunch 💪 :
OH MY GOD
Cap’n crunch 💪 :
DID YOU DIE TOO???
You snorted into Logan’s chest.
“He’s so dramatic.”
“Says you.”
You tilted your head up immediately. “Excuse me?”
“Baby, you vanished off the face of the earth for a week because I had emotions near you.”
“I was processing.”
“You were fleeing.”
“Processing while moving very fast. Away from you. ”
Logan laughed quietly and you flicked his forehead. You hadn’t just missed him, you missed this. The easy teasing and warmth of his words, the way he always made the world feel softer around the edges.
You sank lower against him instinctively, your cheek pressed against the warm fabric of his hoodie.
His hand immediately slid into your hair.
“You know,” Logan murmured after a moment, “this would be significantly more romantic if we weren’t sitting next to a printer.”
You glanced toward the large copy machine three feet away.
“…I don’t know. It’s kind of giving academic enemies to lovers.”
“We’ve literally been dating for eight months.”
“Details.” You waved him off.
His chest shook with another laugh, he pressed his lips against your forehead and mumbled, “I missed you.”
You tilted your head slightly to look up at him.
“You texted me like… every day.”
“You know what I mean.”
You hummed and nodded. His hand slid from your hair to your jaw slowly, thumb brushing along your cheek, making your breath catch.
“You gonna run away from me again?” he asked softly.
You narrowed your eyes, “Not sure… It was going pretty well until you interrupted me.”
“Brutal.”
“I’m kidding.”
“You better be.”
The words came out light, teasing almost- but you could feel the vulnerability beneath them, shifting upward slightly you brought your lips up to his; waiting for him to meet you halfway. He pressed into you so he could envelope your mouth with his.
It shouldn’t have felt this overwhelming after one week. But it did.
His hand cupped your jaw carefully while he kissed you slow and warm and familiar, like he was still relearning the shape of your mouth after being denied access to it for days.
You melted instantly, fingers curling into the front of his hoodie while Logan smiled softly against your lips.
“Don’t think you’re going anywhere anytime soon,” he murmured.
You kissed him again to shut him up. It didn’t work, because the man kept smiling into every kiss like he couldn’t physically stop himself even if he tried.
“You’re so annoying,” you whispered.
“And yet.”
“And yet unfortunately you’re cute.”
“Unfortunately?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Baby, it’s been to my head.”
You rolled your eyes dramatically before kissing him again, this one was softer, sleepier in a way that wasn’t rushed, where you’d part slowly, barely a millimetre from each other just to feel the soft pants fan across your face before reconnecting, lips moulding together in soft caresses.
Logan’s fingers rubbed absent circles into your waist through your sweater, outside the campus had gone completely dark- the yellow glow of the lamp posts bled into the isles of the library, the only guidance in the pitch black of your surroundings.
You were vaguely aware that at some point this situation probably needed solving. But you were too preoccupied with your boyfriend, who smelt so good and was holding you like he’d been touch-starved for days.
You priorities seemed very straightforward.
“You know what’s crazy?” you murmured lazily, your head lolling onto his shoulder, cradled against his bicep.
“What?”
“We’re probably gonna have to explain this to everyone.”
Logan groaned immediately.
“Oh my god.”
You started laughing.
“Garrett is going to be unbearable.”
“Hannah’s gonna cry.”
“Allie’s gonna think we secretly got married.”
“She already basically thinks that.”
You smiled against his cheek, “…Do you think they’ll be worried?”
Logan looked down at you and shrugged, “Probably.”
Guilt flickered briefly through your stomach.
“Hey.”
His fingers tilted your chin upward gently.
“You’re allowed to have hard moments, baby.”
You looked at him quietly and scrunched your nose, “That still feels fake when you say it.”
“Yeah,” he whispered, “I know.”
Before you could respond, sudden footsteps echoed somewhere beyond the main circulation desk.
Both of you froze.
You blinked.
“…Wait.”
Logan sat up slightly.
“…There’s someone else here?”
Another noise.
Then a voice spoke from the darkness outside your glass prison.
“Jesus Christ, finally.”
You both whipped around to where the voice was coming from.
Mr. Donahue - the older overnight librarian with permanent reading glasses and the energy of someone spiritually exhausted by college students - appeared around the corner holding a janitor’s keyring.
You stared.
He stared back.
Then, with the same patience of an uninterested lion and its prey, he grumbled, “You two done?”
Your brain stopped functioning.
“…Done?” you repeated faintly.
Mr. Donahue gave you a deeply unimpressed look.
“With the world’s longest relationship crisis.”
Beside you, Logan went completely rigid.
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
Mr. Donahue sighed the sigh of a man who had worked at a university for too long.
“You think I didn’t notice you two sitting in here crying at each other?”
Your mouth fell open.
Logan looked horrified.
“You locked us in on purpose?”
The librarian shrugged.
“You seemed busy.”
You made a strangled noise somewhere between laughter and humiliation.
“Oh my god.”
Mr. Donahue pointed a finger toward Logan.
“You.”
Logan blinked, he pressed his palm at himself, in the centre of his chest.
“…Me?”
“She’s clearly obsessed with you.”
You buried your face in your hands immediately, “Sir.”
“And you looked like someone kicked your puppy for a week straight.”
Logan made the mistake of looking smug for approximately half a second.
“You looked miserable without me?” you asked immediately.
His smugness vanished.
Mr. Donahue snorted.
“Kid looked one inconvenience away from writing poetry.”
You burst into helpless laughter and Logan whipped his head around to look at you, deeply betrayed by your amusement, “This is actually insane.”
Mr. Donahue shrugged again.
“I’ve worked here for fifteen years. You learn things.”
You were still laughing when the older man finally unlocked the door.
Before leaving, though, he paused. Then slowly turned to look directly at you, “Eat real meals,” he said firmly.
Your face heated instantly and you buried into your hands, “Oh my god.”
“And you,” he added, pointing toward Logan now, “stop looking at her like a Victorian widower every time she gets dizzy.”
Logan looked scandalised.
You wheezed.
Mr. Donahue nodded once, satisfied. And then jerked his thumb behind him, “Alright. Get out.” The doors swung open and he trotted away.
Neither of you moved.
Then slowly, Logan looked down at you, “…Victorian widower?”
You immediately lost it again.
“He clocked you so bad.”
“I hate that man.”
“No you don’t.”
“No,” He admitted thoughtfully, “I kinda love him.”
You were both still laughing quietly when Logan finally stood, pulling you up with him.
And the second you were upright, his arms wrapped around your waist again automatically. Like he refused to stop touching you now that he had you in his grasp.
You looked up at him and pushed his damp hair off his forehead- the library lights that Mr. Donahue flicked on reflected warm gold across his face. And suddenly, everything from last week felt very far away.
Logan leaned down slowly until his forehead rested against yours.
A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Rumors can cause jealousy.
Word Count: 4,7k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
Back in the Reach, when Lady Olenna hired that lady of the night to tutor you and Margaery on marital acts and what husbands liked, she had assured both of you that unlike what everyone around you kept telling you, your name, your family’s wealth, any heirs you’d have with your future husband; none of that was a guarantee that he would fall in love with you.
According to her, it was all about how mesmerizing you would be, and your marital bed was the key. That night, while you and Margaery laid in the bed trying to silence your giggles so as not to wake Loras again and get a scolding, you had both agreed that it was exaggeration; surely it couldn’t have been the case for everyone.
But judging by Robb’s reaction after what you had done last night, you were beginning to believe that lady.
“My maid will be here any moment!” you said as you pushed him gently, making him walk backward to the door. “I must get ready for breakfast—we already overslept!”
He grabbed your wrist and in a blink, you had your back against the wall, a giggle escaping you.
“Robb!”
“Dismiss her when she comes.”
“And what of my ladies-in-waiting?”
He grinned at you. “Dismiss them too.”
“That would be rude!”
“Fine, I’ll dismiss all of them—”
“You’ll do no such thing!” you exclaimed, the look of shock on your face coaxing a chuckle out of him as he cupped your face in his palm, your heart skipping a happy beat.
Gods, he looked irresistible.
He had put on his breeches, but his white linen shirt was half open, letting you peek at his chiseled chest. His curly hair was tousled thanks to last night’s—and this morning’s—activities, and there was a mischievous light gleaming in his eyes as he looked at you, tracing the line of your bottom lip.
You frowned, willing yourself to focus.
“I don’t suppose anyone has told you this,” you said, sticking your nose in the air, “but a lady needs her own time to get ready to be seen in public.”
“A lady or my lady?”
A smile curled your lips before you could stop it, and you pointed in the direction of the door, making him whine.
“I’ve been away from you for a week!”
You shrugged your shoulders, feigning nonchalance as if you weren’t currently battling yourself not to drag him back to bed. “That was of your own making.”
“That, my sweet wife, is a cruel lie,” he murmured, leaning to brush his lips against yours. A pleasant sigh left you, the familiar warmth blooming in your lower stomach, your mind going blank once again as it always did whenever Robb kissed you. Your body moved at its own accord; you threw your arms over his broad shoulders so that you could pull him closer, ready to lose yourself in his arms but a knock on the door snapped you out of it and made you pull back. Robb blindly chased your lips as you pressed a hand on his chest to push him back again, turning your head.
“Just a moment!”
You went under Robb’s arm to get away from him, whirling on your heels before you stepped back, clasping your hands behind you with a grin. He raised his brows like he was warning you.
“Do not—” he started, but before he could finish his sentence, you had already swung the door open to beam at your maid. She was a sweet girl, only a couple years younger than you. Just like the other northerners you had met, she wasn’t very fond of sharing too much, nor did she jump at the opportunity to gossip unlike what you were used to back in the Reach, but you were certain you were going to be friends soon enough.
“Good morrow Kyra!” you chirped. “My lord husband was just leaving, you may come in.”
Kyra stepped in and curtsied.
“M’lord. M’lady.”
Your grin widened at the look of utter betrayal on Robb’s face. “I shall see you at breakfast, my husband.”
“And I shall see you, my wife,” he said, kissing your temple as he walked past you and left the room. You turned to Kyra, looking down to pretend to fix the silky skirt of your nightgown.
“Kyra, would you mind telling the maids to draw me a bath?” you asked. “And I’d really appreciate it if you could help me take off my necklace, thank you.”
With the King and his court arriving next week, Lady Stark was busy beyond words. She had to foresee anything and everything about their visit, and while you had been following her like her shadow to learn and help out if needed, you also had your own duties.
While the preparations were being made for the feasts upon the King’s arrival, Wintertown could not be expected to put everything on hold, especially with the arrival of autumn. Thus, you and your ladies were tasked with preparing certain supplies for the smallfolk. The baskets mostly consisted of blankets and food, and while back in the south your father had certain people responsible for overseeing such help, in the north, it fell upon Lady Stark—and per her request, you.
You would’ve been lying if you said it didn’t surprise you, but you figured it was just one of the many differences between the south and the north.
Everyone did something here, regardless of who they were.
Your ladies-in-waiting were already in the granary, and you had every intention to go join them when you stepped out into the yard after having a short conversation with Lady Stark, but you stopped dead in your tracks when you caught the sight of Theon sparring with Jon while Bran watched them and Robb sat beside him, no doubt having just finished sparring with either of them. You could feel your heart skip a happy beat as you stole a look in the direction of the granary, but the urge to be with Robb—fleeting as it would be, for mere minutes—overcame your hesitation. You made your way to him, a smile twitching his lips the moment you entered his sight and sat beside him.
“Hello,” you said. “I figured I could take some fresh air before I went inside, I hope you don’t mind?”
“Of course not,” he said quickly while Bran waved at you, still quite shy. You gave him a warm smile, both your and his attention turning to Jon when he blocked Theon’s strike with his sword, pushing him hard enough to make him stumble back.
“But will it happen?” Bran insisted while you rested your head on Robb’s shoulder and he pressed his lips on top of your head, sneaking an arm around your waist to subtly pull you closer. Jon rolled his eyes.
“Of course not, Bran.”
“You never know,” Theon sang and Bran huffed.
“Even if father says so?”
“Father won’t say so.”
“He said so to Robb.”
“He asked me,” Robb corrected him, “it’s not the same thing.”
“What are we talking about?” you asked and Bran turned to you with a scowl on his face.
“Jon getting wed.”
“I’m not getting wed.”
“Silas said he was the one who approved Robb,” Bran said. “And if Robb had to approve your future lady…”
Robb let out a scoff. “I don’t think that falls on me.”
“There’s usually more things to consider than your older brother approving someone,” you pointed out. “Silas saying that isn’t the whole truth.”
“But Jon, would you have to wed Ser Tallhart’s daughter if father said so?”
You bit back a laugh at the exasperation on Jon’s face. While you didn’t know the details of how he and Silas separated, it was quite obvious that Jon’s attention wouldn’t belong to anyone else for a long time, judging by how sulky he had been since your brother left. As much as you wanted him to share his feelings with you, you figured he didn’t want you or anyone else to know, so you had to keep your silence despite seeing his sadness.
Perhaps you could imply you would keep his secret, but you would have to earn his trust for that.
“Ser Tallhart’s daughter?” you asked, making Theon let out a laugh.
“I doubt that’ll happen, Bran.”
“But!” Bran insisted. “But listen. Silas approved Robb, right? And you already said, about Ser Tallhart’s daughter, that Robb approved.”
Robb made a face. “I didn’t say I approved.”
“But Theon said that you called her pleasant and said southern girls and northern girls are different,” Bran said, making your head shoot up from Robb’s shoulder. “You approved, and Jon doesn’t have a southern betrothed, and...”
The look of panic that settled on all three men would’ve been funny if it weren’t for the fury crashing down on you. Theon and Jon stopped sparring as if someone had just barked an order at them, and Robb’s eyes widened as he stared at Bran at a loss for words. Bran seemed oblivious to their reactions, ranting about how Jon couldn’t wed because that’d mean he’d see him less like Robb, while you tried your hardest to keep your expression calm, considering you were in public.
Ser Tallhart’s daughter, was it?
“…Ah,” you said and arched a brow at Robb, an overly sweet smile curling your lips. “Is that what Robb said?”
One simple observer would’ve thought Robb was being accused of treason with the way he shook his head vigorously.
“That’s not what I—Bran, you make it sound very different than what actually took place.”
“But Theon and Jon were saying—”
“I said nothing.”
“I’m not involved in this conversation.” Theon and Jon spoke at the same time, desperate to absolve themselves of any crime but Robb wasn’t so lucky and by the looks of it, he knew it.
“I just said for—for Jon, she looked pleasant.” He waved a hand in Jon’s direction without even sparing him a glance while you tilted your head, still smiling. “For Jon only. I wasn’t even—”
“My lady?” Alys’ voice reached you, making you look over your shoulder. “Maester Luwin says we may start if you’re ready.”
“Of course,” you said as if your stomach wasn’t churning, the familiar ache whenever you were nervous back in its full strength. You got up from the bench to follow Alys, leaving Robb dumbfounded but he snapped out of it before you could reach the granary and caught up with you.
“Wait—”
“I cannot,” you said airily without a glance at him, “I have things to do.”
“That sounded wrong, back there.” He stepped in front of you to block your path, making you narrow your eyes. “I didn’t call her—I did call her pleasant, but only because I was trying to encourage Jon. He’s been sulkier than usual, and Theon thinks it’s because he didn’t like any southern girls at our wedding.”
“And one look at Theon makes you think of wisdom?”
“No,” he admitted after a beat. “Not really. But what else could be the reason?”
Your brother was the reason, but it wasn’t like you could tell Robb that. Besides, that wasn’t the point, you were not going to stand here and get into an argument where the whole yard could see, you were way too trained for that. Jealousy was not mesmerizing, most of the time it held the opposite effect. Lady Olenna used to say that the more a lady looked bothered, the more her influence slipped away. Grasping too tightly would signal to the court that you were insecure, and insecurity was unbecoming of a lady.
Which meant that even though it took every ounce of control in you, you couldn’t appear angry.
“I don’t find anyone more pleasant than you,” Robb added, almost breathless. “My lady, surely you must know that.”
You could swear the words you were not supposed to say were clawing at your throat, but you took a deep breath and forced yourself to smile.
“Alright.”
Robb pulled back slightly, his eyes darting over your face.
“…Alright?”
“Yes,” you said, your voice holding no trace of grudge unlike your heart. “And if you’ll excuse me, I must be going now.”
“But—” He stopped you, holding your arm before you could turn around. “But we’re alright?”
As much as you wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, that also would appear very unladylike, so you nodded your head instead.
“Of course,” you chirped. “How selfless of you to assess and compare ladies for Jon, I’m certain he’s grateful.”
“See, that comment right there doesn’t assure me that we’re alright—”
“And though I’d love to hear about the differences between southern and northern ladies, I really must be going now,” you cut him off, pulling your arm out of his grip. “Have a good day, my lord.”
With that, you walked away from him, anger still pulsing in your temples.
Who even was Ser Tallhart’s daughter? No one had told you anything about her.
There was no wonder your ladies-in-waiting would know about her, seeing that they had likely crossed paths at a wedding or a feast. If you were back home, you could’ve asked your friends, but here in Winterfell you had to be more careful than that.
Any wrong question could lead to many speculations.
Not to mention, you still didn’t trust them. Alys, Wylla and Lyra seemed rather sweet, but when it came to Jorelle and Barbrey, you were still very cautious. Barbrey was going to have to work hard to prove her loyalty to you, and Jorelle…
Well.
You weren’t certain that you could ever lower your guard with her.
It wasn’t even about her at this point, it was more about her family. You knew very well that at any given moment, her family would push her forward if they knew they could undermine you, Lady Cerwyn’s condescending manners were a proof of it. Not only that, the whole North would support them, as they were already fond of Jorelle and her family.
Your family, however, were outsiders to the north, and no matter how much help they would send when the winter came, northerners didn’t trust or like outsiders.
You were pulled away from your thoughts when Wylla spoke.
“That’s a very beautiful necklace.”
Your head snapped up, and you willed a lovesick smile on your face despite the storm in your head.
“Aw thank you,” you said, dipping the spoon into the salt bag to pour some of it into the small container before you walked to place it in a basket. “Robb kindly brought me a gift from Torrhen’s Square.”
Alys and Barbrey exchanged smirks while Lyra and Jorelle folded the blankets to put into the rest of the empty baskets.
“Do you know…” you trailed off, nibbling on your lip. “Have any of you been to Torrhen’s Square before?”
Jorelle lifted her head for only a moment before she returned her attention to the blankets, clearly deciding against whatever she was going to say. Alys nodded her head.
“I have, once.”
“I don’t think I’ve met House Tallhart,” you mused. “I’ve heard high praises though.”
“Did Gilliane come to the wedding?” Lyra asked and you turned your head.
“Gilliane?”
“Their oldest daughter, my lady,” Wylla said. “And no, she didn’t.”
“I think only Erena came,” Alys said. “I’m certain I caught a glimpse of her—her younger sister.”
“I’ve met too many people to count at the wedding, I’m afraid,” you said. “Perhaps I met them and don’t remember it.”
“Erena is very sweet, Gilliane however…”
“Lyra,” Alys warned her and she held up her hands.
“I said nothing.”
You tilted your head. “Oh, now I must know.”
Barbrey grinned. “Gilliane is very emotional.”
“It’s no crime against the king to be emotional!” Alys insisted while Lyra made a face.
“It should be.”
Jorelle bit back her smile.
“Gilliane gets affected by anything and everything,” she told you. “A bit of a crier.”
“And she falls in love with someone different at every Harvest Feast,” Wylla added and fixed her hair in an exaggerated manner. “And if anyone would like to ask me why she didn’t come to the wedding, I have the answer.”
“How?”
“One of her brothers holds affections for me, and he’s a gossip.”
Alys’ jaw dropped. “Which brother?”
“Benton.” Wylla reached out to grab an apple to take a bite, coaxing a laugh out of you while Lyra narrowed her eyes.
“Have you started living in Wintertown and we don’t know about it?”
“It’s just one apple!”
“Don’t let Maester Luwin see you,” Jorelle said and Wylla shrugged her shoulders.
“I am famished, would he rather if I fainted?”
“That is a very sound logic I admit,” you teased them and Wylla gestured at you.
“See?”
“But in return, we hear why she didn’t come to the wedding,” you added, plopping down on the nearest chair and cracking your neck with a grimace. “Sounds interesting.”
“Alright, so…” Wylla jumped to sit on the table. “Benton says she was heartbroken.”
“That’s no news, she gets heartbroken whenever someone looks at her wrong.”
“Jo!”
“Am I lying?”
“No wonder she and I can’t get along well, she has too many feelings for my taste,” Lyra mused and Alys pressed her fist on her lips in an attempt to hide her smile. Barbrey leaned in.
“Who was she heartbroken over?”
“And that’s what is so interesting about it,” Wylla said and turned to you. “Don’t misunderstand this, because I would know if there was anything between them, but…”
You pulled back, your mouth half agape. “Robb?”
The whole room erupted into chaos.
“Wylla!”
“Have they even spoken to each other before?”
“I have never ever seen them exchange words in any wedding or feast.”
“Yeah, Benton says the same. She was admiring him from afar, pushed her father to make an offer of betrothal, but…”
Well, if that was the pleasant girl, at least now you knew she was no real threat to your position or your heart.
“A lot of fathers made—” Barbrey started but Alys elbowed her, stealing a look at Jorelle whose calm face was impossible to read as usual. Lyra shrugged her shoulders.
“I’ll say it if you won’t. Everyone’s fathers made proposals.”
“Lyra, don’t say that!”
“What, like she doesn’t know?”
“I do know,” you assured them. “And I don’t mind at all. If Robb held a grudge over everyone who made a proposal to wed me, our marriage would be cold until we’re old and gray. That’s simply how such arrangements work, it makes sense that families made proposals, I could never hold grudges over that.”
At least that was what Lady Olenna would want you to say.
Untroubled and amused.
That’s what you had to appear when it came to possible former betrothals; untroubled and amused.
Even though what you felt was the complete opposite of that.
“And I don’t want any of you to guard your tongues around me,” you added in a haste, as if you yourself hadn’t been trained to guard your tongue around people since you could speak. “Not when it’s just us, at least.”
No one back in the south would believe or entertain such thought. In fact, if you and Margaery were ever told what you had just said, you both would’ve taken it as an insult to be seen so naïve, but this was the north.
And you could not seem resentful or insecure.
“Now,” you said and grabbed an apple to bite it as well. “Tell me more about this person. I have been suffering from lack of gossip ever since I came here, and I’d like to catch up.”
By dinner time, you had learned everything there was to learn about House Tallhart and their daughters, and thankfully, nothing seemed alarming.
But that didn’t mean you weren’t angry at Robb.
And although Lady Olenna would’ve advised you otherwise, you were going to make sure he knew exactly how you felt.
Lord Stark had made it much easier, albeit not on purpose. He had kept Robb with him the whole day for meetings and petitions, and you had managed to excuse yourself to your own bedchambers right after dinner before he could come back. A week away from home must have meant Lord Stark had much to catch up on, because it was nearly midnight by the time you heard Robb’s heavy gait pass your door. You raised your brows, keeping your attention on your book in your lap when the door to his bedchambers opened, then closed after a couple of complete silence. His footsteps approached your door before he opened it and peeked his head in.
“What are you doing here?”
You flipped the page without pulling your gaze off the book. “Reading.”
“Here?”
“Seems that way.”
“But…” He stepped inside. “But I’m back.”
“Hasn’t escaped me.”
“Then why are you here?”
“It’s my bedchambers,” you replied. “Why are you here?”
“I couldn’t find you in—are you still angry at me?”
“No,” you lied through your teeth. “I simply decided to sleep here tonight.”
Judging by the look on his face, you might as well have announced you meant to annul your marriage: “You’re not sleeping here tonight.”
“I am,” you said, pretending to be engrossed in your book though you barely had any idea what you were reading. “And you can sleep in your own bedchambers and think about Ser Tallhart’s daughter all you want.”
“What?” His eyes widened. “I told you, I only said that for—”
“I care not.” You pointed at the door, your gaze fixed on the page. “Leave me be.”
He lingered there for a moment as if he was trying to find the best approach, then took a step towards the bed.
“My sweet wife—” he started, but stopped dead in his tracks when you lifted your head to glare daggers at him. He swallowed thickly and cleared his throat.
“I was trying to encourage Jon.”
“I heard you the first time,” you said and closed to book to give him a snake like smile. “Now that you’re here though, how are northern girls different than southern girls? Since you are an expert, you should have no issues enlightening me?”
“That’s—” He pointed back at the door like Jon was standing outside, stumbling over his words. “I simply said, if Jon didn’t find any southern girls to his liking, northern girls might be uh—different?” The last word came out like an uncertain question. “In terms of his uh, his…affections.”
You raised your brows, still glaring at him.
“I swear it was for Jon only.”
“Wonderful,” you deadpanned. “You may leave now. Have pleasant dreams.”
A ghost of a smile twitched the corner of his mouth. “I can’t believe you’re jealou—”
“Robb if you finish that sentence, I will make you suffer in a very southern way, and then you’ll know the actual difference between northern and southern girls,” you growled, and he held up his hands, biting back his smile.
“Be angry at me if you wish,” he said, stepping closer to the bed, “but we’re not sleeping in different beds.”
“I’m not coming there, and you’re not welcomed here.”
“Oh you are coming there,” he said and before you could so much as blink, he had thrown you over his shoulder, a surprised shriek spilling from your lips.
“Put me down this instant!” you exclaimed, your voice going high-pitched while he made his way to the door. You pressed your palms on his shoulder to throw him off his balance and wiggle out of his grip, but much to your frustration, it didn’t work. “How dare you? This is actual disrespect, you—”
“You left me no other choice,” he stated, stepping out of your bedchambers into the hallway. “Whose fault is it? Not mine.”
“Put me down!”
He turned, but stopped in an instant, and though you hoped it was because he decided to listen to you, the real reason turned out to be very different. He shifted his weight and let out a curt cough like he was trying to regain his composure.
“Father.”
Oh Gods.
Oh Gods no.
Lord Stark could not see you like this, absolutely not.
“…Robb.”
Alright then, Lord Stark was indeed seeing you like this.
You shut your eyes tight, half hoping it would make both of you disappear from Lord Stark’s vision, scrunching up your face.
“Good evening, Lord Stark,” you squealed out, the angle Robb was holding you in preventing you from seeing your father-in-law, perhaps by mercy.
“My wife and I were just…” Robb started, but even you could tell he had no idea where the sentence would go. “We were uh, going to sleep.”
Well, Robb was a terrible liar, so at least you could find some solace in that for the future of your marriage, especially now that you were going to have to spend the rest of the said marriage not being able to look at his father in the eye. A silence fell upon the hallway before Lord Stark heaved a sigh as if he had the realm’s weight on his shoulders, and even though you couldn’t see his face, you could picture the exasperation on his face.
“I saw nothing,” he ended up saying. “I saw nothing, and I am walking away before I see anything.”
You heard Lord Stark go past him and you watched him walk to the other end of the hallway without sparing a glance back. A whine climbed your throat and you slumped over his shoulder, hiding your face in your hands until Robb entered his—your—bedchambers and dropped you on the bed. You grabbed the nearest pillow to throw at him, your cheeks burning.
“I won’t be able to look at your father anymore, Robb!”
“He doesn’t mind.”
“He—that—” you stammered, gesturing at the door. “He saw!”
“Aye, and he doesn’t mind,” Robb said, catching the other pillow in the air. “To repeat, you gave me no other choice!”
You gritted your teeth and turned to Grey Wind who was watching you both from beside the fireplace.
“Grey Wind, up,” you commanded and he leaped on the bed, making Robb frown.
“What are you doing?”
“He will sleep between us.”
“No he won’t.”
“Yes he will,” you said and pulled the fur covers on top of you, the direwolf curling up next to you. “You can sleep on your side, or you can sleep somewhere else dreaming of Ser Tallhart’s pleasant daughter, your choice.”
“That’s a vile accusation and a terrible insult—Grey Wind, down.”
“Grey Wind, stay,” you shot back and Grey Wind let out a huff, looked between you and Robb, then yawned and nudged your arm with his snout. “See? He’s staying.”
Robb threw his head back with a groan while you pulled your pillow to yourself.
“Lamb…”
“I’m too sleepy to argue.”
“Then just listen?”
“I shall not,” you said, closing your eyes. “Goodnight.”
“But…”
“Goodnight, I said.”
Robb exhaled through his nose impatiently and moved about in the room, his heavy steps enough of a clue to what he was doing. Despite trying to control yourself, you still ended up opening an eye to watch him take off his shirt, but you shut your eyes again before he could see you gawking at him. He got under the furs, and after a couple of seconds you dared steal a peek again to find him half naked, his arm thrown over his eyes to block the candlelight, oblivious to the way your gaze followed down his chiseled body while you bit at your lip.
Oh well.
Just because you were angry at him didn’t mean you couldn’t enjoy the sight.
Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives
Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries
The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. You’re driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.
Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.
Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.
Then you’re moving.
You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.
“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”
A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.
“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”
His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”
He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”
“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”
Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.
The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.
There’s so much blood.
“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”
Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”
“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”
“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”
“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”
“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.
You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.
“Sir, I need you to sit down-”
“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”
“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”
He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.
You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”
But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.
You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.
Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.
“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”
“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”
“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”
“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”
You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.
“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”
Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.
The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.
You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.
You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.
Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.
“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.
Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.
You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.
“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”
His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.
“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.
Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-
No. You push the thoughts away.
“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”
“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”
“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”
You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.
“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”
You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.
Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.
Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.
“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”
“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.
Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.
You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.
“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”
Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.
The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.
“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”
But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.
“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”
You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.
“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”
The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”
“Med student. Second year.”
“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.
You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.
“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”
“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.
“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”
“But-”
“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”
You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.
Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.
Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.
“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”
“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”
But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.
The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.
“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”
You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?
The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.
Except it’s not.
As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.
You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.
Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.
Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.
You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.
Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.
The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.
You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.
You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.
“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”
Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.
All you can do is wait.
And hope.
And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.
***
The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.
“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”
“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.
“Fuck off, I was screened-”
“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”
Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.
He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.
“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.
Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.
At seven in the morning.
On a Saturday.
“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”
There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.
“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”
“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”
Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.
“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”
“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”
“I need you to sit down, son.”
The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.
“What happened?”
Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”
Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”
“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”
The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”
“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”
Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.
Beau.
Critical condition.
The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.
“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”
Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.
“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.
Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.
“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”
“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”
“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”
The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.
Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-
No. No, he’s not going there.
“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”
“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.
“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”
“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”
Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.
Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”
The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.
They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more.
Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.
Beau is his brother.
And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-
No. Stop. Don’t think it.
“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.
They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.
“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”
They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?
They round a corner, and Dean sees them.
The waiting room is full of Maxwells.
Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.
They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.
His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.
“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.
She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”
That’s what breaks him.
Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.
“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”
Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”
Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.
“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”
He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.
“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”
Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.
“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”
“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”
“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.
Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”
Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.
“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”
“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”
The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.
“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.
“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”
He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.
“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”
Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.
More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.
Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.
“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”
Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.
“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”
“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.
“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”
“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.
“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”
“Dean-” Garrett starts.
“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”
The doors to the surgical wing swing open.
The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.
Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.
“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.
“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”
The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.
“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”
“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.
“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”
“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”
The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”
“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”
The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”
“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”
“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”
The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”
“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”
After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.
Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.
Gratitude.
“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”
“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”
“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”
Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.
“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”
“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”
“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”
Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.
“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”
Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”
“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”
Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.
“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”
“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”
Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.
His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.
They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.
Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.
Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.
“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”
He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.
His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.
Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.
Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.
But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.
Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.
“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.
Garrett looks over. “Who?”
“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”
“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”
“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”
Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.
And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.
***
The world comes back in pieces.
First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.
Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.
“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”
That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.
“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.
“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”
Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.
***
The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.
The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.
“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.
“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.
“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”
“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”
Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.
“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”
He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.
“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”
Footsteps. Fast.
Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.
“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”
“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.
“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”
That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.
“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”
“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.
“Good. Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.” Duh.
“Do you remember what happened?”
Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”
His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.
The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”
After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.
“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.
Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”
“How long was I out?”
“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”
Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”
His parents exchange a look.
“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”
“A branch?”
“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”
Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”
“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”
A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.
“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.
“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”
“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.
“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”
A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.
“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”
“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”
“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”
Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.
“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”
Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.
“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”
“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.
It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.
“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.
“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”
The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.
Instead, a young woman steps in.
She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”
“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”
She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”
She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”
You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”
“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”
Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.
“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”
“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”
Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.
“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”
You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”
“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”
“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”
You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.
Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.
Because holy shit.
You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-
Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.
“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”
You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”
“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”
“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”
“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”
“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”
“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”
You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”
“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”
“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”
“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”
You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.
“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”
“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.
“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”
“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”
You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.
“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”
You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.
“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.
“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”
“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.
You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.
“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”
“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.
You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”
“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.
You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”
“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”
Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”
Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.
You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”
“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.
You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”
Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”
“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”
“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”
“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.
“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”
“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.
You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.
The room is silent for exactly three seconds.
“Dude,” Dean says.
“Not now,” Beau replies.
“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”
“Dean-”
“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”
“I was perfectly respectful-”
“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”
“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”
“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”
“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.
“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”
Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”
“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”
“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”
“Dean, I swear-”
“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”
“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.
“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”
“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.
After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.
“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”
“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”
“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”
“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”
“You believe in fate?”
“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”
Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.
“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.
“Probably,” Dean agrees.
“And I think I’m in love.”
Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”
“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.
“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”
“I’m serious.”
“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”
“I know what I feel.”
Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”
“I really mean it.”
“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”
“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”
“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”
“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”
“Something like that.”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”
“I’ll convert her.”
“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”
“She’s competitive. I like that.”
Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”
“Her name is Y/N.”
“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.
His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.
But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.
Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.
And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.
“Dean?” He says.
“Yeah?”
“Help me figure out what to text her.”
Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”
They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.
After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.
Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.
Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.
***
The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.
“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”
Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.
Now, he’s doing pull-ups.
“One,” he grunts.
“Good. Keep that form.”
“Two.”
“Breathe through it.”
“Three.”
“Two more. You’ve got it.”
“Four.” His arms are shaking.
“Last one. Make it count.”
Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.
“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”
“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.
“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”
It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.
After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.
And one from you.
Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?
Beau smiles, typing back quickly.
Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.
Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.
Beau: I did five pull-ups.
Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!
Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.
Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.
Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.
Y/N: You’re impossible.
Beau: You love it.
There’s a pause.
Y/N: Maybe a little.
Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.
You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.
The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.
He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.
Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”
But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.
His phone buzzes again.
Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.
Beau: What’s wrong?
Dean: Just get here. It’s important.
Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.
He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?
Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.
“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”
Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”
“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”
“I wasn’t dead.”
“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”
“Everyone?”
“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”
“Dean-”
“And Y/N.”
Beau freezes. “What?”
Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”
“You invited—without asking me-”
“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”
“By ambushing me?”
“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”
“It’s manipulative.”
“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”
***
The party is, objectively, insane.
By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.
Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.
“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“That’s just my face.”
“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”
Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”
“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.
“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.
“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”
“I don’t—we’re friends.”
“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”
“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.
“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”
“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”
“I’m not-”
“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”
Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.
“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.
“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”
Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.
And there you are.
You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.
“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.
“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.
You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.
“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.
“I am talking to her.”
“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”
Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.
“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”
“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”
“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”
Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Just open it.”
He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.
Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”
“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”
“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”
You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.
Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”
The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.
“Oh no,” Beau mutters.
“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.
“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”
The crowd is silent, watching.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”
You look mortified. “Dean-”
“Stand up!”
Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.
“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”
Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.
“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”
He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”
“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.
You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.
“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”
Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.
“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.
“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”
“That’s not-”
“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.
You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”
“Rome didn’t have vodka.”
“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”
You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”
Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.
“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.
One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.
Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.
“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.
You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”
“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”
“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”
“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.
“You love me too!”
“Debatable!”
You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.
“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”
He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.
“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”
“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”
“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”
“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”
“I was just doing what anyone would do.”
“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”
You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”
“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”
You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”
“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”
“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”
“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.
“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”
“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”
“Really?” Your voice is soft.
“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”
“I always believed in you,” you whisper.
“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”
You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”
“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”
“You were on a lot of pain meds.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”
“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Can I kiss you?”
Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.
“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”
Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.
The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.
Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.
You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.
Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”
Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.
“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.
“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.
“They’re cat-calling.”
“Still don’t care.”
You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.
“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”
“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”
“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”
Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.
“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”
From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.
“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.
“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.
You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.
“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”
You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.
Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”
“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.
“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”
“You’re the worst.”
“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”
“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.
Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.
“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”
Beau looks at you. You look back.
“It’s a thing,” you say.
“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.
“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”
“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.
The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.
Better than right.
Perfect.
Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.
“To second chances,” he says.
“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.
“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.
“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.
“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”
You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.
“To fate,” Beau agrees.
And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.
Life is short. Second chances are rare.
And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.
***
The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.
Well, mostly empty.
“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”
Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”
“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”
“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”
“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”
“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”
“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.
Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”
“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.
Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.
Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.
It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.
Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.
You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”
“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”
“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”
“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”
“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.
You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”
“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.
Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”
“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”
“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”
The effect is immediate and bizarre.
Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.
“Did you just say-” you start.
“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.
“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”
But it’s too late.
You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.
“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.
“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”
“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.
You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.
“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.
“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.
Dean stares. Just stares.
“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.
“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.
“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”
You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.
There’s a moment of silence.
Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.
“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”
“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”
“And when you said whipped into shape-”
“We just had to,” you finish together.
Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”
“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.
“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”
“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”
“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.
“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”
Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.
And Dean …
Dean has a moment.
He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.
It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.
It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.
And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.
The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.
Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.
It was fate.
It had to be.
Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?
The odds were astronomical.
And yet here you both are.
“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”
“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?
“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”
The question hangs in the air.
You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.
“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”
“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”
“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”
“I absolutely would,” you confirm.
“-but someday. Definitely someday.”
Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”
“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.
“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”
“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”
“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”
“That’s not-”
Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.
“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”
“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.
You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”
“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”
“I can live with that,” you say softly.
You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.
Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”
“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”
“Don’t,” Dean warns.
“We’ve got to-”
“No-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.
“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.
“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.
“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.
“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”
“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.
“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”
“That sounds like innuendo.”
“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”
Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”
“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.
“You’re having them three feet away from me!”
“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.
The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.
Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.
And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.
He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.
He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.
And he’s going to tell them that he knew.
He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.
And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.
𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐤 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 : panic attack-esque breakdown but isn't mentioned explicitly, academic pressure leading to burnout induced meltdown.
𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐥𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 : Being a biology student was no easy feat, especially when every single one of your classes for the past week had decided to not only give you tests on crucial topics, but also make them count towards your final grade. It's the end of said demon-week, and you only have one test left, but when you've been working on a prayer and a concerning amount of coffee, what happens when it just doesn't work anymore?
𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐜𝐞 : 6k words
𝐛𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲’𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 : Sooooo, this was a request as well!! a little bit of comfort for everyone going through it right now! You guys got this and if you dont, lock in and then read this to cure the burn out, the briar U gang and I believe in you. Thank you @pinkyups for the gif and @somebitchprobably-graphicdump for the dividers !
𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐩𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 : I would really appreciate if you could send in an ask to be on my taglist, it's easier for me to manage and make sure everyone is added!! here is the post of my current taglist. Also, if your user is bolded, I'm going on a prayer that youve been tagged but Tumblr wouldn't let me properly do so. I would recommend checking your privacy settings to allow other people to tag you.
If only a few months ago, someone told you that you’d be sitting on the kitchen island of briar u’s infamous hockey house. You would’ve spat in their face and thrown out witch allegations. But, as it so happens, you were currently proving yourself wrong since you were in fact sat at said kitchen island, at 2 in the morning.
What was especially life altering was the fact that the hockey house at two in the morning felt fundamentally different from the version people saw during the day.
Quieter, obviously.
There was still the low hum of the refrigerator somewhere behind you, the occasional groan of pipes in the walls, distant traffic bleeding through the kitchen windows in soft waves. Someone upstairs snored loud enough that it periodically rattled the ceiling and every so often the house settled with little creaks that sounded almost human in the dark.
You had been staring at the same paragraph for twenty-three minutes, and you’re pretty sure the windows loading screen was implanted into your brain in that time.
From the outside, you still looked productive enough. Your notes were spread methodically across the kitchen island in organised little piles, colour coded tabs sticking from textbooks, highlighters lined neatly beside your laptop alongside enough empty coffee cups to medically concern most people. Your laptop screen glowed brightly against the otherwise dim kitchen, lecture slides open beside three different quizlets and a half-finished practice paper that had slowly become your mortal enemy sometime around midnight.
Your knee bounced aggressively beneath the stool.
One of your hoodie sleeves had been pulled over your hand completely, the cuff half-chewed from absentminded stress while your other hand tapped your pencil rhythmically against the counter.
Tap tap tap.
Pause.
Tap tap tap.
You reread the sentence again, hoping the information would magically inject itself into your brain. Still nothing.
Your eyes skimmed over the words, recognising them individually but refusing to process them collectively, which somehow felt even more insulting considering this was material you’d already revised twice.
You exhaled slowly through your nose, pressing your temples in an attempt to settle the dull ache behind your eyes.
Fine. Whatever. Maybe your brain just needed a second.
You sat up straighter on the stool and reached for your coffee, immediately grimacing when the cold bitter liquid hit your tongue. It truly was a miracle what a red bull and coffee could produce if brewed together. Thankfully, nobody would know of your creation since you cleaned up the evidence and were currently drinking through the undeniable urge to gag it all out.
Your planner sat open beside you, pages covered in your handwriting so intensely neat it bordered on threatening. Every hour of the week had been scheduled down to frightening precision - lectures, revision blocks, assignment deadlines, office hours, reading lists.
And still somehow, the tasks outweighed the hours- the day you made the schedule was the day you cursed those who didn’t warn you that at Briar, everyone here had already been the smartest person in the room somewhere else.
You had spent most of your life being good at things naturally enough that effort felt almost embarrassing to admit to. High school had been manageable. Predictable.
Briar was different, at Briar, everyone was either born with the syllabus out of the womb or could somehow use textbook pages to roll and smoke a joint- still managing to come out with a 4.0 GPA. Which just meant every mistake, no matter how tiny, felt absurdly catastrophic.
You clicked your pen repeatedly while rereading the practice question in front of you.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Your eye twitched.
“Okay,” you muttered quietly to yourself, dragging a hand down your face. “No, because actually what the fuck is oxidative phosphorylation.”
The kitchen answered you unhelpfully with silence, bar the occasional drip of the sink- which didn’t help since it added another item to you todo list, “tell Logan to fix the kitchen sink”. You prayed your brain would remember it for longer than 20 seconds, but given that it could barely splutter together the material you swore was genetically implanted into your DNA , you didn’t have much hope.
Alright, new strategy- you turned your focus to your laptop. You’d make this test your bitch, one way or another.
The diagram on your laptop stared back at you smugly.
Or not. You glared at the behemoth of a biological diagram, weird, blob-like shapes were sprayed across the screen with equally sharp, taunting labels and colours that honestly, should never be used in association with the human body.
Your phone buzzed from somewhere across the large island, most likely beneath a pile of flashcards- you barely broke eye contact with your goliath. It was probably Allie. Or Hannah. Or someone in your intro to human biology class freaking out about the test.
The notification popped up in the corner of your screen, it was both of them. Teaming up to tell you to go to sleep before your body gave out and somebody had to physically remove you from campus again.
You swiped it away dismissively. Not happening.
You still had two chapters left to revise, one practice paper unfinished and exactly nine hours before the test. Which in theory, sounded manageable. In practice however, you would willingly let the dean teach you about anal sex and somehow understand it better than the words in front of you. Your brain was buffering dramatically against your task list.
You rubbed hard at your eyes before leaning back over your notes again, trying desperately to force yourself into focus.
“Just lock the fuck in.” You whispered to yourself, frustrated with the way your shoulders slumped tiredly and legs began to numb from where they were awkwardly folded beneath you.
Just focus.
Your pencil tapped faster, eyes burning as you forced them to read the same line four more times.
Nothing.
An annoyed groan left your lips, because you could feel yourself slipping.
Feel your concentration dissolving around the edges while your body keeps trying to push forward anyway. Your thoughts felt sluggish and overcrowded at the same time, every tiny unfinished task pressing against the inside of your skull until even breathing felt vaguely unproductive.
And still, you scolded your weary body and brain- convincing them to just keep going. One more hour. One more minute.
Because the alternative was stopping, and you wouldn’t dare consider it. Stopping meant acknowledging that maybe you physically couldn’t keep up with the pace you’d set for yourself- and the mere hypothetical made something uncomfortable curl in your chest.
You reached for another flashcard.
Read half of it and… forgot what it said immediately.
A near hysterical laugh escaped you before you could stop it, fingers curling around the innocent card-stock. You wacked yourself with the flimsy thing before pausing with it pressed against your forehead, squeezing your eyes shut for a second longer than you deemed necessary.
You were fine, it's just a little stress. Everyone at Briar was stressed, and you refused to be the coward who was complaining about a little sleep deprivation and one difficult exam.
Your eyes opened again and landed on the digital clock glowing faintly on the microwave, the numbers slightly blurry.
2:07 AM.
You stared at it for a moment.
Then immediately looked back down at your notes like refusing to acknowledge the time would somehow stop it existing.
Tap tap ta-
The pencil snapped clean in half, one side stayed clasped in your hand whilst the other rolled uselessly away from you. At least something was escaping this revision nightmare. You froze, staring longingly at the traitorous piece of wood, scoffing in a kind of exhausted disbelief normally reserved for personal betrayals.
Then you laughed again, burying your face in your hands.
Dangerously close to tears.
The kitchen light had been on long enough that Logan eventually noticed it in his sleep, not at first, just distantly, somewhere beneath the heavy haze of exhaustion and late-night dreams, his brain registered the thin strip of warm light cutting underneath his bedroom door which made him subconsciously shuffle around the bed, eyebrows furrowing when he sensed a change in the environment around him.
Because you were supposed to be upstairs.
More specifically, you were supposed to be asleep beside him.
Logan woke slowly, one arm stretching instinctively across the mattress before meeting cold sheets instead of your body. For a second he just blinked at the ceiling, disoriented in that miserable way people were at two in the morning, before finally pushing himself upright with a tired groan.
He sat up, swaying tiredly as his eyes adjusted to the rude awakening, his room was dark besides the faint orange glow of campus lights bleeding through the blinds and your side of the bed was empty.
Not recently empty either, the sheets had settled and emanated a chill that suggested you’d been gone for a few hours.
Logan scrubbed a hand down his face and began to search for something to cover up with. He already knew where you’d be.
The same place you always ended up when your brain refused to let you rest.
He shoved himself out of bed and reached blindly for the pair of grey sweatpants abandoned somewhere near the desk chair, dragging them on low over his hips before stumbling toward the door. His Briar hockey team hoodie hung half-off the back of the chair and he tugged it over his head without much thought, still too sleepy to care that it was inside out.
The stairs creaked under his weight, making him grimace and shift his feet experimentally- trying to make his way down quietly without disrupting the hushed atmosphere. The house was dead, Tucker wasn’t flopping around the couch yelling at a video game, Dean wasn’t raiding the protein powder cupboard, Garrett's old classic rock wasn’t blaring out of the speaker. It was just silent.
Then you came into view, and it was like seeing a zombie in a graveyard. Logan stilled in his tracks.
It was exactly as he’d pictured you, hunched over the kitchen island, hair fluttering out the braid you’d messily done, probably when you first fled from the bedroom- your legs were pretzeled beneath you as you stared at your laptop, frozen in time with notes covering every inch of the island around you.
The stool you sat on vibrated from the force of your knee bouncing, even the empty coffee cups and highlighters jolted considerably; from what Logan could make out, almost seven different tabs were open across your screen, the garish light illuminated your face as you glanced up a few times, your hoodie sleeve covering half your hand while you aggressively annotated something in the margins of your textbook with enough force to threaten the integrity of the page itself.
He carefully treaded towards you, close enough to make out the look on your face. Sheer exhaustion plagued your features, not the normal version either, you didn’t have a lick of sleepiness on your face, it was probably wrung out from how wound tight you were. This kind of exhaustion settled beneath your skin and turned every small inconvenience into a potential psychological breakdown
Logan paused briefly for a second, just watching you. His chest tightened a little, because this had been your life for the past week. Barely eating unless necessary, sleep was just a polite grievance that you gave into once in a while when you weren’t studying into the night until your eyes were glassy. And somehow, you still thought people would believe you when you insisted that you were fine.
You muttered something under your breath at your laptop before aggressively clicking your pen- the sound was sharp enough to bring Logan back into the scene that laid out before him.
Click.Click.Click.
“Baby?” He came up behind you, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and pressing his hand against your back. You startled so hard that the pen slipped from your fingers.
Logan immediately felt a little bad when you spun toward him with wide eyes, before you expression settled into something defensive.
“I’m studying.”
Logan’s brows lifted as he unscrewed the bottle slowly,
“Yeah,” he said slowly, voice still rough with sleep, “I gathered that.”
You huffed quietly and looked back down at your notes, this close up, he could see how much worse you looked. There were faint shadows beneath your eyes, and you posture had curled inward, hostile in that specific way when you were overwhelmed but trying to hide it
“When did you come down here?”
“Like…” You squinted at the microwave clock, “Midnight?”
Logan blinked.
“Baby, it’s two in the morning.”
“I know what time it is.”
The sharpness in your voice surprised the both of you, mainly you, since you recoiled back and tightened your face apologetically.
“I didn’t mean-”
“It’s okay.”
Logan cut you off gently before you could spiral into apologising. He shifted closer, resting one hand against the counter beside your thigh while looking over the mess of notes in front of you.
Biochemistry.
Jesus Christ.
“You should come to bed.”
“No.”
You didn’t even look up from the equations scribbled onto the paper in front of you, dismissing the idea entirely, like the suggestion itself stressed you out.
You rubbed hard at your eyes before looking back down at your laptop screen.
“I still have so much left.”
Logan studied you quietly for a second. Normally, he would’ve pushed harder. Normally, he’d already be halfway through physically carrying you upstairs while you complained dramatically over his shoulder.
But this version of you would’ve gouged his eye out without thinking if he dared something like that. This version of you was overstimulated, overworked and balancing precariously on a thread built by your psyche.
So instead, Logan just moved beside you, dragging a stool closer to you so he could slide in and rest a hand on your thigh absentmindedly, leaning lightly into your shoulder.
You exhaled shakily through your nose, when he ghosted his nose against your cheek, nuzzled delicately.
“What are you working on?” he asked softly, tilting his head to squint his eyes at the paper that twitched under your fingers.
“Oxidative phosphorylation.”
Logan stared at you.
“Gesundheit.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched slightly.
“There are literally ATP synthase pathways in my nightmares now.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It’s not. I wish it was”
Logan hummed sympathetically like he understood literally any of what you were saying. He didn’t, but he knew enough to know that when your voice sounded too tight, the content was hammering around in your brain with the elegance of a troll.
You clicked your pen again.
And again.
And again.
Logan’s gaze drifted slowly across the kitchen, the empty coffee cups he had noticed before now seemed to be stained an odd ochre colour, definitely not coffee but he wouldn’t question what concussion you had brewed to stay awake. He stopped himself from scolding you about the untouched granola bar beside your laptop and instead focussed on the way your notes depicted the journey of your mental state unravelling, starting out neat and ending up in frantic scribbles.
He squeezed your thigh once, “You eat anything?”
A pause.
Your pencil stopped moving and you bit your lip as you thought. Not a good sign.
“Yeah.”
Logan waited for you to elaborate.
“…today?”
You glared at him weakly.
“That feels judgemental.”
“It’s meant to feel concerning.”
“I had coffee.” You looked over to the sea of cups beyond your materials, blinking at the odd colour their insides seemed to have picked up. That’s not a good sign for your stomach, a problem for future you entirely, “...which I brewed with redbull”
“Baby.”
“I know.”
The words came out as an exhausted sigh.
Logan’s thumb rubbed slowly against your thigh.
“You can’t study properly if you’re running entirely on some demon-drink and the hatred of your TA.”
You let out a short laugh at that, then immediately regretted it when your head throbbed. Logan’s frown deepened when you pressed your fingers harder against your temple.
Your breathing had changed slightly, thinner, more aware of the toll this was taking on your body. Every inhale was getting caught halfway down and each exhale came out shaky.
He watched you stare at the same page for several long seconds without turning it, watched your eyes scan the same line repeatedly, your fingers tightening in your hair where they were buried- cradling your head.
Your knee bounced harder against the stool.
“Hey.”
You didn’t answer immediately, instead your jaw tightened.
“Baby.”
This time you looked at him, and Logan felt his chest tighten at the shiny film over your eyes. As if you were teetering on the edge of crying, and the only thing blocking the dam was your insistence to continue studying.
You looked away almost immediately, shoulders pulling tighter.
“I’m fine,” you muttered quietly.
Logan, had stopped pretending to believe that about ten minutes ago.
He stayed beside you, one hand still resting lightly on your thigh, thumb moving in slow, grounding circles like he was trying to keep you anchored in the room. He didn’t speak much anymore. Just watched. Quietly observant in that way of his that always felt slightly unfair, like he could read the parts of you that you hadn’t even admitted existed yet.
You didn’t realise you leaned into him but your head had come to rest on his shoulder as you continued to highlight pages. But when you hit a certain word with the electric blue ink, you paused, re-read it and frowned.
“Wait,” you muttered under your breath, you immediately sat up straight and flipped the page back, then forward again, then back.
Logan didn’t say anything, but his thumb had frozen against your leg, his eyes darting worryingly between how fast your fingers were flicking the pages and your face, that was starting to crumple with realization.
You scanned the entire paragraph again. Then the page. The words weren’t changing, but they might as well have been. They blurred together at the edges, refusing to hold shape properly no matter how many times you forced your eyes over them.
Your stomach tightened.
“No,” you whispered quietly, more to yourself than anything else, your fingers flying to check the lecture slides, then your revision guide. A slow, sinking realisation started to form in your chest.
“No, no, no,” you said again, this time sharper, somehow sitting up straighter as if posture alone could fix the situation.
Logan’s voice came gently from beside you, but you could barely hear it. A rush of panic roared in your ears and it felt as though you were drowning and he was standing above you- trying to communicate through litres of pitch black water.
“What’s wrong?”
You didn’t answer immediately.
Your eyes darted everywhere, from where you were flipping pages with increasing urgency, to scanning headings, rereading annotations you had definitely written yourself but suddenly didn’t recognise as useful.
This wasn’t the right topic.
You had spent hours on the wrong section.
Hours.
Your entire brain stalled for a second, like a car that had been slowly, painfully screeching up a hill- and at the last minute some unknown force engaged the hand brake and you were now rolling down at a speed you couldn’t stop even if you tried
Then, as if somehow slamming on the breaks would help, it tried to compensate by speeding up.
“That can’t be right,” you said quickly, breath thinning slightly. “I swear I already did this. I- I literally did this two days ago.”
Logan leaned forward slightly now, “Baby-”
“No, no, it’s fine,” you cut in immediately, too fast again, the rubber was burning as the wheels grinded against asphalt. “It’s fine, I can fix it. I just need to- I just need to switch it and then I can catch up, I still have time I just-”
Your laptop trackpad clicked aggressively as you opened another document.
Logan watched as your hands shook violently with each click, your breathing shallowed and shoulder tightened even more than before- your knee was bouncing so fast that it felt like your entire leg was vibrating against his hand. It was like you were slowly collapsing into yourself, and all he could do was watch with a concerned expression on his face.
“Hey,” he said again, softer this time. “Look at me.”
“I am looking at you,” you snapped automatically.
Your voice cracked at the end of your sentence and you froze- letting silence interrupt your world speeding to an untimely end.
You swallowed, and then tried to laugh. Maybe if you could trick your body into thinking this was all just one big joke, it would stop trembling like you were in an active war zone. It didn’t come out right, more like a choked sob.
“I’m just being stupid,” you muttered, turning back to the screen too quickly. “It’s fine. I can still revise it, I just lost time but I can make it up if I-”
Your eyes wouldn’t focus entirely, and when your cursor hovered in the wrong place and your fingers were quaking so uncontrollably that you ended up deleting the entire window.
Your stomach dropped.
“Oh my god,” you whispered.
Then again, louder.
“Oh my god.”
Logan straightened slightly, his hand moving to hover over your forearm, “Baby.”
“No, I’m fine,” you said immediately, too quickly again, voice shaking now whether you wanted it to or not. “I’m fine, I just messed up a bit, it’s not- it’s not a big deal I can fix it I just need to-”
You tried to re-open the tabs, but your laptop spluttered hopelessly, lagging out in front of you. Your breath caught when the entire screen went black and rebooted, the forced update screen blinked cruelly at you. And then you felt something in your chest whimper and crumple, like a house of cards met with the softest breeze.
“No,” you said again, but this time it wasn’t frustration, it was fear that made your voice waver as your hands stilled over the keyboard
“I can’t- I can’t do this,” shaking your head you brought a hand over your mouth, almost disbelievingly, like you were hearing someone else say it.
Logan’s hand immediately left your thigh.
“Hey,” he said firmly now, moving closer. “Hey, look at me.”
You didn’t. Couldn’t. You were transfixed by the slowly spinning pinwheel over and over and over- like it was hypnotizing you into staying upright in your seat.
“I’m so behind,” you said quickly, words spilling out now that the dam had broken. “I’m actually so behind I don’t even understand how I’m supposed to catch up and I thought I was doing okay but I’m not and I just wasted so much time and I don’t- I don’t have time for this-”
Your voice broke properly at the end, and then the tears finally fell. You didn’t sob, just heaved heavy breaths that were interrupted by copious floods of salty liquid barrelling down your face. It wasn’t dramatic the way you fell apart, it was like throwing a pebble down a ravine, and waiting to hear the sharp sound of it dropping to the floor, you could only notice it if you listened very carefully.
You blinked hard immediately.
Once.
Twice.
Angrily.
As if that would fix it.
“No,” you said again, wiping at your face quickly with the back of your sleeve. “No, no, I’m fine, I’m literally fine I just- this is stupid I shouldn’t be crying I just need to fix it-”
You went to reach for your textbook and pen, you’d do it the old fashioned way then.
Logan stopped you immediately, both hands wrapped around yours, gentle but firm. He pulled the pen and textbook out of your grip, dropping them somewhere on the table.
The thud echoed too loudly in the quiet kitchen.
You froze, staring at him like he had just pulled the plug of your life support. Your breathing became uneven now, chest tightening in a way that made speaking harder.
“I need that,” you said, voice small but urgent. “Logan, I need that.”
“No,” he said softly.
You face crumpled in exhausted confusion, finally spilling over the edges of your carefully curated container of anger and frustration.
“I don’t have time for this,” you whispered, voice breaking again. “I don’t have time to fall apart right now.”
Logan’s expression shifted, something within him went still as he rubbed your knuckles,
“Baby,” he said quietly, and there was something different in his tone now. Less concern about the work. More about you. “You’re not falling apart.”
You let out a broken laugh and gestured to the minefield of study materials in front of you.
“Yeah,” you said shakily, wiping your face again. “Yeah, I am.”
Logan waited for you to continue, as if he didn’t see any evidence for your argument. The silence wrapped around you, compelling you to speak- your voice softer, smaller than before,
“I can’t mess this up.”
Logan barely hesitated, he reached up and cupped your face gently, forcing your attention away from the table and onto him.
Your hands were still trembling slightly where they hovered near your lap. Logan’s palms were on your cheeks, steady and warm, keeping you anchored in place like he was afraid that if he let go you would dissolve back into the kitchen air.
And you just stared at him, not really able to focus on his eyes properly, like your brain hadn’t fully caught up to the fact that the panic had nowhere left to go.
Logan’s thumbs moved lightly under your eyes, brushing away the last of the tears before they could fully settle.
“Hey,” he said again, quieter now. “You’re okay.”
You nodded immediately, a sharp pang in your chest hit you like a ton of bricks, you felt guilty for taking up precious revision time- and for the fact that Logan had dragged himself out of bed because of you.
“I’m fine,” you whispered, but it came out thinner than you meant it to. “I just- I just messed it up.”
Logan didn’t respond right away, just looked at you, how your eyes kept flicking from him to the notes and back to him. Like you were gauging how long you’d be away from them. He couldn’t wrap his head around how you could be sitting in front of him and still think this was about the notes on the table.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” you said suddenly.
Your gaze stayed fixed on the kitchen island, as if the mess of colour-coded organisation and half-finished revision sheets could still be fixed if you just looked at them long enough.
“No,” you corrected quickly, shaking your head slightly. “No, I am doing this, I just- I just need to focus I just lost time and I can’t afford to lose time right now because if I lose time I fall behind and if I fall behind I-”
Your voice cracked halfway through, your eyes widened and you blinked hard, already angry at yourself.
Logan’s hand didn’t falter, instead they rubbed soothingly along your cheekbones,
“Baby,” he said gently.
But you weren’t listening anymore, the words spilling out now that your restraint had snapped, “I’m not supposed to be like this,” you said, voice breaking around the edges. “I’m not supposed to be the person who can’t handle it. I can handle it, I always handle it, I just need to fix it I just need to-”
Suddenly the tears were back, springing up to your lash line and bubbling down your face, you blinked immediately, wiping at your face like it was instinct rather than thought.
“No,” you whispered again, frustrated now. “No, stop, I can’t do this right now-”
Logan pulled you forward, a gentle tug on both your shoulders- you stumbled off the stool, kicking it back slightly until your forehead dropped against his chest, like your body finally gave up pretending it could hold itself upright alone.
Your hands curled into the fabric of his hoodie, tight at first, as though you were trying to hold yourself together through him- because once you weren’t looking at the screen anymore, there was nothing left to organise the chaos with.
“I’m sorry,” you said immediately, voice muffled against him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m just being stupid I don’t know why I’m crying I just need to fix it I just-”
“Hey.”
Logan’s voice cut through gently but firmly.
“Hey. Stop.”
Your breath stuttered, and Logan thought that maybe he finally managed to get you to pause. You tried again anyway,
“I just messed up a whole section and I don’t have time and I thought I was doing okay but I’m not and I’m- I’m behind and I can’t be behind, I can’t-”
Your voice blubbered completely on the last word, and you hated that you did that, so you pressed your face harder into his chest like that would erase it. Logan’s armed tightened around you, a slow exhale contracting his chest in relief, that he finally managed to create a boundary between you and everything else.
You tucked your face into his neck and loosely wrapped your arms around him, you wished you could hold him just as tight- but your limbs were exhausted. “You’re not behind,” he murmured into your ear. You let out a shaky laugh that turned halfway into a sob, Logan somehow held you harder against him.
“Yes I am.”
“No,” he repeated, firmer this time. “You’re overwhelmed.”
You stilled for half a second, torn by the accuracy of what he said- you couldn’t fully tell if a weight had been removed for your chest or if it had been pierced by his words. Either way, your breathing hitched again.
“I can’t be overwhelmed,” you said quietly, like it was a rule you were trying to break. “There’s too much to do.”
Logan lowered his head slightly, pressing a kiss against your forehead.
“You’re allowed to be overwhelmed,” he mumbled into your skin.
You wished he hadn’t said that, because it had been the right thing. Or wrong thing. To make your shoulders shake once. And the minute the first racking sob emerged from your throat, you were crying properly the next. Deep, exhausted crying that you had clearly been holding back for far too long, you clutched his hoodie tighter, fingers curling like you were afraid of falling if you let go.
“I don’t know how to stop,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I don’t know how to stop doing this.”
Logan hummed, slowly dragging his hand up and down your back, rubbing soothing warmth through your clothes and against your spine.
“You don’t have to stop,” he said softly. “You just have to breathe for a second.”
You shook your head pitifully against him.
“I can’t waste time.”
That made him pause, then pull back, just enough so he could tilt your face up to meet his eyes.
“Look at me,” he said gently.
You were stubborn to hold onto the one piece of dignity you had left, but the way the words were said so firmly in the space between you two, you couldn’t stop yourself from following his gentle command.
Eyes still wet and red, your expression crumpled in a way that you would normally never let anyone see. Nevermind watch so up-close, letting them look at you the way he was, like you weren’t something to fix, or scold into productivity, just you.
Like a prized possession that had started collecting dust on the same old shelf, and someone had picked you up and dusted you off- Logan studied you like it was the easiest thing in the world for him to love you.
“I do not care about your GPA right now,” he said quietly.
A laugh slipped out of you again, broken at the edges, “That’s easy for you to say.”
“No,” he said immediately. “It’s not.” His hands pressed into your face more firmly, as if he could permeate his intentions deeply into your pores.
You blinked at him, owlish and tired- vision jumping with each uneven breath.
Logan wiped under your eye with his thumb again, slower this time, like he wasn’t in a rush to move past any of it, “You don’t have to earn being okay,” he said.
You leaned back into him without thinking, forehead pressing into his shoulder as your breathing slowly started to even out in small, uneven waves. He held you there, one hand stroking your hair, the other spread across your back- keeping you close so you could safely fall apart.
You didn’t realise when the crying faded into soft hiccups and ebbed into soft breathes but the feeling didn’t resolve itself into manageable, malleable calm. Instead it changed shape, less sharp around the edges but stretched thin all over your body, planting its roots into your chest.
You had moved to the kitchen floor at some point, your head resting on Logan's shoulder as he stroked your hair. The kitchen was finally quiet, peacefully coexisting in the nightly hush with the rest of the house.
The microwave blinked at you. “3:30 AM”
For some godforsaken reason, your body decided to remember everything you were holding back, bottling up, choosing to bring it back all at once.
Your breath catches in your throat, high enough to make you stutter while your eyes begin to flutter with unshed tears. Logan froze with his hand buried in your hair, pulling away to analyse your face when he felt your fingers tighten in the fabric of his sweater. His hand shifts at your back, not rushing you, just adjusting like he’s already bracing for whatever direction this takes.
“Hey,” he calls softly.
You open your mouth, but it was as if you had inhaled a whole packet of tear stained tissues- your answer doesn’t come out cleanly, instead it's broken, cracked around the edges instead.
“I thought I was done,” you whisper.
The tears come again, but differently this time. Less explosive. More like something that had been waiting politely in the background and finally got permission to exist again. You press your forehead back into him automatically, like your body already knows where to go when it stops trusting your head.
“I hate this,” you say, quieter now, words muffled against his chest. “I hate that I can’t just… be normal about it. I hate that I turn everything into this thing I can’t control.”
He doesn’t interrupt, instead he tightens his arms around you, tucking you further into the grooves of his body. You try to match the way his chest rises and falls, your breathing coming out shaky, broken.
“I was doing so well,” you add, like that matters, like it somehow redeems the fact that you aren’t now, “I don’t want to be like this,” you admit, the words spilling faster now that they’ve finally been let out. “I don’t want to be someone who breaks down over a test question or loses control over nothing and makes it everyone’s problem I just- I just want to be okay without it being this complicated thing I have to manage all the time.”
You press your lips together, a sinking feeling filling your stomach- you begin to pull away, accepting the fact that you shared too much, felt too much, hurt too much, for him to still willingly sit with you on the kitchen floor.
But Logan doesn’t falter, his arm stopping you from going too far. He brings one hand up to the side of your face again, gently guiding you back to him before you can disappear into yourself.
“Don’t do that,” he says quietly.
Your eyes are wet again.
“I’m embarrassed,” you whisper.
“No,” his voice is hushed but the word shoots out harshly. Like he couldn’t believe that you were still worried about how strong you forced yourself to be.
“Yes I am.”
“You’re overwhelmed,” he corrects again, softer this time, but firm in the way that he refuses to let you rewrite it into something cruel.
Your jaw tightens, because you know he's right and you can’t argue with it. If you couldn’t rebuild your shattered armour, you’d wipe it clean- and salvage what was left by wiping your tears away harshly with the back of your sweater. Logan catches your wrist gently before you can.
“Hey,” he murmurs. “Stop trying to erase it.”
His eyes dart between yours, watching how you slumped in paralyzing relief. Relief that you didn’t need to think about the armour, that you didn’t need to present yourself as infallible.
“I don’t know how to not be this,” you admit quietly.
Logan’s eyes steel protectively, “You don’t have to know that,” he says.
You shake your head slightly, still crying, still trying to steady yourself like it’s something you can logic your way out of, “I do,” you insist. “I do because I can’t keep- I can’t keep doing this where I fall apart and everyone has to-”
Your voice breaks again which prompts him to pull you in, firm arms bracketing around your body, a hand sliding into your hair with the other pressing steadily into your back, holding you in place while you shake.
He kisses your hair, “You’re not doing anything wrong,”
“I don’t feel like I’m okay,” you whisper.
“That’s fine,” he replies immediately. “You don’t have to feel okay to be okay.”
You let out a small, broken sob against him like your system is finally losing the argument it’s been having with itself all night. Logan shifts slightly, guiding your head up to look at you properly, your face is flushed, messy, completely uncontrollable in a way that terrified you. His thumb comes up to brush away the fresh tears.
“I’ve got you,” he says quietly.
Your body eventually begins to loosen, your breath reaching a slower equilibrium- hiccuping in between but your shoulders begin to drop and your fingers let his sweater out of their death grip.
“I didn’t mean to ruin the night.”
Logan closes his eyes briefly like he’s trying not to react too strongly to that sentence, then he opens them again and shakes his head down at you, “You didn’t ruin anything,” he says.
You give him a look, a look that says, “Sure buddy, and those aren’t crater sized bags beneath your eyes”. Logan leans forward and presses his forehead gently to yours, “No more fixing yourself tonight,” he says quietly. “Okay?”
The air hangs heavy around you as you hesitate, pressing your lips together until you nod, slowly, hesitantly. And ever since this had started, your breathing finally didn’t feel like a shore to push out of your lungs, instead it flowed gently from your mouth in placid waves.
Logan stays with you like that for a long time, intertwining your fingers together and cradling you against his chest, running his knuckles along your cheekbone until your eyes flutter shut.
A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Honeymoon is made better with gifts.
Word Count: 4k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
Life in the North was full of responsibilities.
Robb knew that. As the heir to House Stark and the future Lord of Winterfell, he had always known he would have responsibilities to his house, his family, and the north.
However, as a new husband, he also had responsibilities to his wife, and those outweighed anything and everything else, in spite of the rest of the realm thinking otherwise.
It had been his father’s request of course. After postponing everything for over a moon because of the wedding, he now had to go back to his regular visits to his bannermen and lords to ensure loyalty, and as usual, Robb was expected to go with him. Before his wedding, Robb never had any problems with it, instead he found it useful for the future but now…
It was different now.
He pulled on his breeches and went over to the hearth to feed the fire so that the room would still be hot when he left. After giving Grey Wind a quick scratch behind the ears, he got into a white linen shirt and put on his boots, trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to around his lady from her slumber. He sat at the foot of the bed fixing his sleeves, but he was so lost in his own thoughts that he didn’t notice the bed shift before his lady draped herself across his back like a cloak, her arms thrown over his shoulders. The warmth of her naked skin seeped through his shirt while she tucked her face into the crook of his neck with a sleepy sigh and Robb smiled, his chest tightening with the rush of happiness flooding it.
“Did I wake you?” he asked, his voice low in the quiet of the room save for the crackling of wood in the fireplace. She shook her head, letting out a noise of displeasure.
“No,” she said, her breath caressing his neck. “But you should have.”
He entwined his fingers with hers to press a kiss on the back of her hand. “It’s early in the morning still.”
“Mayhaps, but you’re leaving for a week.”
He didn’t even have to look at her to know she had a sulky expression on her face, it was clear as day from her voice. With another curt kiss on her wrist, he slipped out of her arms to turn to see her better, but that turned out to be the wrong move, especially considering he was expected outside.
Gods, he was never going to get used to this.
The sight of her sitting there all prim and proper as if she wasn’t bare before him was enough to make his breath hitch in his throat, desire shooting through him faster than a lightning strike. It took every ounce of willpower in him not to pounce on her, the familiar fire burning low in his veins while she blinked slowly, sleep still clinging to her eyes. He couldn’t help but reach out to graze his fingertips up her waist, awakening goosebumps on her soft skin.
“And how,” he murmured, his voice hoarse with want, “am I supposed to leave you when you look like this?”
A teasing smile curled her lips.
“You’re not,” she answered. “And yet…”
Robb found himself mirroring her smile before he leaned in to steal a kiss from her, his hand cupping the side of her neck as he gently pushed her on her back so that he could settle between her legs, a giggle escaping her.
“Robb!”
It was simply cruel; to expect him to be anywhere but here in her arms while she looked up at him with such a pretty pout.
“Yes, my lady?”
She fiddled with the laces of his shirt as if she wanted to focus on something else, her brows pulled into a worried frown.
“Is it very far?” she asked. “Torrhen’s Square?”
“Not very far but we’ll stay for a night or two,” he muttered, dipping his head to kiss her neck but she stopped him.
“But you’ll be back in seven days for certain?” she insisted. “No longer?”
“Seven days is long enough.”
“No I know, I just…” she trailed off while he played with her hair absentmindedly. “I don’t want you to be away any longer than necessary, that’s all.”
“Trust me,” Robb grumbled, “I wouldn’t be leaving if it were up to me.”
That irresistible pout pulled at her lips again.
“Or so you claim.”
He shot her a half-hearted glare. “Do you honestly think I’d rather spend a night in Ser Tallhart’s castle—”
“I thought he was a lord.”
“House Tallhart is a masterly house.”
“Masterly house?”
“It’s…” Robb trailed off. “Think of landed knights but northern.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, you honestly think I’d rather spend a night in Ser Tallhart’s castle than be here with you?”
“Well, where will you be for a week? Here with me or Ser Tallhart’s castle?”
“I’ll be on horseback for most of it,” he corrected her and she pushed at his shoulder, making him chuckle. She nibbled on her lip, then took a deep breath.
“While you’re away,” she said. “May I ask something of you?”
“Anything.”
She raised her brows. “Anything?”
“I’d give you the realm if you wanted,” he muttered, nudging her nose with his, drawing a giggle out of her.
“I suppose it’s lucky that I don’t wish for the realm,” she said softly. “I only wish for your attention and affection.”
His heart melted in his ribcage.
“But since I’m to be deprived of both for a week,” she added before he could assure her she’d have them forever. “I want you to bring me a gift from there, wherever Torrhen’s Square is.”
His grin widened. “A gift?”
“Yes,” she said, wrapping the laces of his shirt around her index finger. “So that I’ll know you thought of me.”
He frowned down at her.
“And my wife, who has conquered my heart and my soul,” he said, caressing her cheekbone, “believes it possible that I will not think of her?”
She shrugged despite the smile playing on her lips, but before she could say anything, a servant knocked on the door.
“My lord, the horses are ready, your father is waiting for you.”
Robb repressed a groan and dipped his head to give her a goodbye kiss, unable to make himself pull back until she did, her eyes darting over his face.
“Promise me you’ll miss me,” she said, nearly breathless as he captured her lips with his again.
“I will,” he murmured. “I swear it. Promise me you’ll miss me back?”
“Every second,” she said and he stole another kiss from her, then forced himself to get off of her, already longing for her warmth. He grabbed his doublet to put it on while she pulled the furs up to her chest, then leaned over the edge of the bed so that she could give Grey Wind head scratches.
“What kind of gift?” Robb couldn’t help but ask as she cooed at Grey Wind, then turned her head.
“Hm?”
He clasped his cloak. “What kind of gift?”
“That’s for you to choose.” She kissed Grey Wind’s head who gave her a happy rumble. “You be careful out there, my sweet.”
Robb went over to her to peck her on the lips. “And you be careful here.”
“I will.” She beamed at him and let herself fall back on the bed while he walked to the door. “Miss me!”
“I will,” Robb chuckled and let himself gaze at her once more, then opened the door and stepped out with Grey Wind following him suit. The direwolf let out a whine, turning his head to look back at the door and Robb heaved a sigh.
“I know,” he said as he made his way down the hallway. “Trust me, I know.”
At least the road hadn’t been troublesome.
Ser Tallhart and his family were good friends of House Stark, as they had been for centuries. They were very welcoming too, so after the meetings were over and the petitions were listened, the dinner was turned into a small feast. Though northern houses had less resources than houses of the Reach, they made up for it in hospitality, and this was yet another occasion for the two houses to get together along with some of the other vassals. He and his father had been talking to Ser Tallhart for the last ten minutes, and it was only when he excused himself to go to talk to another lord that his father turned to Robb.
“You look tormented.”
“I left my lady wife in Winterfell.”
“So did I, Robb,” his father reminded him and Robb made a face.
“It’s not the same, father.”
Or at least he wanted to think it was not.
His father raised his brows, biting back a smile.
“It’ll be good for you,” he said after a beat while Robb took a sip of his ale. “To be away for a week. Your mother tells me the whole North is talking about how you barely let your wife out of your bedchambers, they should see that’s not the case.”
“It’s not the case,” Robb insisted. “What, because we skipped breakfast a couple of times?”
“And keep excusing yourselves right after dinner,” his father pointed out. “And just the other day you’ve all but snatched her when she was merely walking down the hallway—”
“We had things to talk of,” he defended himself, his ears burning. “And it may have escaped people, but we’re on our honeymoon.”
His father hummed. “It hasn’t escaped people, but you don’t want them to think you’re ruled by…excitement.”
Robb was fully aware of the fire spreading over his face, but he looked down at his cup and took a sip again while his father glanced around the hall, then heaved a sigh.
“Do you know what’s happening with Jon?”
Robb turned his head to find his brother in the crowded hall. The last he checked, he and Theon were talking to Ser Tallhart’s sons, but it was clear that Jon had left the conversation to go drink at the table by himself, lost in his own thoughts. It wasn’t a new occasion to see him sulk, but at least in the feasts and such he used to hold a conversation, especially if Theon or Robb were around.
And strangely enough, this wasn’t the first time Robb noticed it. Jon had been in low spirits for a couple of days, since the day before the Greensteds left Winterfell.
“He’s tired, perhaps.”
“For days?” his father asked and Robb shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ll talk to him,” he said and made his way to Jon to sit across from him, making his head snap up.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” Robb said. “You look sulkier than I am, and I’m away from my lady. What’s going on with you?”
“Uh….” Jon blinked a couple of times. “I’m tired.”
“See, I just gave the very same excuse to father, and he didn’t believe it either,” Robb pointed out while he filled his cup, and Jon’s brows pinched together.
“Father asked?”
“Aye, you’ve been upset for the last couple of days.” Robb took a sip of his ale again. “Jon, be honest with me. Is this because of the southerners?”
Jon’s eyes widened. “…What?”
“They left and you’re upset?” Robb asked as Jon pulled back a little, swallowing thickly. “Who was that lady you danced with at the wedding, Lady Florys? Is it because she left?”
Jon stared at him for a couple of seconds and let out a breath, a look of relief crossing his features.
“No,” he said. “No, she was nice, but I don’t…”
“Was there another guest who caught your attention then?”
Jon pursed his lips, then shook his head.
“No.”
“Because my lady says—”
“What are we talking about?” Theon plopped down next to Robb, and Jon took a huge sip of his drink.
“Robb thinks just because he’s in love, I must be in love as well.”
“That’s not what I said.” Robb pointed at him. “I’m just trying to find a reason for your sulking being worse than usual, that is all.”
“Oh I think I know what this is about,” Theon told them, his eyes a little glassy no doubt thanks to ale. “But it’s good that you didn’t fall in love with a southern girl, Snow. Everyone knows the southern girls are—”
“Careful there,” Robb cut him off, glaring at him and Theon held up his hands, gesturing surrender.
“Your lady excluded, obviously,” he corrected himself. “But come on, Jon is not gonna wed a southerner.” He clasped a hand over his shoulder to shake him. “He’ll wed a northerner, that’s more his type!”
“I don’t even know what you mean to say, Greyjoy.”
“I mean to say, look around,” Theon pointed out. “Just because the whole Reach came to Winterfell and a lot of northerners and southerners found each other to their liking, does not mean you have to be among them. No need to feel excluded, maybe you simply like northern girls better than southern girls.”
Oh, Robb hadn’t thought about that possibility.
Perhaps Theon was right, it wasn’t because Jon liked any of the southern ladies, it was because he couldn’t find someone to his liking even with so many of them in Winterfell, and felt excluded.
Even his lady had said many of her friends would be exchanging letters with the northern men they’d met at the wedding.
“Am I wrong?” Theon asked Robb who shook his head.
“Not at all,” he said quickly. “Southern girls are different than northern girls, and not every northern girl came to the wedding.”
“Aye.”
“There are a bunch of people you have not talked with,” Robb said, stealing a glance around the hall. “A bunch of houses who are loyal to House Stark, like—oh, like Ser Tallhart’s daughter over there, see? She seems pleasant.”
“Very pleasant,” Theon said. “But mayhaps not that one.”
“Why not? Is she betrothed?”
“Her brothers said she held a lot of admiration for you,” Theon said with a grin. “Asked her father to make an offer of betrothal before you were betrothed to your lady.”
Fuck, that was not going to help Jon here.
Robb gave Theon a warning glare who sat up straighter.
“But he has another daughter,” Theon added in a haste. “Prettier if you ask me. Over there, talking to Lord Glover’s daughter—”
“I think I’m gonna go outside and find Ghost,” Jon mumbled and pushed back his chair, then made his way out of the hall while Robb and Theon exchanged glances.
“Did I make it worse?” Theon asked and Robb shrugged.
“Nah,” he said. “I doubt it.”
“And what of you?” Theon asked, leaning back. “Eager to be back in Winterfell already?”
Robb brushed a hand over his face. “That obvious?”
“Very obvious,” Theon said, then gave him a grin. “But hey, at least your lady is free to roam in the castle now that you’re not there to keep her captive in your bedchambers.”
Robb scoffed a laugh, then flipped him and took another sip of his ale.
They arrived in Winterfell at the hour of the wolf, a week after they left.
The last couple of hours had been a test on Robb’s willpower; ever since they had entered the Wolfswood he had been trying to keep himself from galloping his horse to the castle and leave the others behind. He knew that his lady was asleep—the whole castle was asleep, but he still couldn’t wait to have her in his arms and take in her sweet scent and see her, after torturous days of being away from her.
No matter how tired he was from the road, the mere promise of her presence was enough to make him feel refreshed as if he’d had a full night’s sleep rather than having spent hours on horseback.
He made his way into the keep with Grey Wind following him, leaving his horse to his squire to handle without a glance back. After climbing the stairs, he walked down the hallway and pushed his door open, but what greeted him was the sight of the dark and empty bedchambers, making him frown.
Where was his lady?
The bed was made and the hearth was empty, so it was clear that she hadn’t gone out for a stroll. He glanced around as if she could jump out of the shadows, then looked down at Grey Wind who wagged his tail at him.
“Do you know where she is?”
Grey Wind sniffed the air, then turned around to leave the room, this time with Robb following him. Even though Robb half expected him to lead him out of the keep, he was proven otherwise when the direwolf padded down the hallway, then went to sit in front of the closed door to his lady’s bedchambers and looked up at him.
“Good work,” Robb whispered and scratched Grey Wind’s head, then pushed open the door and stepped inside, the warmth of the room hitting his face, no doubt thanks to the fully lit hearth.
Considering she spent every night with him, he hadn’t been inside his lady’s bedchambers since they were wed, nor had he understood why she couldn’t just use their bedchambers, but now that he was seeing it for the first time, it made sense.
The room completely belonged to her.
As she had mentioned earlier, she was given the room with the best light, the huge windows letting the moonlight inside at night and sunlight in the morning. Her vanity was at the corner, and on the other corner, there were three panels of full length mirrors together, reminding him of a room divider. The frames were carved with flowers and goats, but on the top there were two snarling wolves, making him smile. The other side of the room was spared to her wardrobe and chests of accessories, he could already tell, seeing that one of them was left open.
And at the center of the room, there was the bed she laid, too lost in her dreams to notice his presence.
Even in her sleep she managed to take his breath away. For a moment, Robb wondered whether she knew just how enchanting she was, but all the thoughts in his head washed away as his gaze devoured her sleeping form, the furs drawn to her chest while she lay on her side, the strap of her nightgown slipped off one shoulder. He took a step towards the bed, and as if on cue, Frost’s head popped up behind her as she blearily blinked at him, then rested her head on her waist.
By the Gods, of course she had taken Frost from the stables so that she could sleep in the bed.
Robb heaved a sigh and made his way to bed to pick up the lamb, earning a soft bleat in return.
“You can stay with Grey Wind,” he muttered to her and opened the door to put her next to Grey Wind who had curled up by the door, as if he was on watch duty. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve thought the tiny lamb was glaring up at him before she heaved a sigh, then plopped on top of Grey Wind in a dramatic manner, making the direwolf huff. Robb bit back a smile, then closed the door again to approach the bed.
Her scent filled his lungs as he carefully dipped his head to nuzzle into the crook of her neck, running his fingertips down her arm. She shifted a little, muttering something into her pillow, and it was only when Robb pressed a kiss on her neck that the haze of sleep slipped off of her, making her jolt with a sharp breath.
“It’s me,” Robb said with a chuckle and an exhale left her before she grabbed the nearest pillow to hit him with it.
“You scared me!” she exclaimed, drawing a laugh out of him as she dropped the pillow to press a hand on her chest. “Seven hells, Robb!”
“I missed you too.” He grinned before stealing a kiss from her. “Though I must admit, being struck with a pillow was not the welcome I had in mind.”
She let out a giggle and pushed at his arm, still breathless.
“I feared you were some sort of a thief in the night.”
“No thief can enter the keep, my love.”
“Well, still!” she insisted and pulled herself up in the bed to lean her back to the headboard, fixing her hair. “How fared your visit?”
“Torturous.”
She sat up straighter, her eyes gleaming even in the dim room. “What did you bring me?”
Robb hissed in a breath.
“Ah,” he said. “I forgot about that.”
Teasing her was nothing new to him, and it always made him laugh when she got all flustered, but this time was different. His stomach churned at once when her grin faltered, that shine in her eyes getting dim as she blinked a couple of times in hesitation.
“Oh,” she said softly after a beat and tried to smile. “That’s alright, I have um—I have enough things anyway!”
Yeah no, he couldn’t take her sadness even if it was for a second.
“Right,” he said and reached into his doublet to pull out a small pouch. “I suppose you don’t need this then?”
Her jaw dropped and she gasped, then hit him with the pillow again.
“Robb!”
“I mean I could always throw it away—” He let out a laugh when she snatched it from his hand. “Or not.”
“You didn’t forget!”
“Of course I didn’t forget,” he told her. “If my lady wife requests something, she shall have it.”
She untied the pouch and turned it over, the necklace falling into her palm, making her breath hitch. It wasn’t overly intricate; tiny drop shaped blue-white gems dangling from two gold wires twisted around each other, but when Robb found it in the market of Torrhen’s Square at a merchant’s stall, all he could think about was how beautiful it would look around his lady’s neck.
“The merchant said it was—”
“Moonstone,” she finished his sentence for him, lifting her head from the necklace to beam at him. “It’s gorgeous, thank you! I love it!”
Before he could kiss her, she had already leaped out of the bed to rush to the full length mirrors on the other side of the room, holding the necklace over her neck, trying to see it from all angles. He pushed himself off the bed to make his way to her, and she fixed her hair so that he could clasp the necklace before he wrapped his arms around her torso, her sweet scent engulfing him. She looked down at the necklace, her hand shooting up to adjust the gemstones while he watched her in the mirror, desire making him nearly lightheaded.
“Whoever said husbands didn’t know how to choose gifts doesn’t know of you,” she said airily before turning in his arms to look up at him with a big smile, and Robb found himself mirroring it. “Thank you so much, it’s so beautiful!”
“Of course,” he muttered, pressing a kiss under her jaw. “And you look very beautiful, my lady. You and your gown.”
“And my necklace!”
“And your necklace.” He huffed a chuckle while his hands tugged at the laces of her nightgown, but she pulled back a little.
“Wait—” She reached back to feel the clasp of the delicate chain. “Help me take it off first?”
A wolfish grin curled his lips before he leaned in to kiss her, walking her back to the bed until her legs hit the edge of the bed and she fell on the furs with a small squeal that turned into the sweetest giggle when he all but pounced on her.
“But my necklace—”
“Keep it on,” Robb murmured, dipping his head to trail his lips down her neck. “I want to see you come undone wearing nothing but that.”
A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Saying goodbye to family is always difficult.
Word Count: 5,7k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
Growing up in your family, you were led to believe some things were so certain that they could have been laws of nature.
You would have a complete change of wardrobe every year in addition to the gowns you had made for special days, such as your nameday or Margaery’s.
You would get a gift from your father whenever he had to travel to a different part of the realm and came back home.
You would get a monthly allowance of jewelry so that—according to your father— you could learn the importance of patience, though you never really understood why he was so insistent on that.
And most important of all; you would never be out of your family’s sight, but that was about to change and you were nowhere near ready.
Sleep decided to leave you early in the morning, while Robb was still deep in his slumber. It took you less than an hour to understand you wouldn’t be able to doze off again; your mind was way too troubled to give you such peace. You tried to move out of his arms as slowly as possible so that you wouldn’t wake him up, but his grip around your waist tightened before he buried his face to the crook of your neck with a small groan.
“Robb?” you whispered and he let out a sleepy hum that vibrated in his chest. “Are you awake?”
He lifted his head just a little to peek at the window before he dropped it back to your neck. “It’s barely morning.”
“I think perhaps I should go and see if my father needs anything.”
“He’s asleep,” he murmured into your skin. “Just like the rest of the castle. Like you and I should be.”
“But what if he needs something?”
“He needs rest before the road, sweeting,” he said, his voice deep and drowsy. “It’s a long way from here to the Reach. Let him sleep.”
You could feel your heart dropping to your stomach, but you took a trembling breath.
“But um, mayhaps he woke up early to get ready.”
“Not this early.”
“But Silas always sets out bef—”
“They won’t sneak out before you wake up,” he assured you, already half-asleep. “I promise.”
You nibbled on your lip, trying to remember whether any of your brothers had said anything about when exactly your father and the rest of the household would leave, but came up empty. Robb’s breaths turned into soft snores behind you, and you made sure not to wake him again as you slipped out of the bed, Grey Wind raising his head from where he lay by the fireplace. You scratched at his head, grabbed your dressing gown and put it over your nightgown, stealing a glance outside the window. Robb had a point; you were sure no one else was awake just yet, but you didn’t want to lose any more time to sleep when your whole family would be getting on the road today.
Your father’s chambers were the first one you tried, but when you knocked on the door, he didn’t answer. A quick peek into the room from the door made it clear that he was indeed asleep, so you closed the door as quiet as a mouse, then made your way to Silas’s door. Your time in the Reach had taught you not to barge into Silas’ bedchambers, so you knocked on the door and took a deep breath.
“Silas?” you called out from behind the door. “Are you awake?”
His voice didn’t sound sleepy at all when he answered: “What is it?”
“Are you alone?”
“Uh….no,” he said. “I’m not.”
You bit back a smirk, fighting the urge to say good morning to Jon.
“I’ll be in my bedchambers, can you come there when you can?” you asked. “I must talk to you.”
“Of course,” he said and you walked away from his door to enter the hallway that led to your own bedchambers, but the sight of Elinor stepping out of your room made you stop dead in your tracks. She seemed as shocked as you were to see you there, but she overcame it rather fast.
“What were you doing in my room?” you asked with a frown, and she shrugged her shoulders.
“My maids haven’t been able to find my favorite necklace, I thought maybe it was there.”
You made a face. “I have my own jewelry with taste, thank you very much.”
To your surprise, she didn’t even retort, instead she just walked past you and made her way out of the hallway. You rushed to your bedchambers in fear of her having done something to your gowns, and though they all looked untouched, you pursed your lips, then heaved a sigh.
“Great,” you muttered to yourself. “Now I have to check all of them.”
You weren’t even close to being done inspecting the first chest when Silas arrived in your bedchambers, but for the first time in your life there were more pressing matters than your gowns, especially when your brother seemed to share your low spirits.
“Does Aunt Anya know you’re going there with the twins?”
“Perce sent a raven a few days back.”
You played with the intricate embroidery of the pillow in your lap. “Should be fun.”
He just shrugged his shoulders, sprawled on the sofa across from where you sat.
“It’s about time I met Braxton’s betrothed, I suppose.”
“He is so in love.”
“Yeah but he’s also a fool, so we need to make sure she can be trusted,” he pointed out, making you roll your eyes.
“Silas. Come on.”
“I just don’t want another Elinor.”
“Don’t remind me,” you muttered and tilted your head. “When you said you weren’t alone just now, was it Jon?”
“Mm hm.”
“How’s—” You motioned vaguely. “Will you two exchange letters?”
He bit inside his cheek.
“This affair will stay within the walls of Winterfell,” he said. “It was just entertainment, nothing more, nothing less. He knows.”
“Does he know, or do you just assume he knows?”
“He very clearly does, seeing that I suggested he could come with me to Dorne and he said no.”
Your eyes widened. “You did what?”
“Dorne is much less restricted, especially compared to the North—”
“You suggested he could come with you to Dorne?”
“And I knew he would say no, so drop it,” he said. “It doesn’t mean what you think it means. He’s just a good man who’d be happier in Dorne, that’s it.”
“Fine, fine…”
“And you?” He eyed you up and down. “Are you sure you’re staying here in the north?”
“Seeing that I’m wed to the heir to the north,” you joked with a small grin, “I kind of have to, I think.”
“That rule applies to other people, not you,” he reminded you. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
You shook your head, your chest tightening.
“I do want to stay, Silas,” you managed to say. “Robb and I are in love.”
“Oh that didn’t escape anyone, the whole North talks about how he barely lets you out of his bedchambers—”
“And you shouldn’t worry about me,” you cut him off, a fire spreading over your cheeks. “Nothing bad is going to happen to me after you leave. I promise.”
He heaved a sigh, then brushed a hand over his face.
“I know,” he muttered. “I’ll still visit before I go back home from Dorne, let’s see if you feel the same after the honeymoon.”
A smile curled your lips. “Dorne and The Reach share a border, the North is on the other side. It’s not as if it’s on your way.”
“I’ll make it my way,” he pointed out. “Besides, I’m in no rush to go home. Who knows? Maybe I’ll stay until Braxton’s wedding and come back here with you.”
Your smile faded from your lips as your eyes started burning, but you blinked back the tears.
“You can’t escape forever, Silas,” you rasped out and his gaze snapped to yours. He swallowed thickly, then gave you that perfect courtier smile of his.
“Maybe I can,” he said. “Maybe I don’t want to go back to the Reach when you’re not there. Maybe I’ll just join Cliff and become a pirate and never go home ever again.”
“A merchant.”
“Oh please, he’s a pirate,” he said with a scoff. “He’s just too rich for others to call him that. I’m his brother, I can say it.”
A burst of laughter escaped you despite the lump in your throat and that seemed to coax Silas’ own laugh that echoed in the room, the heaviness threatening to crush your ribcage lifting a little at the familiar sound.
“You haven’t seen his crew!” he insisted through laughter, gesturing at the window. “I have been losing sleep over how I’m going to explain it to father when we all get to White Harbor and he sees his ship—”
Someone knocked on the door and Eadith peeked her head in.
“My lady,” she said, her voice lacking its usual cheerful tone even though she tried to smile. “Good morning. Would you like me to help you get dressed?”
The lump in your throat felt like it was growing bigger when you realized this was going to be the last time she helped you with your gowns, but you managed to smile back and nodded your head.
“That’d be great, thank you Eadith,” you said and Silas got up from the sofa.
“I’ll go and check whether father has woken up,” he said. “I’ll see you at breakfast.”
He pressed a kiss on top of your head and left the room, closing the door behind him. You licked your lips and stood up as well, then made your way to the table and grabbed the small box on the table.
“Eadith,” you said and held it out. “This is for you.”
Her head shot up. “For me, my lady?”
“A small parting gift,” you said while she took it from you in the most careful manner, and lifted the lid, a gasp leaving her.
“My lady…”
The box was filled with gold coins, and on top of them laid a scroll, an emerald necklace, a pair of diamond earrings and a silk ribbon you had embroidered with flowers yourself.
“You’ve always liked that necklace and those earrings,” you said. “They’ll look much more beautiful on you than they ever did on me. I have a matching ribbon with that one, I made sure to embroider both of them the same. And the scroll is my recommendation letter, in case Elinor tries to test your patience. I’m quite certain it’ll open many doors for you, including House Tyrell’s. I’ll also send a letter to Lady Olenna if you’d like, she’ll be happy to have you in her service.”
A sob ripped itself from her chest and she covered her mouth in an attempt to cover it before you wrapped your arms around her to pull her into a hug.
“It’ll be fine,” you said, your voice cracking despite your best efforts to sound calm. “We’ll exchange letters, and it’ll all be fine. You enjoy the Reach for me, and I’ll enjoy the North.”
Breakfast had come way too fast for your taste, especially when you knew the servants were readying the carriages outside. Yet, you weren’t alone in your misery; Jon had barely touched his plate the whole breakfast, stealing looks at Silas who was uncharacteristically silent the whole time, only speaking when he had to answer a question. For some reason, Perceon had the same guilty look on his face as he would when he was a mere boy and did something he wasn’t supposed to; chewing inside his cheek and pouting his lips—the only difference was that he was now too tall to swing his legs back and forth off the edge of his chair. Though you knew your father wasn’t in his best mood, he covered it up very well, jesting and laughing with Lord and Lady Stark.
“Are you alright?” Robb’s deep voice pulled you out of your thoughts, making your head whip up before you willed yourself to smile.
“Of course.”
“You woke up early,” he pointed out. “And troubled.”
“By my own thoughts only,” you assured him, and he laced his fingers with yours, giving you a soft smile.
“It’s alright to be upset about their departure.”
Except it was not. At least not in front of the northerners in Winterfell.
You were more than aware of their perception of you, and how it had gotten even worse upon seeing you in shambles during Robb’s duel with Ser Fossoway. Their sarcastic remarks the next morning had been as subtle as it could’ve been expected of northerners, carrying a hint of pity at your naiveté, and you were not going to make the same mistake and crumble in front of them again.
Robb was different, but the rest of the north did not excuse or entertain sentimentality.
“I’m just worried about my father,” you said while a footman approached your father to mutter something in his ear. “I know Arys says he’s fine, and so does Maester Luwin, but…”
“But you remain unconvinced?” he asked with a playful glint in his eye, and you couldn’t help but huff out a laugh.
“I don’t know,” you said. “I just know he’s leaving too early for my liking.”
“I tried to persuade him to stay for another moon,” he told you, making you raise your brows. “Last night.”
“Did you?”
“Mm hm, so has my father. But your stubbornness is a family trait, it seems.”
You heaved a sigh and lifted your cup to your lips, but turned your head when you heard your father’s voice.
“My flower,” he said. “Come take a walk with me before we leave, hm?”
You blinked a couple of times in confusion, then put your cup on the table and pushed your chair back in a haste.
“Of course,” you said and rushed to him as he stepped down from the High Table, then both of you made your way out of the hall to the yard. You couldn’t help but notice that even the air felt colder than usual, but you chose not to comment on it and instead linked your arm through his while he led you to the sept grounds, then both of you sat down on the nearest bench.
It was rather peaceful today, despite the cold weather. This part of the yard wasn’t as crowded—probably because only Lady Stark went to the sept— so it was like a small, secluded corner away from the chaos of Winterfell. The wind rustled the leaves of the trees, causing you to look up for a moment before you turned your gaze to him.
“I wish you would stay a bit longer,” you said after a beat and he gave you a gentle smile.
“There are people waiting for me, my dearest,” he said. “And when it comes to departure, I’m afraid no time feels long enough.”
Your vision got a little blurry from the tears rushing to your eyes, but you blinked them back as fast as you could.
“I know,” you said. “But you—father, you will be alright, will you not?”
“Oh don’t worry about me,” he said, waving a hand in the air. “I will be alright, and so will you.”
You tried to swallow the lump in your throat.
“Do you promise?”
“I promise,” he assured you. “We’ll see each other soon enough, and until then, you have your mother’s spirit. If there’s anyone who’s going to flourish regardless of where she’s planted, it’s you. With or without me.”
A tear managed to escape your eye, but you wiped your cheek in a hurry.
“And if I don’t feel ready?”
“I’m afraid no one ever does,” he said, reaching out to engulf your hand in his. “But it’s life, my blossom. Happiness has a way of finding you, even though it may feel difficult to believe in times of parting.”
You nibbled on your lip and nodded.
“But I’ll miss you terribly,” you couldn’t help but rasp out, making him smile again.
“So will I,” he said. “You know, I told the same thing to Ned yesterday, sons and daughters are so different. Sons grow into men, but daughters…” He breathed out a laugh. “A daughter never stops being your little girl who fills your castle with her laughter as she runs in the hallways, no matter how much she’s grown. You’ll understand that in the future, and so will Robb.”
“If Robb is half as good of a father as you are, our children will be the luckiest in the realm,” you said. “Just as I am. I’ll never stop being thankful to the gods for making me your daughter, I—” You took a trembling breath. “Father, I love you so much.”
You could swear he had tears in his eyes, but he blinked them back and pulled you into a tight hug just like he would whenever you ran up to him early in the morning to talk his ear off when you were still a child. The mere memory was enough to make you feel like you were back in the Reach again, and if you closed your eyes, you could make yourself believe you were in the garden of your father’s castle, choosing a gown for a feast being your only worry instead of being away from your father or Silas.
“I love you too, my flower,” he whispered. “And I’m so proud of you, don’t you ever forget that.”
You rested your forehead in the crook of his neck, trying your hardest to swallow the sob threatening to climb your throat.
“I won’t,” you whispered into the wind. “I won’t, I promise.”
One of the many things you had learned back in the Reach was keeping your mask in place.
You had seen it multiple times with multiple people. Silas was probably the best at it; no one except you could ever read through him or have an idea about how he was feeling at any given moment. To outside, he was always in a good mood, his smile signaling both amusement and nonchalance at anyone and everyone it was directed to. You and Margaery were taught not to let the mask slip in that exact way your older brothers did not; anyone who so much as looked at you had to think you were untouched by sadness or worry no matter what situation you were in. You were to appear calm and unreadable not only to your enemies but also to your allies, and you were beginning to think that although no one in your life had thought of the north while teaching you those skills, it was going to be one of the most important weapons you would wield in here.
If you were to be Lady Stark in the future, the nobles in the yard, who were watching you like hawks right now, could not see you cry at your family’s departure.
“We’ll see you in Dorne,” Braxton told you while your father talked to Robb who was nodding solemnly to whatever he was saying, his hands clasped behind him, his back straight. “My wedding is next summer, I already talked to Robb. He’ll bring you.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” you said. “And it’s about time I met your lovely betrothed! I’ll make sure to come at least a week before the wedding so that I can spend time with her.”
“Oh you’ll love her,” he said. “And she’ll adore you, I already know it. Right Perce?”
Perceon’s head whirled around and he cleared his throat. “Hm?”
“What’s going on with you today?”
“Nothing.” He shifted his weight. “Nothing, I just don’t like goodbyes.”
“It’s barely a goodbye, genius, she’s coming to the wedding.”
“I hate goodbyes too.” You reached out to squeeze Perceon’s hand and he tried to smile, his eyes darting over your face.
“And you’re sure you’ll be happy here?” he asked. “Because if you find it otherwise, you only need to send a raven and—”
“Silas would beat you to it,” Arys’ voice reached you before he clasped Perceon’s shoulder. “He memorized the secret pathways already.”
“I’ll send ravens to both Silas and you if I’m in need to saving,” you jested. “Hearing that does remedy my heartbreak of your departure even if it’s just a little. Thank you Perce.”
He waved a hand in the air. “Don’t mention it.”
“You’ll be sick of my letters, all of you,” you warned them, making them chuckle. “I’m warning you beforehand. I’ll report everything that’s happening here.”
“The reports will be; it snowed yesterday, it is snowing today, it will snow tomorrow,” Arys pointed out as you pushed at his arm. “I’m saying this as a future maester who knows of the North’s climate! Do you doubt my knowledge? Winter is coming and all that.”
“Maybe after Brax’s wedding, I’ll visit you in Oldtown,” Perceon said and Braxton shrugged.
“We can all go. Me, Myria and you.”
“You should,” Arys said. “None of you will want to go back to Dorne.”
“See, that’s a very bold claim—” Perceon started but Braxton elbowed him when Alton stepped closer to you.
“Hey,” he said after a beat and gestured at the carriages. “We’ve said goodbye to Lord and Lady Stark, and everything is ready, so…”
“Ah,” you said. “Very well.”
Perceon and Braxton exchanged glances while Arys rolled his eyes and kept his gaze on Alton as if he was trying to make him speak with mind power alone.
“Take care,” you said after a couple seconds of uncomfortable silence and Alton pursed his lips, then nodded his head.
“You too,” he said. “I hope you and Robb have a happy union.”
Perceon narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth but Braxton jabbed him in the ribs before he could say anything.
“It won’t be the same without you,” Alton added, unable to meet your eyes. “The castle.”
“It’ll be more peaceful,” you jested, a chuckle spilling from his mouth.
“Yeah,” he muttered more to himself. “Yeah, and quiet.”
Over his shoulder, you could see Elinor eyeing you up and down before she got in the carriage without so much as a word to you. Arys gritted his teeth, crossing his arms while Alton turned his head to look back at the carriage, then offered you a small smile.
“I’ll see you later,” he said. “Stay safe.”
He walked away from you to the carriage, and Perceon threw his head back.
“Are we sure he’s related to us?” he asked as Cliff made his way to you. “Are we sure he’s not a ward father decided to take in?”
Arys raised his brows. “I feel like father would’ve let us know at some point if that were the case, Perce.”
“I’m just saying, none of us was around when he was born.”
“When who was born?” Cliff joined the conversation and Perceon gestured vaguely in the direction of the carriage.
“Alton,” he said. “I refuse to believe we’re related.”
“Refuse it all you want, he’s still family,” Cliff said and threw an arm over your shoulder. “Speaking of family, are we really leaving you here?”
You smiled up at him. “Seems that way.”
“You’ll see me sooner than you see these three.” He gestured at the twins and Arys. “I meant what I said earlier. I do a lot of business in the White Harbor, I’ll make sure to visit Winterfell whenever I’m there.”
“Please do,” you told him. “Seeing you will make me happy beyond words.”
“But everyone is coming to my wedding,” Braxton pointed at all of you. “Cliff, I don’t care what kind of pirate business you’ll be busy with, you will be there.”
“Merchant. And yes, I will be.”
“Arys?”
“Oh I’m definitely coming, I need to meet the poor girl who willingly said yes to marrying you.”
“After she bested him in combat,” Cliff reminded him and Perceon grinned.
“I’ll tell all about that to their future children.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Silas stepping out of the keep with Jon following him not far behind, but he approached Theon while your brother made his way to you without so much as another glance in Jon’s direction. Lord and Lady Stark was now conversing with your father, and Silas heaved a sigh.
“Hey.” He smiled at you before turning to your brothers. “We’re ready to go, go bid farewell to Lord and Lady Stark and thank them.”
“You’d think we’re still children,” Braxton grumbled but they all walked away from you to Lord and Lady Stark to do as Silas asked.
“Is everything alright with you and…?”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Of course,” he said. “Just uh, a last minute goodbye.”
“You’ll see each other when you come visit me,” you reminded him. “Which you will. A lot.”
“I will.”
Your throat started aching again but you looked down to pretend to fix your bracelet. “Promise?”
“Promise,” he said. “You remember all our secret codes for the letters?”
You nodded, still fiddling with your bracelet. “I will use them if they’re needed.”
“Good.”
You lifted your head from your bracelet once you made sure your expression would be serene for anyone who was watching you.
“Thank you Silas,” you managed to say as your other brothers started getting into the carriages. “For everything. I love you.”
He swallowed thickly, then pulled you into a tight hug so that he could hide his face into your hair.
“Remember,” he muttered. “Just like how we used to play monsters-and-maidens. I’ll save you from anything and everything, you just say the word.”
He pressed a kiss on top of your head, then pulled back to smile down at you as your father stepped closer to you.
“Well, my flower,” he said, pinching your cheek. “I guess I’ll see you in Dorne next summer.”
“And I shall have many tales to tell you,” you told him. “So much gossip too, but you must follow Arys’ advice until then.”
“We’ll see about that.”
“Father!” you protested and he let out a boisterous laugh before giving you a hug.
“Take care, my blossom.”
“You too father.” You kissed him on the cheek, commanding yourself not to cry for what felt like the hundredth time today. He bowed at Lord and Lady Stark, then made his way to the carriage while Robb stepped closer to you to touch your lower back as if he wanted to assure you he was there. You entwined your fingers with his, leaning sideways to his arm as Silas mounted his horse.
“Robb, I like you, but I will kill you if you hurt her.”
Your eyes widened. “Silas!”
“I’ll hand you the sword myself if I ever hurt her,” Robb told him and you squeezed his hand.
“How about nobody kills each other?” you mused and Silas nibbled on his lip, then nodded at you.
“Be careful.”
“Be happy,” you replied and he scoffed a laugh, then cantered his horse out of the court yard like he couldn’t trust himself to be there any longer.
Your father stood by the carriage for a moment, watching you with a sad smile on his face as if he wanted to etch you into his memory. You forced yourself to smile back despite the heavy weight in your chest, then waved at him, coaxing a small chuckle out of him before he waved back, then got in the carriage. You sniffled when the carriage moved and watched it pass through the gate, Robb snaking an arm around your waist.
“Hey,” he said. “Do you want to retire for the day?”
The offer was way too tempting especially with the threat of tears rushing to your eyes, but you blinked fast, then gulped and shook your head.
“No,” you managed to rasp out. “I’ll be fine, my love. Thank you though.”
In your defense, you tried, you really did.
Throughout the day, Robb kept you within his sight like he half expected you to burst into tears at any moment, but you were too good of a courtier to let anything slip. You were all smiles all afternoon, you made small talk with your ladies-in-waiting, you helped Sansa decide what to embroider on her new gown, you had even entertain the ladies Lady Stark introduced you to with stories from the Reach.
It was only when Robb went to his father’s solar with a northern lord and you stepped away from the ladies that you turned your head to look for Silas in the hall, the joke you had thought of dying in your throat when you remembered he wasn’t there anymore.
Hence where you were now. Sitting on your and Robb’s bed, with Frost—who was brought to by a very confused maid per your request—resting her head in your lap while you stitched tiny flowers to a ribbon that was to be her leash. There was a heavy ache in your temples, no doubt because of how hard you had cried before you sent for Frost, but at least your sobs had calmed down a little, letting you focus on your work.
“I think you should have different colored ribbons,” you muttered to Frost. “For different days. So that you can match my gowns, no?”
She purred like a cat and you sniffled, then held the ribbon next to her head before you shook your head.
“Mayhaps I could stitch hearts on it too,” you said, running your fingers through her wool. “Flowers and hearts. And what else—wheats as well? For my house?”
Frost heaved a sigh, then nudged at your hand when you went back to stitching so that you would drop it and keep petting her instead. You smiled at her, then leaned down and pressed a kiss on her head.
“We can also braid the ribbons,” you muttered to her. “That would look pretty too.”
Frost bleated at you and as if on cue, the door to your bedchambers opened, making you turn your head to see Robb. Even you had to admit that you probably made a rather strange picture; surrounded by ribbons with a lamb happily resting on top of them, but Robb didn’t comment on it, the only clue to how funny he found it was the small twitch on the corner of his lips.
“Here you are,” he said. “I’ve been wondering where you were.”
You pouted your lips, then shrugged.
“I couldn’t….” you trailed off. “I needed some peace and quiet, away from everyone.”
He heaved a sigh, then made his way to the bed and lifted Frost easily, earning himself a bleat of displeased protest.
“Go play with Grey Wind,” he told her and placed her on the floor. “Go on.”
Frost bleated at him again, but ran out of the room, the click-clack of her hooves echoing in the hallway. You lowered your head, then stuck the needle to the side of the bed and started picking up the rest of the ribbons just so that you could keep yourself busy, but your sniffle gave you away when Robb sat beside you. A sob ripped itself from your chest while he pulled you into his arms without so much as a word and you wiped your eyes, his pleasant scent soothing the pain in your chest just a little.
“They all left,” you managed to say, your throat tightening. “Silas too.”
“I know.” He shushed you gently when you hiccupped, pressing a kiss on top of your hair while he cradled the back of your head, his other hand rubbing your back. “I know, lamb.”
“I just thought of something to tell him—and he’s not—he’s not here.” You hiccupped again, the lump in your throat growing bigger and bigger as you buried your face to Robb’s chest. “He’s not here and my father isn’t here and Margaery isn’t here, they’re all away and I feel so—so utterly alone...”
“I’m here, sweeting,” he said, his voice soft. “And I promised you on your very first night here, remember? You will never be alone here.”
The memory was enough to make you smile even with the ache in your chest.
“You promised as Benjen the servant,” you murmured, your tone so low that it was almost inaudible, and he hummed.
“I’m still at your service,” he said, drawing a teary giggle out of you. “And very well then, if my beautiful wife wants me to promise as her husband, I shall follow her wishes. You’ll never be alone here, my love. No matter what, you’ll always have me.”
You moved to rest your head on his shoulder, and he ran his knuckles over your cheek to wipe the tears away while you played with the laces of his shirt.
“Even with the flimsy gowns?”
“Especially with the flimsy gowns,” he corrected you in such a solemn manner that a simple listener would’ve thought you were talking of the future of the realm. “Why do you think I said yes to Braxton so fast when he invited us to Dorne? So that you can wear even flimsier gowns, I’m told that’s the norm there.”
Your laughter echoed in the room. “Robb!”
“Oh now you dislike honesty, is that—” His question was interrupted when you pushed at his arm and he easily caught your hand before you fell on the soft furs with him on top of you. A giggle escaped you despite the tears in your eyes, and he dipped his head to give you a curt kiss, then pulled back to let you breathe as you sniffled again.
Gods, even with all this sadness in your heart, you still couldn’t help but realize how handsome he was for the hundredth time.
“It’ll be okay, lamb,” he assured you. “And you will see them soon enough, I promise.”
You didn’t know it back then but Robb was right; though not all of them, you would indeed see most of your family again soon enough.
A.N: Hi my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Ladies of the southern court are taught to yield words like weapons.
Word Count: 4,4k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
Even when he was young, Robb knew very well that his parents’ marriage was more fortunate than anyone else’s in the north. Many lords and ladies who were wed either despised each other’s presence or had a distance between them; only talking to each other when they needed to in public. Those who had been blessed with mutual love and respect seemed to have put a lot of effort and time into growing such affections, and though he used to hope for the same, it all came down to two options:
He and his future wife disliking each other or putting some deliberate effort into making themselves love each other.
That felt like such nonsense now.
Because he had been a husband for less than a week, yet he already couldn’t even imagine the possibility of not being utterly in love with her.
“You’re doing it wrong.”
Robb tilted his head even though his lady couldn’t see him. “Or perhaps you keep moving.”
“I’ve been still as a statue!” she defended herself with a huff. “I’m telling you, you’re doing it wrong.”
Fine, perhaps he had been distracted just a little.
But that was more than expected, considering the state they were in. The room was hot –too hot for his taste, but his lady liked it that way— and she was completely naked except for one of the furs she had pulled up to her chest while she sat in front of him in the bed, hugging her knees. Robb couldn’t help but lean forward to press his lips to her bare shoulder, biting back a smirk.
“You can’t even see what I’m doing.”
“I can feel it.” Her hand shot back to feel the braid he had been battling with. “And it’s supposed to be tighter.”
“I tried to make it tighter, and you said it hurt.”
“Because that was too tight,” she whined. “And my skin is sensitive, you know that.”
“Did we not put that behind us when—” He let out a laugh as she reached back to push at his arm. “It was a mere question.”
She made a noise of disagreement, then took a deep breath and cleared her throat.
“Speaking of questions,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”
Robb hummed, still trying to decide which section of hair went above which.
“Is Jon by any chance sad that Malory left?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Because it came to my attention he was rather happy at our wedding, and he was actually talking to people.”
“It came to your attention even though you were drunk beyond words?” he taunted her, dodging her hand when she reached back to push at his shoulder. “I don’t think he is interested in Lady Malory, my love.”
“Is he interested in anyone else?”
“I doubt it.”
“But how do you not know for sure?” she insisted. “He’s your brother.”
“Do you know everything about Silas’ affairs?”
“Yes.”
“Is it not difficult to keep track when there are so many people?”
She shrugged her shoulders while he put a section of hair on top of other, then undid it and put it under the other.
“I have so many friends who were rather interested in him,” she told him. “At our wedding. And I was wondering, if his heart doesn’t belong to anyone already…”
“Sansa used to make me do this with three sections, not two.”
“This one is more difficult—so he has never fallen in love?” she asked. “Nobody has captured his attention all this time?”
“Not really,” he muttered, his whole attention on the braid while he pulled the two pieces apart. “But things are more complicated for him, you know that. Him being in love with a lady would bring many things to consider if there was any courtship.”
She scoffed. “The North is so different than what I’m used to.”
“I’m certain it’s the same in the south as well.”
“Not in the Reach, and definitely not in Dorne,” she said. “Besides, you’re telling me Jon simply decided not to fall in love because of the circumstances of his birth?”
He tried to untangle the knot of his own doing as subtly as possible. “Mm hm.”
“I used to think differently, but I don’t believe matters of heart can be controlled.”
“Not in the south perhaps,” he taunted her with a grin, causing her to look at him over her shoulder with a frown. “It’s not tangled, I just put the wrong piece on—”
“So you would not love me if we met and weren’t betrothed?”
A huff of laughter left him, but his heart dropped to his stomach when he saw his lady’s frown deepening as she pulled back to see him better, no sign of playfulness on her expression.
“Wh—no!” he said in a rush. “Why would you think that?”
“That’s what you’re insinuating.”
“I don’t insinuate things, we’ve been over this.”
“Fine, then you’re directly telling me that you would not—Robb!” The rest of her sentence was swallowed by a surprised screech when he grabbed her by the waist to pull her under him, a wide grin pulling at his lips. She bit back her smile and scrunched up her nose, trying her hardest to glare at him as he brushed her hair off her face.
“If we were not betrothed—”
“It wouldn’t change anything,” Robb finished her sentence for her. “My heart belongs to you, you know that.”
“But if, let’s say, your family had betrothed you to someone else, and then we met?” she insisted. “Would you have gone through with that arrangement?”
He couldn’t.
He knew he couldn’t.
Despite his upbringing, despite the honor and duty, despite the expectations placed upon him before he was even born, he couldn’t spend his life with anyone else but her. His life was already divided into before and after her, and the idea of spending his life with anyone else when she was the rightful ruler of his heart was nothing short of a nightmare, so he shook his head, looking down at her.
“Never.”
“Never?” She narrowed her eyes like she was trying to see whether he was lying. “And what of duty?”
He swallowed thickly, then shook his head again.
“It leaves the room when you enter.”
That seemed to coax a smile out of her, every sign of her anger from earlier washing off her beautiful face like waves of the sea on a shore. He dipped his head to brush his lips against hers, the sweet taste of her more enticing than air itself as her fingers curled in his hair, desire dripping down his spine and stirring back to life—
A frustrated growl left him when someone knocked on the door, pulling them both out of the haze.
“Leave!” he called out as she squeezed at his arm.
“Be nice!” she whispered, but then turned her head when the familiar voice of her maid carried into the room from behind the closed door.
“My lady, I apologize for the interruption but your presence is required.” Her maid paused for a moment. “It’s your father. He has fallen ill.”
Lord Greensted’s voice assuring everyone he was alright could be heard from the hallway even before they reached his door, which Robb figured was a good sign, but his lady was in too much of a hurry to even notice that. She rushed through the door and made her way to her father without sparing a glance at the rest of the crowd, crouching down by his chair to grasp his hand, her skirts fanning around her.
“Father?”
“I’m alright, my flower.” He pinched her cheek in an assuring manner while Robb nodded at his parents in the room, clasping his hands behind him. “I told them not to alarm you.”
“While you’re ill?”
“I’m not ill,” he told her and turned to Robb with an amused chuckle. “It’s your responsibility to pull her back from distress now, you know.”
“She loves you way too much to listen to a word I say, Lord Greensted.”
“But what’s happened?” she insisted, her eyes darting between Silas and Arys while Cliff squeezed Perceon’s shoulder like he wanted to remind him he was still there. Braxton went over to the window as if he wanted to get some air, and Silas cleared his throat.
“He got dizzy after breakfast—”
“Only for a moment.”
“And this is exactly why I’ve been telling you that you need to try to be healthier,” Arys pointed out and Lord Greensted waved a dismissive hand in the air. “So that you don’t get dizzy.”
“Maester Luwin is preparing something for him,” his mother assured her as Elinor muttered something in Alton’s ear that made him look over his shoulder, but before he could do anything, Silas made his way to join Braxton by the window. Whatever he said to Braxton was too soft and low for anyone else to hear it, and Braxton swallowed thickly, then nodded his head. “He says there’s nothing to worry about.”
“I’m also saying there’s nothing to worry about.”
“You’re not a maester,” she told her father before turning to Arys. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s a sign for him to take better care of himself,” Arys said. “All this eating and drinking whatever you want, father…”
“Let me live, will you?”
“I told you it was too early to leave, Garmund,” Robb’s father said. “This is your gods giving you a sign.”
“Can’t they send a more pleasant sign?”
“Surely you’re not planning on leaving before you’re fully recovered,” his lady said and Lord Greensted squeezed her hand.
“There’s nothing to recover from, I’m alright.”
“Not to worry, we’ll keep him here until he’s recovered no matter what he says,” his father gave her an assuring smile. “I’ll put men by his door if needed.”
“Lord Stark?” A footman entered the room with Maester Luwin. “Lord Glower asks for counsel if you’re not busy.”
“Go,” Lord Greensted said. “Please. I’m fine, and do tell Lord Glower I’ll beat him on our next hunt.”
“Father, you’re not going on a hunt!” his lady insisted while his father chuckled.
“He’ll take it as a challenge, just so you know,” he told Lord Greensted. “Robb.”
“I’ll be there in a minute, father.”
His father walked out of the room, and his lady watched Maester Luwin give a cup filled with some sort of draught to Lord Greensted.
“He’ll be alright, will he not?”
“He just needs some rest in his bed, my lady,” Maester Luwin said. “That is all.”
“We should all leave you to rest, I’m certain the crowd isn’t helping,” his mother added, making Lord Greensted nod fervently.
“Thank you, my lady.”
“Come, everyone. Your father needs some peace and quiet while he rests.”
Once Lord Greensted made his way to bed, all the brothers left the room one by one even though Robb could tell they didn’t really want to. His lady stole a look at the door, then took a deep breath and stepped closer to Robb.
“I’ll stay.”
Lord Greensted heaved a sigh. “Blossom…”
“I’ll tell you all about the rumors I’ve heard at the wedding, father,” she said. “Every house of the Reach. You like hearing tales of scandals, it’ll be like the old times!”
Robb nuzzled into her hair, cradling her cheek in his palm. “Would you like me to stay as well?”
“Your father requires your presence, Robb,” Lord Greensted reminded him. “And you’ve heard my daughter. We’ll gossip about the Reach, apparently.”
Robb bowed his head with a chuckle.
“I’ll leave you to it then,” he said, and traced her cheekbone with his thumb. “Send for me if you need me, alright my love?”
She offered him a small smile and squeezed his wrist. “I will, thank you.”
“Get well soon, Lord Greensted,” he told him before he kissed his lady on the forehead, walked out of the room and closed the door behind him to join Silas and Arys. Cliff led Braxton and Perceon out of the hall while Elinor and Alton stood by the corner, talking in whispers. Any observer could tell Alton was shaken, but the tension on his shoulders seemed to dissipate a little when Elinor lifted their joined hands to press her lips on his knuckles, a tiny smile flickering over Alton’s face. Robb averted his gaze immediately and cleared his throat.
“Maester Luwin is really good at what he does,” he told Silas. “If he says it’s not dangerous, I doubt it is.”
“No I know.” Silas bit inside his cheek. “I know.”
“He’s not used to northern food,” Arys told Silas. “And you’ve been here for a month. And he goes on hunts yes, but that’s the only exercise he does. With all that eating and drinking as if he’s still a young man, it’ll catch up to him eventually.”
“He’s not travelling until he feels better, I don’t care what he says.”
“Of course not.”
“My mother can tell the cooks to make whatever dish he eats back in the Reach,” Robb said while Alton made his way to them. “Would it help?”
“It wouldn’t hurt,” Arys said. “That’s actually a good idea, I’ll ask Lady Stark. Thanks Robb.”
“Don’t mention it. I told you before, my lady’s family is my family.”
“Hey.” Alton greeted them. “Silas, do you know if there are any letters from the Reach that needs father’s attention? He mentioned an issue in one of the smaller fields, which one was it?”
Silas gawked at him for a couple of seconds in complete silence, then scoffed a laugh and shook his head.
“I’m gonna walk away before I punch you,” he muttered and stormed out of the hallway without sparing him another glance. Arys raised his brows while Alton let out a breath, then threw his hands up in the air in frustration.
“What did I say now?” he asked Arys. “It’s my responsibility to step up while father is ill. What does Silas expect me to do?”
“Showing any sign of concern would be a good start.”
“Of course I’m concerned!” Alton defended himself. “Have you forgotten he’s my father as well?”
Arys shrugged his shoulders. “Have you?”
It seemed like Alton wanted to retort, but then he changed his mind and stomped away from them both, turning the corner that led to the stairs. Arys clicked his tongue, then gave Robb a grin.
“Welcome to the family.”
“Listen, I get it,” Robb said. “I really do, but he does have a point. That’s what he’s supposed to do right now as the heir, my father would expect the same of me if he were ill.”
Arys heaved a sigh, then leaned back to the wall and stole a look at the end of the hallway Silas had stormed off to.
“I don’t know,” he muttered. “I can’t help but agree with Perce sometimes. In our family, the gods chose the wrong son to be the firstborn.”
Thankfully his father’s meeting with Lord Glover hadn’t taken that long. Maester Luwin had said Lord Greensted was feeling much better after the draught he had given him, so Robb decided he would sit with Theon and Jon in the yard until his father sent for him again. He was pretty distracted from the conversation while he tried to figure out when he could see his lady, yet Theon’s comment about one of the girls he had danced with back at the wedding snapped his attention back to them, his head whipping up.
“Jon,” he cut Theon’s nonsense off while Grey Wind and Ghost playfully chased each other in the yard. “Has uh…has anyone caught your eye at the wedding?”
Jon blinked a couple of times, gawking at him.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, Theon danced with people, so have you.”
“Barely.”
“But the whole Reach was here,” Robb said while Theon leaned back with a grin on his face. “And you know, since I’m wed now…”
“What, that means I’m supposed to wed as well?”
“Aye.” Robb nodded while Jon’s eyes widened. “Your time is coming.”
“My time is not coming!”
“I don’t understand why everyone is so terrified of marriage,” Robb mused while Theon gave him an incredulous look. “It’s the most perfect thing anyone ever came up with.”
“Just over a moon ago, you were sitting right here and whining about your betrothal,” Theon reminded him. “You were terrified.”
“I was not terrified!”
“Do you remember his face when you asked what he’d do if she turned out to be ugly?” Jon asked Theon, making him let out a laugh.
“I’ll remember it forever.”
“And look at me now,” Robb said. “She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and I’m happy beyond words.”
“We got that Robb, you barely let the poor girl out of your bedchambers.”
Robb ignored the remark.
“What about Lady Malory?”
“She’s nice.”
“Who was that other lady you danced with, Snow?”
“Lady Florys,” Jon answered Theon. “She’s nice too.”
“Come on, there’s no way no one was to your liking.” Robb paused, frowning at him. “Jon, is there…is there a lady already? Here in the North?”
Jon averted his gaze to look around the yard, rubbing the back of his neck. “Just because you’re in love, doesn’t mean everyone else has to be in love.”
“What my lady and I have is deeper than such simple terms,” Robb said. “But that’s not what I’m talking about.”
“A lot of girls caught my interest at the wedding,” Theon said and Robb grimaced.
“That’s no news, Theon.”
“No seriously, there was this really pretty one, from House Lyberr or something?”
Jon’s eyes caught something in the yard, but by the time Robb turned his head to see what he was looking at, the only familiar person in the yard was Silas who was making his way into the keep. Jon pursed his lips, then feigned a cough and stood up.
“I’ll find you two later.”
“Where are you going?”
“I have this—thing.” Jon motioned vaguely in the direction of the keep. “I’ll talk to you later, alright?”
He walked away from them without so much as a glance back, and both Robb and Theon tilted their heads at the same time while Jon caught up to Silas.
“We would know if he had a lady, would we not?” Robb asked and Theon hummed.
“For sure.”
“You think he’d tell us?”
“Even if he didn’t, it’d be very obvious,” Theon said. “He’d probably follow her around like a lost pup.”
Robb shrugged his shoulders and scratched at Grey Wind’s head when the direwolf stepped closer to him.
“I guess you’re right,” he muttered as Silas and Jon entered the keep. “I mean, when has Jon ever been subtle?”
Later in the afternoon he had to drop by Wintertown per his father’s request, and by the time he was back, it was nearly dinner time. He caught the sight of his lady talking to Wylla Manderly after one glance into the Great Hall—he was beginning to think finding her in a crowd was a skill he was developing fast—so he immediately made his way inside, gave Wylla an acknowledging nod and touched the small of his lady’s back. She was quick to excuse herself, a happy smile lighting up her face before she tugged his wrist so that he would follow her to a far corner of the hall, away from the crowd.
“You’re back!”
“I am.” Robb cupped her cheek in his palm and kiss her temple, her sweet scent like a remedy to the torturous hours he had spent away from her presence. “How’s your father?”
“He’s alright, but—” She frowned up at him with a pout. “Arys all but kicked me out of the room!”
Robb had to control the laugh threatening to climb his throat upon her petulant whine. “Did he?”
“Maester Luwin was being so nice, letting me stay there while my father slept, and then Arys came and said father had to rest and I had to leave. And I wasn’t even making any noise while he slept, I was just sitting there reading my book!”
The corners of his mouth twitched in amusement. “Is that right?”
“And Cliff took his side.”
Robb shook his head in a solemn manner. “Betrayal.”
“It really is!” she insisted and huffed out. “Anyway, what about you? What did you do whole day? I asked around when I left my father’s chambers, and Sansa said you had gone to Wintertown.”
“My father sent me,” he said. “And hey, guess what I’ve learned before that?”
“Hm?”
“Jon isn’t in love with anyone.”
She tilted her head. “…Oh?”
“I asked him,” he said. “Which wasn’t even needed, to be honest. I would know if a lady caught his interest.”
She raised her brows, then blinked a couple of times and pursed her lips like she was trying not to smile.
“Would you?”
“Certainly.”
“So uh—” She stole a look around the room as if she was trying to find a familiar face before she turned her glances to him. “So no one at the wedding was to his liking?”
“He’s not the type to—no offense to the southerners in the room,” he added with a grin, “but he’s not the type to like a southern lady.”
She heaved a dramatic sigh.
“Very well. Not a southern lady then.”
Robb let his gaze slip to her lips, then down to the soft swell of her chest, pushed up by the tight laces of her gown. His hand found hers again so that he could drag his fingertips over her soft palm, his mind far away from the hall and the crowd, the memory of her gasping underneath him—
She dug her nails into his hand as if warning him.
“Robb.”
He gave her a mischievous grin. “I’m not doing anything.”
“I can see you doing something in your mind.”
That coaxed a chuckle out of him while he reached out to play with the small pendant of her necklace. “And what am I doing in my mind?”
“Something very improper.”
“Funny, I remember you singing a very different tune last night—”
She flailed her hands, her eyes widening. “Shh!”
“Or this morning—” He gave a laugh when she pushed at his arm and he caught her hand, pulling her closer to him. “I’m merely reminiscing!”
“My lord.” A servant approached him. “Your father requests your presence.”
Robb managed to not groan in annoyance before he found his eyes fell upon his father who was now talking to one of the few remaining southern guests. He had no idea who the lady was, but he nodded anyway and laced his fingers through his lady’s.
“Your father didn’t request my presence,” she reminded him and he winked at her.
“I could barely see you today, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
When they reached his father, he only gave them a nod of acknowledgement before he turned to the lady.
“Thank you for your kind words, Lady Bulwer.”
“Of course!” Lady Bulwer said. “May the seven give him rest. Jon Arryn may have had his flaws as the Hand of the King, but the gods know any man would crack under such pressure.”
Robb looked from Lady Bulwer to his father, whose annoyance flashed on his face at the mention of Jon Arryn’s flaws. His lady rested her head on his arm, a pleasant warmth spreading in his chest at the simple gesture, distracting him from the conversation.
“The King’s Landing could make a septon question his ways, and I for one believe as long as the Hand does his job, his vices should be judged by no—”
“Lady Bulwer!” His lady gave her a bright smile. “How is Ser Medwick? My brother talks of him being such a worthy opponent in the jousts, yet we haven’t seen him for a year! He’s alright, I hope?”
Lady Bulwer stared at her for a couple of seconds as if she was taken by surprise, and opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again and cleared her throat.
“He’s alright.”
“Ser Loras was asking the other day how long his vacation would last,” his lady stated. “He’s such a beloved knight among his peers, they’re all looking forward to his return I’m sure.”
Lady Bulwer let out a nervous laugh.
“He is,” she said and feigned a gasp. “Oh! I see that my husband is looking for me, if you’ll excuse me.”
She made her way to the other side of the hall, and both Robb and his father turned to look at his lady at the same time. She raised her brows at the sight of their quizzical expressions, then shrugged her shoulders.
“What?”
“What was that?” Robb asked and her lady rolled her eyes.
“I just don’t believe one should be throwing around the word ‘vices’ when her own firstborn and heir owes money to every single person in the Reach because he loves gambling too much,” she said silkily. “To the point that he had to be sent away to the Free Cities so as not to bring any more dishonor to his house.”
His father looked as if he was battling with a smile and his lady turned her head when Sansa called out her name.
“Oh I almost forgot, Sansa wanted to talk to me about her new gown,” she said and pecked Robb on the cheek. “I’ll be back. Have a nice evening, Lord Stark. Do send for me if anyone else from the Reach bothers you.”
She walked away from them, her steps light and smooth like a dance, the skirt of her pretty gown gliding on the floor. Robb felt a grin curl his lips and his father let out a chuckle, then clasped his hand on Robb’s shoulder.
“Your lady wife yields a dagger behind her words.”
Robb nodded, still grinning.
“She does,” he said, unable to drag his gaze away from her. “I think she is the best warrior in the realm when it comes to that.”
A.N: Welcome to Act II my loves! 🩷 Thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: After the wedding comes the honeymoon.
Word Count: 6,3k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
Back in the Reach, around the time more and more knights started vying for your and Margaery’s favor in the jousts and more ravens began arriving in your castles carrying offers of betrothals, Margaery’s grandmother Lady Olenna had felt the need to give you both a speech. You were both told that you had to walk the thin line between seduction and discretion; while you were free to hone your skills, you couldn’t let anyone so much as question your virtue.
Those skills will be your weapon just like your beauty and your wit, she had told you both. There’s no harm in enjoying yourself, but make sure to remember you’re to mesmerize your future husband, so that he’ll do your bidding outside the marital bed.
Well.
Too bad she hadn’t told you that you would be enjoying yourself too much to remember anything.
There were many things, you realized, that were eager to lure you out of the hazy comfort of sleep. The quiet footsteps of the maids were one, the sunlight spilling into the room was another, but it was the feather light kiss on your shoulder followed by a gentle caress down your spine that managed to pull you out of it. Your eyes fluttered open as you realized you were in bed, lying on your stomach, one arm tucked under the fluffy pillow, the furs slipped down to your hips. Though you were curious to learn how or when exactly you had ended up in the bed considering you had fallen asleep on the furs in front of the fireplace, all thoughts and questions left your mind the moment you looked up at Robb, a smile curling your lips even in your half-asleep state.
Gods, he was so handsome.
His head was propped up on his fist, sleep still clinging to his beautiful eyes as he gazed down at you, his curls mussed in the loveliest way. Your fingers twitched with the urge to touch him, making you bite on your lip while a mischievous smile lit up his face.
“Good morrow, my sweet lamb,” he said, his deep voice almost like a rumble with his northern accent. There was a familiar warmth at the pit of your stomach as you let your eyes feast on the sight of him, your face growing hotter.
It wasn’t that you hadn’t seen a man without his clothes before; you had grown up in the Reach, of course you had. The knights of the Reach loved to spar without their shirts on where you and Margaery could see before the jousts, and did anything and everything to get your attention in case you hadn’t looked while you were walking past the training grounds.
However, as you happily realized last night, this was yet another way the north and the south were completely different. The knights back in the Reach were lithe and slender, they were taught to be quick on their feet and move in battle the same way you would in a dance; strength didn’t hold as big of importance as speed. Robb, on the other hand, was strong like a northerner and he looked the part. He was tall, muscular and broad; perhaps because he was a Stark, perhaps because as Silas had told you, he was raised to lead the northern army in any potential battle and was expected to be a warrior in addition to being a lord.
And you had already decided last night that you would keep your bedchambers as hot as you could so that Robb would have to undress whenever you were alone.
“Good morrow my fearsome wolf,” you teased him, your voice a mere whisper. “We’re in the bed.”
“Mm hm, we are.”
“How did we get in the bed?”
His smile widened.
“I carried you after you fell asleep,” he murmured, reaching out to brush your hair out of your face. “I figured you wouldn’t want to be lying on the floor until the morning. You’re quite the deep sleeper.”
Though you knew the maids moving about the room couldn’t see all of you thanks to the curtains around the bed—sheer as they were— you still couldn’t help but shift closer to him, half burying your face into your pillow. He seemed to have understood your discomfort without you even opening your mouth, because he only frowned for a second before he turned his head to give a curt glance to the maids.
“Leave.”
“Thank you!” you added in a haste, coaxing a chuckle out of him while the maids made their way out of the room. Robb dipped his head to nuzzle into your shoulder, his warm palm splayed on the small of your back like an anchor, your heart slamming against your ribcage so fast that it nearly hurt.
You didn’t even know it was possible to fall more in love with him before last night.
Which was rather ironic, now that you thought about it. For years you had listened how the marital bed was going to be the place to keep his attention and allow you to preside over his heart and his mind, but no one had mentioned how he would also preside over your heart and your mind. You wanted to stop the time, the outside world and all the intrigues and power plays of the south be damned, all that felt less important now.
Perhaps despite all that training and court games, this was the most important thing in the world.
You loved and desired him, and he loved and desired you back.
Simple as that.
“Can we stay here forever?” you whispered and he smiled against your skin, his fingertips grazing your waist and awakening fire underneath.
“Is that my lady wants?”
“It’s what your lady demands.”
A huff of laughter escaped him as he pressed his lips to the crook of your neck, gently pushing you to your back so that he could settle between your legs. Desire sent a pleasant shiver down your spine, your breath hitching your throat as you felt him hot and heavy against your thigh, the memory of last night flashing in your mind like lightning.
If you hadn’t been so lost in the feeling, you could’ve found the ache too much last night, at least at first. Yet, somehow, all traces of unease were soothed by his touch, the way his hand clasped yours beside your head as if he wanted to offer you something to hold onto, the feeling of him on you, in you—
You snapped out of the memory when he pulled back to look down at you, and you smiled up at him, painfully aware of just how lovesick you must’ve appeared. The sunlight coming from the window and bathing you both in its warmth made him seem almost unreal, as if the gods had pulled him out of his dreams; his messy auburn hair hiding flames in it, his beautiful eyes shining with mischief.
Very well then.
If you were to be his moonlight, he was your sunlight, wrapping you in bright warmth.
You couldn’t help but wonder whether this was how all those knights who swore up and down that they loved you felt around you, but you quickly decided otherwise. They were all able to live their lives without you loving them back, but especially after last night, you couldn’t even begin to imagine if Robb didn’t love you back.
You’d drop dead on the spot, probably.
You reached out to run your fingertips over his short beard before you cradled his cheek, and he turned his head to kiss your palm.
“How do you feel?” he asked, his eyes searching your face like he was trying to read your mind. “Any pain?”
“Just sore, a little,” you admitted, your hand slipping to the back of his head so that you could run your nails over the nape of his neck. “But I care not, I just feel…”
“Tired?”
“Happy,” you corrected him, the simple word making him smile.
“Good,” he murmured softly, “I don’t want you to feel anything other than happiness here in our bedchambers.”
A giggle escaped you as he leaned in, but you turned your head to look at the door when someone knocked on it, making him groan in exasperation.
“What?” he called out as you squeezed his arm.
“Be nice!”
“My lord, your—your father wants to know if you and your lady wife will attend breakfast,” a footman’s voice carried into the room. “They’ll wait for you if you will.”
Robb bit back a smirk.
“Tell my father that my lady wife and I are working relentlessly for the future of House Stark,” he called out, making your jaw drop. “They shouldn’t wait us for anything today.”
“Robb!” you chastised him in a whisper while the footman walked away from the door and he grinned at you, then gave you a wink.
“What?” he asked as he leaned in to brush his lips against yours, drawing a sigh out of you. “It’s for the North. They will understand.”
If it were up to you or Robb, you would’ve stayed in your bedchambers until after lunch, yet unfortunately, Robb was summoned after breakfast time. Though he looked as if he wanted to refuse yet again, the footman letting you two know—from behind the door—that Lord Stark had sent word that he himself would come to drag him out of the bedchambers was enough of a persuasion for you, at least. You had all but kicked him out, but contrary to before you couldn’t spend so much time getting ready, not once Eadith informed you some of the guests were leaving.
Hence the plenty carriages in the yard.
After bidding whoever you could see goodbye, you had retreated to the cloisters, leaning sideways to the column and watching the squires ready the horses. Though you knew you were supposed to go find your father or Silas, or perhaps Lady Stark to apologize not attending lunch, you couldn’t will yourself to leave just yet, counting the flags on top of the carriages to see who was returning to the Reach.
House Crane, House Ashford, House Merryweather, House—
You were pulled out of your thoughts when someone touched your waist. Your head snapped up, a giggle escaping you when Robb pressed a kiss on your temple and stepped away from you to lean back to the nearest column, that mischievous grin playing on his lips.
“We’re in public!” you whispered and he shrugged his shoulders.
“They didn’t see anything.”
You tried to bite back your lovesick smile while he reached out to lace his fingers with yours.
“Aren’t you supposed to be with Lord Stark?”
“I was excused for ten minutes or so,” he said. “He had to go over a scroll from the Wall with Maester Luwin. I’m not needed there.”
“Did they say that or are you saying that?”
“He’ll send for me if he needs me.”
“Don’t you think the fact that he has had to send multiple footmen to hunt you down in the castle since the morning is a sign that you should not push his patience further?”
“Not at all.”
You let out a hum, playing with the sleeve of his doublet just so that you could focus on anything else other than the familiar fluttering in your stomach, the ache of scorching fire going down and down until it reached between your legs, making you bite your lip hard enough to hurt. Gods, even now out of your bedchambers and away from your bed, the way he looked at you made you feel as if you two were alone again, as if he was imagining the exact same thing you were; lying on the furs with him on top, closer and deeper than anyone could ever be. Even in the throes of pure, blinding desire his voice had been soft as a caress, the memory echoing in your ear:
“Gods, you are divine...”
“I missed you,” his voice cut through the daze and you lifted your gaze to his, warmth sweeping over your face.
“I missed you too,” you admitted with a small smile. “I find it a bit strange, to be honest.”
“What, missing me?” he teased you and you let out a dramatic gasp.
“No!” you exclaimed. “No, of course not. It’s strange to be able to miss someone in mere hours within the same castle. This morning I thought it was love, but it’s more than that.”
“More than love?”
“Love sounds too simple of a word,” you murmured. “I think you and I have discovered something that doesn’t have a name yet, and it’s only us who’s ever felt this, no one else.”
He lifted your hand to his lips to press a kiss on the back of it. “More reason for us to be left alone.”
You shot him a warning look.
“Don’t say that to your father please.”
Malory waved at you before she got in her carriage and you waved back, a pout pulling at your lips the moment her carriage moved. Robb turned to you with a small frown.
“Are you alright?”
“I am. It’s just…” you trailed off, keeping your eyes on the other carriages. “It’s rather sad that people are leaving already.”
He made a noise of disagreement and stole a look at the yard, making you raise your brows.
“Do you not find it so?”
“I find it sad that they waited this long.”
You gasped. “Robb!”
“What?” He bit back his laugh, catching your hand to lace his fingers with yours again when you pushed at his arm. “It was because of them that I couldn’t get you alone for a month—”
“It was because of the fact that we were unwed!”
“And yesterday, when we barely had any time for ourselves the whole day?”
“That was because of the Harvest Feast—” you started, but stopped talking when your eyes fell upon Loras making his way to his horse. Your stomach did a painful flip, and you gently pulled your hand out of Robb’s before pushing yourself off the column you had been leaning against. “Give me a moment.”
Loras was busy with his horse while you crossed the yard but he turned his head when you approached him, a smile lighting up his face.
“Sneaking out without saying goodbye?” you asked and he scrunched up his nose.
“I was under the impression Robb Stark would keep you in his bedchambers the whole day,” he taunted you, nodding in Robb’s direction. “I would’ve sent word, but I figured interrupting your marital bliss would attract his wrath. Or yours.”
Your jaw dropped. “My wrath?”
“It’s more fearsome than his, and I watched him break a knight’s jaw,” he pointed out as you shot him a proud grin. “But I’m glad I got to see you before I left, sweeting.”
That made you pause for a moment, your grin fading before you cleared your throat.
“Thank you,” you managed to say. “For coming.”
“You’re my sister in everything but blood,” he said softly. “Of course I came.”
“I still feared you wouldn’t, after everything,” you said. “Loras, I don’t know if my word holds value when it comes to this, but I’m sorry my brother broke your heart.”
“And I’m sorry my sister broke yours.”
You had been so lost in the bliss the whole day that the sudden wave of sadness washing over you almost took you by surprise. You could feel the ache tightening your throat, so you looked down and pretended to fix your bracelet in an attempt to earn some time to pull yourself together while blinking back the tears.
You were in public and the whole yard was watching, including Robb.
“Is she going to be happy?” you asked once you raised your head again, your expression completely serene. “With Renly?”
“I doubt there’s anyone in the world who can make Margaery happy,” he murmured. “Except maybe you before Robb Stark stole you away.”
“He didn’t steal me away.”
“No,” he admitted with a shrug of his shoulders. “No, but you know how Margaery is when it comes to you.”
You forced yourself to swallow the lump in your throat, then heaved a sigh.
“Can you do me a favor?” you asked. “Can you tell her I’m happy?”
“For revenge or reassurance?”
“Neither.” A huff of laughter escaped you. “Or both. I don’t know.”
He hummed, stealing a glance around the yard before bowing his head.
“Well, thank you for your hospitality, my lady,” he taunted you, making you grimace. “I wish you and your lord husband great happiness and many children.”
You rolled your eyes at him. “Loras.”
“That was me being the courtier that my grandmother wants me to be,” he pointed out. “Now that we got that out of the way, let me speak to the girl who did not even hesitate to lie at the breakfast table and claimed I was there to court her first thing in the morning so that no one would know that I had spent the night in her brother’s bed. We’re conquering the south, Blossom. You conquer the north. You’ll succeed better than anyone back in the south could with armies of men.”
You felt a smile pulling at your lips as you watched him mount his horse, then look down at you with a tilt of his head.
“Am I still allowed to call you Blossom, or will I have to use your new title?”
“My new title?” you asked and he chuckled.
“Haven’t you heard?” he asked. “Your pretty gowns did the trick. They call you the light of Winterfell.”
Your lips parted in surprise.
“Congratulations, you mesmerized the whole North,” he teased you. “Grandmother will be proud. I’ll see you at Margaery’s wedding.”
“I didn’t say I would attend.”
“No.” He grinned. “But you and I both know that you will.”
He cantered his horse away from you and out of the yard, and in less than a minute caught up to the other carriages already on their way to Wintertown. You bit inside your cheek, then threw your shoulders back and made your way back to Robb who was still frowning slightly.
“So that’s the Knight of Flowers?” he asked when you reached him and you nodded your head.
“He is,” you said. “I’m glad he came, even if Margaery didn’t. He’s like yet another brother to me, hen me and Margaery were playing, he used to—”
“Here you are!” Silas popped up out of thin air behind you, making you press a hand over your chest.
“Maybe make some noise while you’re approaching?”
“Your father was looking for you,” Silas told Robb, making him grimace.
“Great,” he muttered. “Are you coming from the Great Hall?”
“I passed by.”
“Have you seen Jon around?”
“Uh…” Silas shifted his weight. “No, I haven’t.”
“Great,” Robb muttered and kissed your hand. “I’ll find you later.”
He walked away from you two and you heaved a sigh, leaning back to the column.
“He’s not going to war,” Silas pointed out with a grimace, making you narrow your eyes at him. “He’s going to be in the same castle as you in case it escaped your notice, and stop with this lovesick behavior, I need to talk to you about something.”
Your brows furrowed. “Is everything alright?”
“Yeah, I just need to talk about this because I’m a little confused,” he said. “And before you react, wait for me to finish my story. So you know how I said I wanted a northerner of my own now that you have yours?”
You pulled back a little. “Silas…”
“You cannot judge!” he whispered. “At least until I’m finished. I’m allowed to have my fun, you’ve been having fun for the last two days.”
A whine escaped you and you pressed your palms on your eyes. “Gods, who is it?”
“Jon.”
You dropped your hands, your eyes widening. “What?!”
“Shhh!”
“Silas—”
“It was an accident,” he defended himself and thought for a moment. “Well not really, but you know what I mean.”
“Robb’s brother Jon?” you hissed. “The brother of the love of my life, that’s the man whose heart you’ll break?”
“Hey, he’s your brother-in-law, not mine—ouch!” He rubbed at his arm when you pinched it. “I don’t think I’m breaking his—stop pinching me! Will you listen?”
You gritted your teeth and crossed your arms with a dramatic sigh. “Go on.”
“Alright so…we got a little drunk and spent the night together in my bedchambers on your wedding night.”
Well, at least someone laid together on your wedding night.
But it wasn’t as if you could tell Silas that, so you kept glaring at him.
“And the next morning, he was gone before I could wake up, and then he ended up ignoring me and staying away from me the whole day. I mean obviously it’s rude to ignore the person who gave you the best night of your life—”
You threw your head back. “Silas!”
“Stop being so dramatic when the whole castle knows the reason why you and Stark didn’t attend breakfast this morning,” he said. “Anyway it’s rude but it’s not like northerners are known to be polite and courtly. So I figured fine, let him do whatever he wants. Except that he showed up at my door that night, and as of this morning, I woke up alone twice.” He held up two fingers as if he wanted to emphasize his point. “Twice! What is happening? He’s supposed to be begging to spend more time with me, not sneaking out of my bedchambers!”
A grin you couldn’t stop curled your lips. “You’re confused because he’s not begging to spend more time with you?”
“I made him meet his gods twice now.” He pointed back in the direction of the keep. “He has no problems coming to my door after ignoring me for a day, the least he can do is beg me.”
“Doesn’t seem to be working that way though, does it?”
“No,” he admitted, puffing up his cheeks like he was in such deep trouble. “Has Robb told you anything about Jon?”
“Just that he’s not good at courting girls.”
“Yeah, he’s not good at courting guys either, I’ll tell you that one.”
You rubbed at your eyes with a tired sigh.
“Silas,” you said. “You cannot mess this up.”
“I’m not doing anything!”
“You’ve done something twice now,” you reminded him. “I love Robb, and we’re wed now. You cannot just break his brother’s heart, especially not when Jon will be staying here once…” You could feel your stomach sink at the idea, but you managed to gesture at the carriages, keeping a calm expression. “You know.”
A shadow crossed his face and he lowered his head, biting inside his cheek the same way he used to when he was little.
“I know,” he muttered and nodded his head. “Yeah, I know.”
“I mean unless of course you have actual feelings for him?” you asked and he blinked a couple of times, then scoffed a laugh.
“Have you met me?” he said. “All I look for is some entertainment and pleasure to go with it, nothing more. Of course I don’t have feelings for him.”
“Well then, let him ignore you,” you said. “I know you’re not used to that, but it’s the North. I’ve found out very recently that Robb is in love with me, and he says he’s been in love with me since we first met. Northern way of showing emotions is much more puzzling than the southern way, I suppose, so maybe you’ll figure out what’s happening in time.”
Silas rolled his eyes. “Northern way of showing emotions could learn a thing or two from us, I think.”
“I’ll teach them our ways, don’t you worry,” you jested, drawing a chuckle out of him before you linked your arm through his. “Now come. I’m starving, let’s get some food.”
Unfortunately, whatever meeting Lord Stark had with his vassal lords, it seemed to have taken most of his time, and by extension, Robb’s time. Around the time for dinner, they still hadn’t joined you in the Great Hall, so you figured you could busy yourself with your future ladies-in-waiting.
Well, some of them.
Now that the wedding was done, the names were decided upon as well. You were going to have five ladies-in-waiting; Alys Karstark, Wylla Manderly, Lyra Mormont, Barbrey and of course, Jorelle. You had already met Alys, Jorelle and Barbrey; however, you hadn’t had the chance to spend much time with Wylla and Lyra.
You were already quite enchanted with Wylla’s green hair and her brutal honesty. She reminded you of your friend Rhea with the way she didn’t seem to hold any comment back regardless of whether it sounded rude or not, something you were certain you’d need in the future. Lyra was from the Bear Island, her family had been loyal to Starks for centuries, and her stories were so entertaining that your stomach already hurt from laughing.
“Lyra, you’re not serious!”
“I am!” she defended herself. “I am! We Mormont women are skinchangers, everyone knows that.”
“They do say that,” Wylla pointed out while Lyra nodded.
“And Dacey is the heir, Alysanne is the she-bear, and my younger sisters are too young. That’s why they pushed me forward to be your lady-in-waiting, because Dacey will be the lady of our house, and Alysanne has two kids. I just didn’t think you’d choose me, I was never much of a graceful lady.”
“What makes you think I was looking for graceful ladies?”
“One look at you makes anyone and everyone think that,” she said while Wylla let out a laugh. “I’m your girl if you want someone to defend you, I’m great with a sword, I’m just not that great at southron lady things.” She snapped her fingers. “Perhaps that’s what I’ll do. You’ll all wear pretty silk dresses and I’ll protect you, someone needs to do that.”
“I was going to gift all my ladies-in-waiting silk dresses, but I think I can gift you a sword or a dagger or whatever it is you prefer,” you mused and held your breath when the thought hit you. “Oh I’d put gemstones to the hilt! What’s your favorite color?”
Lyra blinked a couple of times. “Um, blue.”
“Sapphires it is.”
“I’ll take the pretty silk dresses,” Wylla added and you winked at her.
“I already have the perfect dress for you in mind, it’ll look amazing with your hair,” you told her as Lady Umber made her way to you with Arrana dragging her feet behind her. Lady Umber greeted you with a haughty look on her face while Arrana looked at anyone but you, as if she wanted to disappear.
“May we have a word?” Lady Umber asked and you raised your brows, then nodded your head.
“Of course,” you said and turned to Wylla and Lyra. “If you’ll excuse us please.”
Wylla linked her arm through Lyra’s and they both made their way to Jorelle, Alys and Barbrey who were by the corner. You took a goblet from the tray a footman was carrying to take a sip of wine.
“How are you on this fine evening, Lady Umber?”
“Not well, I’m afraid,” she said. “I’ve been informed that you’ve already chosen your ladies-in-waiting, and Arrana isn’t among them.”
Arrana took a deep breath. “My lady, I don’t—”
Lady Umber held up a hand, ordering her to be quiet without so much as a word.
“Before I speak with my dear friend Catelyn,” she said. “Can I ask why she wasn’t chosen?”
By the gods, the northerners really didn’t have a talent in veiled threats, did they?
You raised your brows, a calm smile curling your lips.
“Of course,” you said. “Feel free to go to Lady Stark and say your grievances, and so will I. Arrana wasn’t chosen, because—actually, you know what?” you asked. “I feel that you should hear the reason from her friend, not me.”
You held up a hand, motioning at Barbrey to come closer while Arrana’s eyes widened.
“No, I don’t think it’s necessary—”
“I said shush, child,” Lady Umber chastised her while Barbrey made her way to you, discomfort written on her face. You quietly hoped that your bluff would not go awry, but if it did, you already had a second plan that included getting rid of Barbrey as well, if she was to be disloyal to you.
It was almost funny, if it were any other time, Lady Umber’s threat would have made you nervous. Though you knew Lady Stark liked you, she still had her responsibilities that could not be affected by her feelings as the Lady of Winterfell, and you didn’t want to take the wrong step or put her in a position that would make her question her support for you.
However, that was before.
Now that you knew Robb loved you, it changed many things. Lady Olenna had told you and Margaery once that while mothers-in-law could create problems, as long as you kept your husbands under your spell, their mothers’ influence would be limited. You wanted to be on good terms with Lady Stark, but you also knew that your power and status was directly linked to Robb’s feelings for you.
And he was in love with you, so now you had power over anything to do with the north, and the confidence that came with that was nearly intoxicating.
Barbrey curtsied. “My lady.”
“Barbrey,” you said, your voice smooth. “Lady Umber has some questions about why Arrana wasn’t chosen to be among my ladies-in-waiting. Kindly repeat what you told me before so that she could hear it as well, please.”
Barbrey swallowed thickly, ignoring Arrana’s glare on her, then took a deep breath and raised her chin.
“Arrana was gossiping about you,” she said. “And she said she wished for you to die in childbirth, so that Lord Robb could wed…” She stole a look at you. “A—a northern girl instead.”
Aw, she was learning.
You bit back a smile and turned to Lady Umber who seemed to be at a loss for words. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, turning to glare daggers at Arrana who wouldn’t meet her eye.
“You can go back to our friends, thank you,” you told Barbrey and she gave you a bright, proud smile, then curtsied again and made her way to them. Lady Umber muttered something to Arrana and she walked away from you two in a hurry while you sipped your wine, then lowered your goblet.
“We could go to Lady Stark now if you wish, Lady Umber,” you told her and she stole a look at Lady Stark who was conversing with other ladies, then cleared her throat.
“Arrana is young.”
You tilted your head. “She’s my age.”
“Well yes but she wasn’t trained in matters of delicacy,” she said. “Or southern diplomacy. I suppose it’s our fault, but she’s still learning.”
You pretended to think for a second, then heaved a sigh.
“Lady Umber, I don’t wish to make an enemy of you or your family,” you told her. “That’s exactly why I chose to keep such disrespect a secret. Robb speaks highly of House Umber, he says you’ve been loyal to House Stark for centuries.”
She nodded fervently.
“Of course we are,” she said in a haste. “And we will. No matter what.”
“And it doesn’t seem fair to me that the name of your whole house should be harmed because of Arrana’s words, especially when I know you had nothing to do with that,” you said, frowning slightly. “However, I don’t think anyone else would agree, especially my husband.”
That made her pull back slightly.
“Because you see, wishing me death in childbirth has more than one implication,” you pointed out, looking her in the eye. “Seeing that Robb is the heir and I’m his wife now, the Stark line will flow through him and me. Such insult is not only directed at me, it’s directed at House Stark and its future.”
“She did not mean—”
“And to replace me with a northern girl?” you cut her off. “Anyone who heard it would think House Umber is plotting to put their blood in Winterfell at my own expense. And I’m told the north isn’t as forgiving as the south, especially when it comes to loyalty and court intrigue.”
Her eyes found her husband before they snapped back to you.
“And I’m not even talking about how my family would react,” you said, waving a hand in the air. “My father is incredibly protective of me, so hearing that your niece wished for me to share the fate of my beloved mother, the love of my father’s life? He would be furious, and it seems to me the north will need the Reach in the coming winter.”
A silence fell upon you both before you smiled at her.
“That is if they found out,” you added. “I see no reason to bring this up to anyone else though. Not when you and I can come to an understanding.”
“…An understanding?”
“As you said, Arrana is young,” you pointed out. “You however, strike me as a woman who is too smart to let herself be ruled by petty grievances and emotions.”
Though she was taken by surprise, she overcame it quickly. “A quality that I see I share with you.”
“I hope so,” you said. “I will not hold you or your house responsible for Arrana’s words, Lady Umber. Nor will I share them with anyone else, I’d like to build bridges rather than burn them. One can’t have too many friends in the north, I’m told.”
“We all need each other when the winter is here.”
“Exactly,” you said. “There will come a time when we need each other, I’m sure. And when that time comes, I’d like you to remember this moment.”
She hesitated only for a moment before she bowed her head in acknowledgement.
“I will.”
“Wonderful. And now that we came to an understanding, can I just say—”
You were distracted when Robb walked into the Great Hall, a smile you couldn’t stop lighting up your face in an instant. His gaze found you and he made his way through the crowd, not even stopping to greet anyone else in the hall while Lady Umber excused herself and walked away from you. Robb wrapped an arm around your waist to pull you closer the moment he reached you so that he could kiss your forehead before nuzzling into your hair, his hand cupping your cheek. You let out a giggle, your fingers curling in his shirt.
“You do realize we’re in public?”
“I don’t care,” he muttered into your hair, his voice coming out muffled before he pulled back to grin at you. “You look very beautiful, my lady. You and your gown.”
“Why thank you, my lord,” you played along. “I missed you terribly!”
“Not as much as I missed you,” he murmured, the fire in his eyes nearly burning you while his thumb caressed your cheekbone, making you bite down on your lip. “Were you bored while I was gone?”
You were quite used to having many eyes on you from back in the Reach, and even here ever since you had arrived in the north, however, this time felt rather different. Maybe because the majority of people in the Great Hall were northerners now, or maybe they didn’t care to be as subtle as the southerners, or—
The idea hit you so fast that it took you by surprise. Of course it was less subtle now, the people had barely had the chance to see you together during Harvest Feast, and Robb had been busy the whole day today, so for most of the guests here, this was their first opportunity to see you in public as a married couple, and to understand whether you liked each other after your wedding night. You had heard about many couples—lords and ladies alike—that became rather sour on each other after their consummation, which showed the rest of the people in the castle how exactly their relationship was to be.
And where the power would reside; with the lady or another woman.
Because you, just like any other noble lady, also knew history. You knew that kingdoms and bloodlines flourished and perished because of love. Depending on the situation, it could be sharper than a sword and deadlier than poison, and as Lady Olenna had told you, love was going to be the weapon you were going to yield if you wanted to be invincible.
And with a sudden rush of delight washing over you and making your heartbeat speed up, you couldn’t help but note that although unintentionally, Robb had all but announced to the whole Great Hall that your status was unquestionable. His vassals could grumble about how a northern girl would’ve been a much better fit all they wanted, it did not change the simple truth:
You were not going to be the Lady of Winterfell in name only. You held Robb’s heart and his attention, and no matter what everyone else in the hall hoped, you were not going to be replaced.
You could feel the proud grin curling your lips as you gazed up at him, then shrugged your shoulders as if you couldn’t see the rest of the hall watching you both.
“A little,” you managed to say. “But not to worry. I think I’m making friends.”
♡ synopsis: after catching you on tinder at work, jack puts himself on a mission to get you off of the obnoxious app & into a meaningful relationship with him instead before it's too late. learning you've never so much as been on a date before & are doubtful about ever finding someone worthwhile, he expends every effort to win you over.
♡ content: jealous!jack, jack treats you to dinner on the roof, buys you flowers, spoils you with attention etc, fingering, dacryphilia (kinda), pet names, teasing, flirting
♡ a/n: based off this request, ty!
With forearms planted atop the back of the office chair you occupy, Santos peers over your shoulder as you swipe left.
And left.
And left.
And—
"Oh, he's cute," she remarks.
Looking up from the rolling computer cart Jack stands at, he eyes the two of you from over the rim of his glasses.
Pushing the phone back in her direction for a closer look, you half turn toward her with a raised brow.
"I was talking about the dog," Trinity explains.
You roll your eyes, then swipe again.
"Honestly, you'd have a better time picking up a guy from Chairs than Tinder. Least that way you can test him for drugs and STDs before taking him home like a stray." After drumming her hands against the back of your seat, she steps away.
"Hey!" Jack calls from a few feet away.
Your head jerks up.
Stalking over to the nurse's station, he plants his hands on his hips. "Get off the phone. No more...Tindering," he spits.
You blink twice, then lock the device before storing it away in your pocket. "Sorry," you mumble, now humiliated.
"Look at me," he commands.
You do as instructed and shrink beneath his authoritative gaze.
Jack leans forward. "I catch you on it again, and I'm taking it away. Understood?"
You nod before dropping your chin in shame.
"Only man you should be giving your attention to is me: your attending," he grumbles.
You shift uncomfortably, praying he'll soon walk away in search of someone else to berate instead.
"C'mon, follow me. Time for you to put your hands to uses other than clicking through your Tinder."
Your shoulders slump, but you nevertheless rise and follow his lead.
Once you've finished wrapping the forehead of a ten-year-old girl in soft white gauze who was nothing short of a trooper while you administered seven stitches, due to a nasty skateboarding accident, you grant her a smile. "You were so brave today. But don't hesitate to tell your parents if your head starts hurting, alright? I'm going to give them some medicine to take home just incase."
A concussion was the first thing Diaz ruled out when she was brought back, thankfully.
The girl nods and sends slick black curls bouncing from the motion. "Okay."
You grin, then turn to look at Abbot.
Bumping the back of your head against his abdomen because he's standing that close to you, you mutter a quiet apology.
"Somethin' you need?" Jack asks while uncrossing his arms.
"Yeah. Can you, uh... Get me the jar of suckers from the shelf behind you? And a roll of stickers, too?"
He nods before turning around to retrieve the requested items. "Sure."
Handing you the jar first, his fingers linger against the warmth of your palm. When you glance up to him with an inquisitive brow, he merely takes a small step back while nodding toward your adorable patient. "I'll give you the stickers next."
You blink, then return your attentions to her. "Alright, sweetie, which flavor?"
"You were good with her," Jack says while cupping his hand around the crown of your shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze.
Ignoring the vibrating phone in your pocket, you smile softly. "Kids are easier, I think. Adults are the ones who think they know everything. Or just know better than us because they have a degree from Google University."
He snorts. "It's why cellphones are such a bad idea," he says matter-of-factly while shrugging casually.
You roll your eyes. "I promise to save my 'Tindering' only for breaks and after-hours," you reply while rounding a corner and heading in the direction of your computer so that you can get back to charting.
Sliding his hand from your shoulder to the small of your back, Jack's lips tug into a frown. "I mean, I don't exactly know a lot about it, but isn't that some kind of a hookup app?" He leans in close to your ear. "Where people go to get laid?" He whispers lowly.
It sends a shiver up your spine.
Breaking from his side, you make a beeline for your desktop. "It's...It's the most popular dating app there is, which is the only reason I'm on it. Not everyone uses it for...that, though." You flush. "Most men seem to," you complain with a frown. "But I have what I want outlined in my bio. Then again, that would require them to bother reading it."
You shake your head, then plop down in your seat and toss your phone face-down beside you.
Jack slides his forearms atop the counter in front of you. "Let me take a peek," he says with beckoning fingers.
You think you may fall out of your chair. "I—What? You wanna see my Tinder profile?" You ask incredulously.
He lays his palms face-up and shrugs before clasping them together. "I mean, I could give you a male opinion. Help you figure out why all you're catching are minnows instead of trout."
Your brows knit together. "Who... Who is the trout in this scenario?"
Leaning over the counter, he snatches away your phone. You make to grab for it in a panic, but promptly seat yourself again with the reassurance that he doesn't know your pin. Thus, no entry will be gained.
Wiggling from satisfaction from atop your chair, you roll forward.
A sobering expression crosses his face at the sight. Clearing his throat, Abbot pulls out his glasses and settles them atop the bridge of his nose.
You watch with amusement as he holds the phone at a distance to see properly before pulling up the lockscreen.
"Pin?" He questions while studying you.
You busy yourself with charting. "Never."
He considers for a moment, then turns the phone around to face you. He whistles to gain your attention. "Look here, sweetheart."
The moment you glance up, the home screen reveals itself. "Hey! That's cheating!" You shout while trying to swipe the device from his hands yet again.
"Never said I had any intention of playing fair," he drawls before thumbing through... You worry as to what he's looking at, actually. Like cutesy Pinterest boards dedicated to a dream wedding you'll probably never have.
"Not gonna find any dirty photos on here, am I?" He asks while pressing the screen with his index finger. Who uses digits other than their thumbs on touchscreens, anyway? Besides geriatrics.
Your face grows warm. "No!" You hiss. "Course not!"
He purses his lips. "Here's to hopin'."
Your jaw falls slightly open, and he chuckles.
"Just kidding." He continues searching for the app in question. "Or am I?" He mumbles. "I meant to ask, you ever considered going into peds?"
You pull up your recent patient's chart. "I have. It's just that... The day will inevitably come when a child in my care..." You swallow thickly. "Dies in my care," you finish. "I don't know if I can survive that."
Jack reaches forward and slides his index finger under your chin and tilts your head back until your eyes to meet his own. "That's going to happen if you stay in emergency care anyway, baby. You have to go where the heart calls."
He returns his hand to holding the side of your phone, leaving your skin tingling from the abandoned contact.
"Ah!" He exclaims. "Here we go. Tinder," he purrs.
You focus strictly on the computer screen ahead of you while sliding a hand over the back of your tensed-up neck.
Jack remains quiet for a moment and you peer at him covertly. You will never have your personal phone out while at work ever again from this day forward. Even for emergencies. The landlines provided will do just fine.
You watch as a corner of Jack's mouth twitches before verging into full-on smirking territory.
He's going to make fun of you, you can feel it.
And then he begins to swipe.
"W-what're you doing?"
"Trying to get rid of all these assholes," he mutters. "God, how long does it go on for?"
"I have my radius set pretty wide, so—"
He lowers his head and stares at you with wide eyes. "Your what?"
"R-Radius? Like, miles around me. If men are within the search radius—"
He rolls his eyes. "Got it."
Swipe, swipe, swipe.
You glower. "One of those could be my future husband, you know?"
He jeers. "What? These douchebags? Unlikely."
You've never seen him so irritable. Who peed in his Cheerios this afternoon?
With a sigh, he tosses it down beside you onto a stack of paperwork. "You're never going to find what you're looking for on there. I know you know this."
You swiftly shove the device in your pocket. "It's my only option. It's not like it was in the olden days when people met at the market, y'know?" You commentate a tad snidely. But if he's going to shame you for trying to find someone to love, then he deserves a bit of attitude in return.
It's none of his concern, anyway.
He chuckles. "How old do you think I am, honey?"
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. "Ancient."
Rounding the counter he occupies, Jack grips the back of your chair with one hand and the desk you sit at with the other. Leaning down, he brings himself level with your ear. "I read your little bio," he rumbles. "Looking for someone to settle down with," he quotes. "To start a life with, yada yada. Those are things a man provides." He slides his hand to the back of your neck. "All I saw were boys."
His fingers tugs gently at the base of your scalp. "You wanna meet someone the old-fashioned way? Take a long, hard look at what's in your immediate vicinity."
Jack steps back then and you loose a ragged breath in an attempt to calm your thready heart.
"Just remember what I said," he states while heading into Trauma 2. "I catch you on it again..." He sucks his teeth. "Probably be better if you just removed the temptation and delete the account altogether, you ask me."
He's practically fuming while slyly spying on you from across the parking lot—watching as you smile down at your phone with an index finger gently bit between your teeth.
It's like you're trying to set him off.
Happy-go-lucky guy that Abbot normally is, after today's whole Tinder fiasco, he found himself snapping at residents in the style of Robinavitch at every turn. He's meant to be the fun dad, and yet...
He tosses his bag in the backseat of his truck and cringes when the metal zipper clips the window. Not seeing a chip in the glass, however, he slams the door shut while shaking his head.
He keeps taking his piss-poor attitude out on his vehicle and he'll really have something to be ticked off about when it starts falling apart on the damn interstate.
He plants his palms atop the passenger seat and hangs his head between his shoulders. "Let it go, old man. You're too old for this shit," he mutters. "She's not interested. She's not interested. She's not—"
With a huff, he shuts the door before heading in your direction. "Hey, you hungry?"
Jack watches with a satiated look on his face as you munch on a basket of hot wings.
"It's really pretty up here," you say between hearty bites. "With all the lights. Quiet, too." Turning to face him, you begin wiping your hands with cheap napkins.
It's nothing fancy—the two of you are seated upon bare asphalt after all. But facing each other while making idle conversation is admittedly a lot nicer alternative to being stuck inside a noisy ED.
He chuckles and takes a sip of his beer.
"What?" You ask, sucking on a saucy finger.
A muscle in his jaw feathers. "You, uh, you've got some—"
Your hand flutters toward your face. When Jack scoots closer, you promptly drop it into your lap when he runs the pad of his thumb along the corner of your mouth.
"T-Thanks," you squeak before taking a pull from your water.
Leaning back against the railing behind him, Jack studies you for a moment. "You can do better than online dating."
Your eyes flit to his.
Holding his hands up, he continues. "I get it. It's just the way it is nowadays. But, sweetheart, the guys I saw on there?"
You interrupt him. Occupying yourself with a packet of wet-wipes, you start scrubbing at your hands. Otherwise you might just nibble them down to the bone the sauce was so yummy.
"I...I'm lonely," you whisper. "And I feel like I've fallen behind somehow." You worry your lower lip between your teeth. "I've never so much as been on a date before. There was just...never time. First, it was graduate from high school, then college, then an internship, now residency. After that, fellowship and—" You shake your head. "I told myself that once I was settled in my career and happy with my living arrangements is when I would put myself out there."
You sniffle while toying with your plastic water bottle, listening idly as the water sloshes around as you turn it one way, then the other. "I don't think I can wait that long. I don't want to. I want someone of my own to love. To call after I've had a bad day. Arms to fall asleep in, a chest to lay against when I feel scared. A body to come home to."
You shrug and wipe at yours eyes. "Then again, how many people do we work with—patients do we meet—who tell us the horror stories that are their relationships and marriages?" You frown. "Hardly makes commitment sound all that tempting."
Jack leans his head to the side, then cups your cheek in his palm. "That's why you don't settle for any less than someone who worships you. Who constantly thinks about you. Who'd kill to keep you safe."
A quiet click sounds at the back of your throat when you swallow.
He brushes his thumb along the apple of your cheek. "You've never been on a date?"
You shake your head.
He smiles softly, leans forward, then murmurs "What're we doing right now, then?" before pressing his lips to yours.
Jack never explicitly asked to enter into a relationship with you. Instead, it seems to be a decision he simply makes without warning.
On the one hand, it's so incredibly flattering to be desired by the Jack Abbot of all people. Of all men. Doctors, even. On the other, he's your attending. As well as someone who seems beyond comfortable in his own skin and abilities as a healer while you otherwise feel like you're stumbling through life.
You truly have no understanding of his decision.
There's nothing particularly special about you. You're not a young prodigy like Javadi, fast as a whip like Santos (not that he exactly seems like her type), as lovely as Mohan, or as intelligent as Mel.
The list goes on.
Maybe he's like all the rest, then? Just having fun while the iron is hot?
You dislike the thought.
It makes you feel cheap; pathetic; used.
It's why when at work...you sort of continue keeping your distance. At least initially.
Intent on hovering and crowding and smothering and touching you, however, Abbot is there nearly every time you turn around.
"I get that you're busy," he tells you one day—his hand sliding from your shoulder blade to your lower back; dangerously close to another body part. "But if you wanna keep playing hard to get even though you're already mine, then I'm happy to keep chasing."
And then he'd leaned close, bringing his lips to the shell of your ear. "Tell you the truth, the whole thing is giving my Viagra a run for its money."
Instead of it turning you on, as was clearly his intention, it'd only made you feel sick. Because you were right after all: he only saw you as a collection of parts to...objectify.
You had scurried away after, leaving him a bit perplexed.
It's only been a few days since the rooftop, so granted not much has happened thus far, but forcing yourself to have an awkward conversation with Jack where you innocently inquire What are we? feels out of the question. Not to mention humiliating. You're here to work, not star in a rom-com.
Whatever he's after, he clearly needs to start looking elsewhere.
But instead of being a damn adult about the entire ordeal and pulling him aside to talk like grown-ups...you sort of latch onto Robby instead. Not in a flirtatious sort of way. Just as a mentor and mentee one. By otherwise being occupied with learning from him, maybe Jack will move on? Grow bored? As much is inevitable, you figure.
When Jack stumbles across you all but pressed against Robby's side in Trauma 4 one day, however, it's like the pin in a grenade is pulled. All that's left is to release the lever.
He never took you for a tease, but he'll be damned if he's not going to mark his territory as a last resort before throwing in the towel.
Entering the Pitt Friday evening, you're greeted by a vision. A lovely floral arrangement sits atop the nurse's station in a crystal vase; its blooms sprouting in every direction.
You smile at Dana while walking past. "Looks like Benji is quite the romantic."
"Not for me, doll. Had to sign for 'em, but they're for you."
Halting in your tracks—causing your tennis shoes to squeak against the polished tile floor beneath you—you turn and pad over to it. Plucking the enclosure card from the plastic cardette, you read it over.
Meet me where I made you mine. — J
You glance up to Dana who throws a hand up while dialing the phone in front of her with the other. "Didn't read it. Hand to God, kid."
"Could you...keep this here for me until the end of my shift?"
Sliding it back toward herself, she nods. "You got it."
"We couldn't have done this downstairs?"
Standing just behind the railing positioned at the edge of the rooftop, Jack turns back to you with folded arms. "Felt like this should be a private conversation," he replies while stepping unsteadily toward you.
Perhaps his leg is giving him fits tonight.
Matching his strides, you meet him halfway.
He remains silent, with a thoughtful look etched upon his face. "Am I just not what you're looking for, then?"
Your brows furrow as you bat your lashes. "What?"
He huffs. "You've barely spoken to me in the last week, sweetheart. I'm getting mixed signals. You put on your Tinder," he says with an upwards wave of his hand, "that you want essentially the same things that I do. But I try to get close—give you my attention—and you glue your ass to Robby's side instead."
You open your mouth to speak, only to shut it a moment later as he continues.
"Look, I get it. I've been out of the game for awhile, so maybe I don't really know what goes nowadays. I tried giving you attention and that backfired. I flirted and I got the same result. So now I'm going old-fashioned with flowers and clandestine meetings on rooftops. I just—" he steps forward. "I need you to tell me whether to stay or go. Because the last thing I want is to make you feel uncomfortable. I'd thought we were together, but if you've changed your mind about commitment and settling down—"
"I haven't," you blurt out.
He quiets.
"You... You never asked me."
He raises a silver brow.
"To be...yours. I wasn't sure what we were. And I felt stupid at the idea of even asking. And then with the Viagra comment," you say with a flush. "It seemed like I was back to online dating, but in real life this time."
He hangs his head and sighs. "That's on me." He raises it. "I can have a peculiar sense of humor sometimes. Guess it gets even worse when I'm making a come-on."
Sliding his hand along the back of your neck, he holds you close. "I didn't think it needed saying after the night we were together up here. I just assumed we were on the same page. So I am truly sorry that I never bothered to ask if you wanted to be—" His mouth quirks to the side as he thinks. "Boyfriend and girlfriend are way too juvenile for me," he mumbles. "Partners, then."
He slides his hand to your shoulder. "Everything you listed is what I have to offer; what I want to give you."
You nervously rub at your arm. "I just didn't want to make assumptions."
He grins. "Too late."
Your eyes flit to his.
"I already did for the both of us, sweetheart. Listen, I'm not some kid on the internet throwing darts at a board until something sticks and I get a consolation prize out of it. I want you, and only you. I have since the day you were first assigned to me."
"Oh," you say, leaving your lips slightly parted.
"So," he begins while running a calloused palm down your arm before gripping your fingertips. Lifting them to his lips, he brushes a kiss along the back of your hand. "We're clear on what we're doing this time, then? That you belong to me and me alone, and I to you?"
You glance away while heat rushes to your cheeks.
You nod. "Yes, I think so."
He chuckles. "Good."
Jack wraps you in his arms and holds you firm against his chest. "Because if I see you with Robby again, I'm throwing my leg at him in the parking lot."
You cackle while burying your face in his chest and inhaling the calming, woodsy scent of his cologne.
It takes some adjusting to: being Jack's girl. From him assigning himself to being your designated driver to and from work, to cooking for you in the comfort of his well-stocked kitchen, to asking rather sheepishly if you'll rub his leg at night—what begins with butterflies and nervous laughter, ends in routine and comfortability.
The only excitement is at the ED. Because outside of it, you each share quiet nights in. Ones where you lie atop his chest on the couch while he watches TV... Or the one where he finally coaxes you out of your shirt and bra so that he can run his palms along the soft skin of your back.
He says it feels nice, since they can ache at times from arthritis.
The scratchy sensation makes your skin sing in the best of ways.
He seems rather pleased, after having moved you in before long, when you finally take liberty in using what's his, but for yourself. Like his t-shirts for sleeping in, his razor for shaving (men's are superior, you tell him), his truck for picking up groceries and his credit card to pay for them, and... Well... His stethoscope on the nights the two of you play doctor in the bedroom.
So, yes, physical intimacy is a facet of your relationship which does develop naturally in due time. And to his credit, Jack is endlessly patient with you as he teaches you all about it.
Insecurity about inexperience in every arena—sexual or otherwise—had certainly been of much concern to you. Perhaps he'd prefer someone who had familiarity with partnership, you'd worried. But he made clear that being able to claim you in every way there is stroked his masculine ego like nothing else.
And being the first to put hands on you...?
It doesn't take long for you to learn that you really enjoy extra attention being paid to your breasts, for example, when he laps at them with his tongue while his fingers explore the sopping folds between your legs. Gruffly, he says things which get you dripping with little effort applied: "That feel good, sweetheart?", "Spread your legs for me, baby.", "C'mere and lie back on the bed so that I can take your clothes off, angel."
You'd once asked shyly from atop your shared bed if he could please wear his dog tags during. With a grin, he muttered quietly "Yeah, honey, I can do that," before obliging your request.
As if he's Pavloved you, he sometimes teases even while at work just to get a rise out of you. Like when he seats himself next to you as you chart—sliding a palm along your inner thigh until it's right against your heat. Jack merely leaves it there, and smirks every time you make a typo.
Or when you do a job well done with a patient and he'll mutter "Good girl." before stepping away.
By the time the two of you get home, you're feral with want, and care little to none about waiting for his Viagra to kick in.
So, he typically makes use of his tongue instead until he's able to achieve manhood. He usually challenges himself in getting you to come twice on it before finally sinking his cock between your fluttering walls and kissing away your tears, you're that overstimulated from him rutting away between your thighs.
You'd been so afraid before—paranoid, even—of winding up in an unhealthy, and deeply unhappy relationship, but with all the love and tenderness he gives you, you can scarcely imagine ever wanting another.
Besides, Jack tells you that just the thought of you with someone else is likely to make his head explode. So, for better or worse, you're stuck with him.
You find that you're just fine with that fact. Especially at night when he holds your naked body close to his—his arms wrapped tightly around you—and as you drift off to sleep, he whispers how he's never letting you go now that he's found you.
synopsis: summoned to the red keep to prove her family's loyalty a decade after the blackfyre rebellion, the lady of house peake only intends to survive court politics — becoming entangled with prince valarr targaryen was not part of the plan.
author’s note: this includes one of the very first scenes i wrote for this series, so i'm very excited for you all to see it. i'm sorry this took me so long to write and post, but it's a pretty significant chapter, so i hope that makes it up to all of you! giggling and kicking my feet here lol <3
wordcount + tags: 6,368 + enemies to lovers, slowburn, forbidden romance, sparring as flirting, heavy tension, canon-typical misogyny/violence, pre-akotsk
part one || part two || part three || part four || part five || part six || part seven
Valarr Targaryen x F!Reader
Your eyes track the pale light of dawn as it stretches sluggishly across the ceiling, until it has pushed the darkness out of even the furthest corners of the room, the entire chamber glowing softly with pale daybreak. Your mind is still entirely alert from when you first lay your head on your pillow last night, many hours ago, after–
After it happened.
You press the heels of your palms against your eyes, exhaling heavily into the stillness of your chambers as if the action could physically push the memory away, shove it into the recesses of your mind to be ignored or blissfully forgotten through sheer willpower.
It clings to you like morning mist, your efforts to dispel it only causing it to replay at the forefront of your mind instead.
His low voice, wrecked and pleading, dragged out of him as if against his will. The careful way in which he had stepped into your space, not asking and yet not presuming, the ensuing look of relief on his face when you hadn’t stepped away.
How much you’d wanted to close the agonizing distance between the two of you and–
You flop your hands down dramatically against the bed, banishing the thought before it has the chance to fully form. Your eyes refocus slowly on the canopy above you, the golden silk of the embroidered dragon gleaming down at you almost mockingly.
Foolish. The word comes quickly, instinctively, your father’s voice echoing in your skull. Idiotic, really, your own voice amends.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed before the thought can linger, feet finding the cold stone with a quiet hiss of breath, abandoning the futile attempt at chasing a sleep that will not come in favour of finding distraction in your daily routine.
Ellyn chatters softly as she works with your hair while Mara fusses with the ties of your gown behind you, and you sit still and allow their practiced hands to dictate the rhythm of the morning, trying your hardest to engage rather than let your thoughts carry you down pathways you adamantly refuse to follow.
“And then Lady Dalt, the elder, not the younger, said the seamstress ruined the waist entirely,” Ellyn seems delighted by the scandal of it, her gray eyes glittering as she recounts. “Though Mara insists she simply gained weight–”
“I never said that,” Mara protests, dark brows tugging together petulantly. “I just suggested that maybe the error lies less in the seamstress’ skill, and more in the volume of honey cakes consumed each morning.”
Ellyn gasps and you can’t help but laugh as the two girls begin bickering lightly over your head, but it all feels… removed.
“Will you return to training this morning, my lady?” Mara asks gently, fastening the last tie at your back, noticing your distracted attitude.
“No,” you answer sharply, the thought of running into Valarr more terrifying than ever, but then you add softly, “Not today.”
You don’t see the knowing look your maids exchange behind your back.
The corridors of the Red Keep are already busy by the time you step into them, servants moving briskly between tasks, the low murmur of voices carrying faintly along the stone, and you keep your head high, your pace measured. Normal. Everything can just return to normal.
Of course, fate has other plans for you. As you turn the corner of Maegor’s Holdfast that connects with the rest of the Keep, you feel the thrum in the air before you realize what it means, and by then, it is too late.
You stop in your tracks, stock-still as you catch sight of Valarr as he rounds the same corner in your direction. He is already frozen, mismatched eyes wide as they take you in, clearly experiencing the same turmoil as you after last night.
He is already too close to you – closer than is proper, closer than is comfortable – the abruptness of your meeting and the narrowness of the corner forcing a proximity that feels suddenly, acutely intentional, despite it being anything but.
For the briefest of moments, his face is an unguarded display of his vulnerable emotions, of his impulsion, before it is smoothed away into a controlled passivity that feels much more familiar.
“Lady Peake.” He greets stiffly, inclining his head, and you’re struck by the sudden ire that fills you at the formal distance of it all.
You dip your head in turn, the motion practiced and wooden. “Your Grace.”
The words settle wrongly in your ears, too distant, too formal for what passed between you, and yet these roles are the only safe thing left to return to. A servant passes behind him, and you both shift slightly to allow them space to pass, but neither of you move to leave.
He is watching you, the weight of his attention settling against your skin like something tangible, and you bristle as warmth begins to blossom low in your chest.
“You did not come to the yard.” He says after a moment, looking like he didn’t quite mean to say that out loud.
You blink, startled by the sudden image you get, of the prince venturing to the training yard in the early light, awaiting you. How long did he stand there? When did he give up on you?
You lift your chin a fraction, defensiveness taking root where affection threatens to bloom. “I was… otherwise occupied, my prince.”
The title lands like a blow, and his jaw shifts, eyes narrowed as though he might say something real, but the instinct is checked before it can fully form. “Of course.” He nods curtly. Politely.
You become poignantly aware of the space you inhabit, the quiet that surrounds you, the brush of your sleeve against the stone wall, the way his hand flexes once at his side, then stills. You are struck with the sudden urge to laugh at the repetitive situation the two of you keep finding yourselves in, but you stifle it in your throat.
Valarr is silent for a long moment, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he scans your face and then drops his gaze to the floor, clearly formulating how to say what’s on his mind. Your heart pounds in your chest in anticipation, watching him carefully, waiting for him to just say it.
Finally, his throat bobs, an earnestness filling his eyes as they meet yours. “My lady– I wanted to say–”
Footsteps echo from the far end of the corridor causing the two of you to practically spring apart, heads snapping in the direction of the sound.
“Valarr!” Matarys appears after a tension-frought moment, skidding around the corner with a mischievous grin on his face. “Quick, I got away, but–” He falters when he spots you, but after a moment the smile widens, and your heart melts.
“Oh! Lady Peake.” He greets, then doubles over at the waist in a bow, the gesture too eager, antithetical to the real power balance between you. It startles a laugh out of you, and you dip into an exaggerated curtsy of your own.
“My prince.” You smile warmly at the young boy, missing the way Valarr is watching you, his cheeks suddenly dusted in a pink hue.
“Good, I meant to– If you’re free, are– Will you show me how to finish making the daisy rope?” Matarys asks with wide eyes, making a visible effort to compose himself as he straightens his posture.
You glance over at Valarr, desperate to continue your interrupted conversation, but Matarys’ patience seems to be wearing thin. “My tutoring session is meant to begin shortly, and I can only evade them for so long.” He prompts, glancing down the hallway, and you swallow thickly.
“Mata.” Valarr scolds, though it holds no real fire, and you can’t help the sudden buzz of fondness at hearing the nickname. You look between the brothers, something unspoken passing between you and Valarr. Later, it promises.
“Of course, my prince.” You smile down at Matarys, who beams back up at you.
“I tried, honestly, but the stems keep breaking before I can finish. I think your fingers are more suited–” His voice trails off as he takes off down the hallway, and you cast a soft, regretful smile over at Valarr, who mimics your expression.
“Good day, Lady Peake.” He nods at you, the words returned now to their rightful tone of formal, measured, safe.
You nod and wrench your gaze away, trailing after the younger prince, his voice still bouncing off the stone walls as he stalks ahead of you. You don’t look back despite the pull in the pit of your stomach to do so, but you feel him there nonetheless as you go – the space he occupies, the absence he leaves behind as you step out of it.
The corridor seems colder once you’ve passed him, the air less thick with the unspoken, but your thoughts are no quieter for it.
Behind you, Valarr watches you follow after his brother, his mind a tempest of thoughts of duty, honour, and sneakily, beneath it all, a burning sense of desire.
The rest of the day passes peacefully – you lie in the godswood with the younger prince, dappled light warming your skin where it filters through the leaves, teaching him various ways to weave the flowers together as you forcefully push all thoughts of the other prince out of your mind.
He gets the hang of the daisy chain and proceeds to just about raze the grass of its flowers, returning to you with an armful of blooms that he then weaves together with startlingly serious focus.
You absentmindedly begin to braid the long grasses as he works, an endeavour he then latches onto eagerly, and by the time the out of breath servant comes looking for him, evidently less-than-pleased, you’re surrounded by various textile projects formed entirely by grass and flowers.
Matarys heads to his lesson draped in his creations, leaving you adorned with a few as well, and when you return to your chambers you hang them fondly on the candlesticks by your bedside.
You have tea with the other ladies and then meander through the halls alongside the Queen, scanning for a signature dark head of hair despite yourself, lingering near the training yards and stables and King’s solar in hopes of catching him and continuing your conversation–
But the promised later never comes, and before you know it, you’re retiring to your chambers for the night without having seen him again all day.
Despite the lack of resolution from last night, you still find yourself going to bed with an irritatingly pleasant warmth blooming in your chest, brown and blue swimming behind your eyelids as you fall into sleep.
You wake abruptly, not much later, to the sound of metal scraping against itself, slow and careful.
The Red Keep is never truly silent – wind whistles through arrow slits, distant waves strike the cliffs below, the guard’s boots form a muted cadence as they rotate their watch – but this sound is so quiet, so intentional, that it sets an alarm off in your mind before you fully register it, your heart thudding against your ribcage before you’ve even fully awoken.
Your eyes snap open into darkness illuminated only by the faintest slivers of moonlight draping onto the floor of your chambers, just in time to watch your door ease ever-so-slowly inward.
Your fingers slip beneath your pillow, curling around the handle of the dagger that has lain hidden beneath you as you sleep since your very first night in King’s Landing, a grim sort of satisfaction taking root at the inevitability of this.
You knew this would happen. You knew you weren’t safe in these halls, that you would always be under threat, but you let yourself slip into a false sense of security– and now you are to pay the price.
Despite the fear that courses through you, there’s a strange wave of relief at having been correct in your deep-seated mistrust.
A cloaked figure slips into the chamber and closes the door behind him with a soft click, a sliver of moonlight showing you his face as he turns – gruff, bearded, a pale scar across his cheek, cold pale eyes widening as he finds you already awake and watching him.
He seems to be in no rush, but of course, he has no need to be – your chamber is small, the windows narrow and leading only to a steep drop. There is nowhere for you to run.
You sit up shock-straight in bed, heartbeat thundering in your ears, waiting for the grand speech about your family’s betrayal and allegiance to the Targaryens– but then he pulls his cloak aside, just enough, and you see the crudely stitched sigil on his chest.
A black dragon on red fabric. The wrong dragon. The Blackfyre dragon.
Time slows as confusion floods your senses.
He greets you by your first name, your full name, his voice low, eyes narrowed as he steps closer. It feels like an accusation more than a greeting, and your eyes dart toward the door behind him, his body a barrier between you and any possible escape.
You rise slowly from the bed, bare feet meeting cold stone, dagger clutched tightly behind your back. The night air bites against your skin through the thin linen of your nightgown, your bare shoulder meeting cool stone as you back up against the wall.
“What– What is the meaning of this?” Your voice is thin, made feeble by your fear, and shame fills you at the sound of its tremble.
He cocks his head, his eyes raking over your body like a hound sizing up its prey, taking his time before answering, his voice rough and low when he finally speaks. “I’m not here for you, m’lady, but it seems to be a fortunate accident.”
Your brow furrows. Why would he be here if not for you? This wing of Maegor’s Holdfast is small, only housing your chambers and–
A cold realisation washes over you all at once.
“Prince Valarr.” You breathe his name out, a fear you cannot rationalise squeezing your throat at the revelation. The intruder grins and inclines his head in confirmation, never taking his eyes off of you.
“You must–” You shake your head, swallowing thickly, a tremor wracking through you as desperation takes hold. “You must leave. I won’t– I won’t say anything, just go, just–”
“You would defend the usurpers?” His lip curls in a disgusted sneer at your reaction. “Your house stood with the true king. Your family died because of the Targaryens, your land and castles stolen from you, and yet now you lie here, beneath their banners, defending their heir.”
“I am here against my will,” your voice shakes as you try to defend yourself, indignation and fear warring in your chest. “And– and there’d be no use, you’d only get yourself captured or killed if you even step foot into the halls, there are Kingsguard everywhere–”
“You’re wrong,” he smiles grimly. “Your hall is empty.” Fear courses through you, realizing that he must be right because he got into your room. “And there may be guards at his door, but I’ve been informed there’s a way into the prince’s chambers through here.”
His eyes move past you, scanning the walls, and you frown, shaking your head fervently. “No, there’s no– That’s not true. It’s– It’s just me in here, so– So the only way out for you is to leave, I– I won’t tell.”
You tack on that last bit at the end, your voice thin as you try to plead with him. Dimly, you note that the guards outside Valarr’s chambers would hear you if you screamed, but they might not make it in time– and they might not even come for you.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you also take into account that if there is a way into the prince’s chambers from yours, and the intruder kills you first, he might still succeed in his original plot.
The thought makes you feel sick. You hope it hasn’t occurred to him too.
“Maybe you’re right, maybe I can’t kill the young prince tonight,” his eyes drag over your form, his sneer sharpening with contempt at your pleading, his hand disappearing into his cloak. “Or maybe I can, and as a bonus, I can also bring home the head of a traitor.”
Steel flashes in the moonlight, and fear dumps over you like ice water.
He lunges towards you and you move before your thoughts even catch up, instinct driving you to pivot away and slash your blade. The dagger bites into his side but glances off his leathers, barely digging into flesh, causing him to curse out and drive you back into the wall.
Your shoulder and skull crack against the stone, white-hot pain lancing through you as you cry out. His hand clamps against your mouth, dagger held at your neck as he turns to glance over his shoulder, and you seize your chance, twisting under his arm, driving your knee hard into the junction between his legs.
He hisses, stumbling back, and you slash your dagger toward him, catching him in the upper arm and casting a spray of dark blood against the floor.
Boots thunder in the corridor causing the both of you to freeze at the sound, and you watch his expression turn darker, almost feral. He swings wildly, the tip of his blade slicing your forearm where you lift it to protect yourself– shallow, but enough for you to cry out once more as heat blooms around the injury.
The door crashes inward, glinting steel and torchlight flooding the room as the pack of Kingsguard arrive. The intruder snarls, lunging for you once more, but the guards intercept him and drag him down to his knees, two blades crossed at his throat as they disarm him and bind his hands behind him.
Your heart thunders in your chest, adrenaline and fear spiked as you back into the bedpost and curl your fingers around the carved dragon head, defensively tucking yourself behind the wooden pillar.
A guard approaches you with his blade drawn, eyes narrowed and aimed at your hands, and you realise that you still have your dagger raised and aimed at his throat, though you realise with shame that the blade is shaking.
“My lady,” he starts, sharing an unreadable glance with the other guards. “Are you alright?”
You nod, unable to find your voice, and toss the dagger onto the bed, deliberately avoiding the eyes of the intruder as he continues to writhe and spit insults at you from the floor.
More guards appear beyond the threshold of the door, white capes practically glowing in the darkness, hauling the man away and barking out orders to one another. The guard who approached you exchanges hushed words with them before turning back toward you, expression drawn taught.
“His Grace will wish to see you.”
The great hall is already lit when they escort you down, shivering in your thin nightdress and flanked by Kingsguard, head held high despite the feeling of eyes on you the moment you enter.
Torches flare and sputter along the walls next to the banners hanging in heavy swaths above the dais – red dragons in seas of black, watching you from every side as you are marched beneath them. Your bare feet sting against the cold stone, blood warm and steady as it drips down your forearm, slipping from your fingertips and leaving a trail of crimson dots in your wake.
King Daeron stands before the Iron Throne, robes hastily thrown over his nightclothes, silver hair unbound across his shoulders. His face is drawn and composed, but displeasure sits hard around the creases of his mouth, violet eyes narrowed as he watches you arrive.
Queen Myriah stands beside him, one hand resting lightly against the carved arm of the throne, waves of dark hair interspersed with silver flowing over her shoulders. Her gaze finds you at once, concern in her eyes at the state of you, and some of the tightness in your chest loosens at the sight of her there.
Prince Baelor stands at the king’s right, broad and immovable as a tower wall, hands clasped behind his back as his assessing gaze takes everything in. In your daze of adrenaline, you can’t help but notice the blend of his parents’ likenesses in his face once he’s stood beside them.
Lastly, your eyes almost reluctant to land on him, your gaze seeks out Valarr, who stands one step below the rest of the royal family.
His posture is tight, his back perfectly straight, his face unreadable, but then his eyes catch the dark bruising at your neck, dragging lower to the soaked sleeve of your nightgown, the crimson slipping from your wrist, your bare feet and the trembling you cannot quite master.
His face goes very still indeed, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he struggles to rein in his reaction.
You are guided to the side of the hall – not roughly, but with clear intent to keep a distance between you and the dais.
A violent shiver wracks through your body, a combination of cold and fear and adrenaline, and Valarr moves before anyone has the chance to tell him not to, descending the steps in swift, controlled strides.
One of the guards half-lifts a hand to bar his path and receives such a devastatingly sharp glare that he steps aside at once.
“Your Grace.” You manage thinly, keenly aware of the eyes of the crown on your interaction, but Valarr does not answer, his attention already wholly focused on your injuries, on the bruising already beginning to darken the skin of your arm, your throat, your shoulder.
Without a word, he unfastens his cloak, settling the heavy black wool around your shoulders, the red silk lining still warm from his body. He draws it closed, fingers brushing the skin of your throat only long enough to secure the dragon-head clasp beneath your chin.
The contact is brief and controlled. It leaves fire in its wake.
It is a gesture laden with restraint, and when his eyes meet yours, the molten fury beneath the blue and brown is so raw it steals your breath.
You try, with what little steadiness you still have left, to convey to him with a glance that you’re alright and that he cannot afford to show his favour with you.
The muscle in his jaw flexes again, and he nods curtly, stepping to your side instead of returning to the dais – not beside you, but slightly in front of you, placing himself between you and the center of the hall.
He should not. He cannot. And yet part of you sings with guilt-laden pride at the display of protectiveness, the claim laid bare in his actions.
The intruder is dragged into the hall, marched across the stones and forced roughly to his knees before the dais. Blood marks the stones in his wake, both his own and yours mixed together, and his lip curls as he looks up and spots you, wrapped in the prince’s cloak, hidden slightly behind him.
He opens his mouth, disgust and rage in his eyes, but King Daeron’s demanding voice cuts clean through whatever the intruder was about to spit at you. “Name yourself.”
The man spits blood onto the floor, licking his teeth before glaring up at the king. “A loyal man.”
“Loyal to whom?” King Daeron presses, frighteningly calm.
“To the rightful king.” The man’s grin is ugly and red-toothed. “Not the bookish pretender squatting on his throne.”
The hall stills, several guards stepping forward at once, hands braced on the hilts of their swords, but Daeron lifts two fingers and they halt in their tracks.
“You entered my keep,” the king says mildly, though his violet eyes are bright with a contained temper. “Assaulted the lady of a noble house, murdered no one and achieved nothing, and now you kneel before the squatting pretender in chains. If this is loyalty, your cause is poorly served.”
The man laughs harshly, though his smirk has faded. “My cause is righteous,” his eyes slide over to fixate on you, and your stomach turns. “And all that stood between my blade and your bastardized Dornish princeling was some traitorous whore–”
You step forward, face twisting as your fear melts away, your anger rekindling–
“Mind your tongue.” Valarr’s voice interrupts before you make it more than a step, shifting slightly to bar you from your warpath, his hand flying to his hip in search of his sword-hilt but meeting only empty air.
The intruder laughs harshly, tracking the young prince’s movement. “Does the bitch hide behind you now, boy? Don’t you remember that she sided with the true king, that her family–”
“Enough.” Prince Baelor’s tone lands like a gate slamming shut, descending one step, his gaze fixed intently on the prisoner. “House Peake bent the knee, and tonight, Lady Peake met you blade to blade armed with nothing but a dagger and her courage. Your cause holds no favour in this hall.”
The prisoner glares, though uncertainty flickers there, and he makes no quick retort.
King Daeron studies the man for a long moment. “Who let you into the castle?”
The prisoner says nothing, gaze cast down to the floor.
“Who aided you?” Daeron presses further, but still, he is met with only silence. “How did you–?”
The man’s mouth twitches, and then suddenly, he bites down hard and a crack sounds between his teeth.
“No–!” You gasp in realization.
Prince Baelor steps forward, eyes wide. “Seize him–!”
You’re both too late.
Blood and froth splatter to the floor from the man’s mouth as he convulses violently, choking as dark liquid spills over his chin. Guards wrench him upright but his limbs are already failing, body shuddering jerkily before he collapses boneless to the floor.
A collective gasp tears through the hall, and you shiver despite yourself, grimacing at the scene before you.
Valarr goes rigid and steps sideways, blocking your line of sight.
Whispers explode around the hall at once. “Poison– Gods preserve–”
The smell of bitter almonds rises faintly beneath the torch smoke, and you exhale shakily, dropping your gaze to the stone floor, disgusted and yet indignantly disappointed at the man’s swift end, at the lack of answers, at the lack of justice.
The King does not flinch, barking orders for the body to be removed, and you watch as the corpse is hauled away, heels dragging a red trail across the stone, the whispers continuing in frantic currents.
“Someone fetch a maester for Lady Peake before she keels over from blood loss.” Queen Myriah’s voice cuts cleanly through the noise, causing you to glance up and find her dark eyes trained on your arm.
It is only then that you realize just how cold you’ve become.
“My Queen, it is only shallow–” You begin to protest, shaking your head.
“Nonsense.” She descends the dais herself before anyone can object, silk whispering over stone. A murmur follows her movement through the hall, but she pays it no mind, coming to stand between you and the center of the room, as though shielding you from the sight of the blood still staining the floor.
Then her dark eyes shift to her grandson. You follow, finding Valarr with his shoulders squared and hands clasped behind his back so tightly the knuckles have gone white. His face is a prince’s face again, distant and unreadable, but you can see the strain in the set of his jaw, in the effort it costs him to remain impassive.
Queen Myriah says nothing to him, merely letting her eyes meet with his for a beat too long, some private understanding passing between them, before she turns back to you.
“Stubborn child,” she murmurs, though not unkindly, reaching to pull Valarr’s cloak more securely around your shoulders, her fingers deft and warm where they brush against your collarbone. “Brave, stubborn girl.”
Heat pricks unexpectedly behind your eyes.
She beckons sharply to a waiting servant. “You– take the Lady Peake to Maester Hollis at once. If anyone delays you, tell them I gave the order.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” The girl curtsies so quickly she nearly stumbles, beckoning for you to follow her.
You hesitate, glancing again toward Valarr before you can stop yourself. He does not move, but his eyes meet yours for one charged moment, the blue and brown both dark with emotion held tightly leashed – concern, fury, relief, all at once, buried beneath well-trained stillness.
Queen Myriah notices, of course she does. “Go on,” she says softly to you, and then, lower still, meant only for your ears, “If you don’t go, he’ll stay here all night.”
You almost laugh despite everything, nodding shakily as the servant takes your uninjured arm and guides you from the hall. Behind you, King Daeron’s voice resumes in clipped command, ordering searches, questioning guards, and sealing passageways.
The maester’s chambers smell of herbs and old parchment, braziers burning low against the chill. Shelves line the walls, cluttered with jars of dried leaves, stoppered bottles, bundles of roots hung upside down from hooks, and in the center of the room stands a narrow table draped in linen.
Maester Hollis blinks owlishly at you when you are ushered in, chains clinking against his chest as he rises from a stool.
“Ah,” he says, taking in the blood, the torn sleeve, the borrowed cloak. “That sort of night, is it?”
“The Queen commanded I bring her to you straight away.” The servant announces breathlessly.
“Then Her Grace has, as usual, spared me the luxury of slowness.” He gestures to the table. “Sit.”
You are settled onto the edge of it while fresh water and cloths are fetched, and only now that you are still and away from danger and prying eyes does the toll of the night begin to make itself known.
Your left forearm bears a long shallow slice from wrist nearly to elbow, not deep enough to permanently damage but enough to bleed freely, the skin around it already angry and swollen.
Your right shoulder, where he drove you into the wall, has bruises blooming beneath the strap of your nightgown, your skull similarly tender where it cracked against the stone.
There is a scrape across your throat where his blade was held, but luckily it didn’t break the skin, only irritated it, and the darkened skin spreads up to one side of your jaw where his hand clipped you in the struggle.
Beneath it all, there is a deep ache through your ribs where his weight struck you hard enough to steal breath.
“The cut will scar,” Maester Hollis tuts softly as he examines each in turn. “You fought valiantly, it seems.”
You grit your teeth as he cleans out the cut. “I objected to being murdered.”
“A sensible instinct.” He pours wine over the wound, causing you to hiss sharply. “Try not to flinch.” He adds mildly, ignoring your ensuing glower.
He binds your forearm in clean linen, wraps your ribs firmly enough to support the bruising, and mixes a salve for your shoulder that smells like the forest floor. “You will be stiff tomorrow.” He warns as he applies it.
You huff, grimacing as he rubs it in. “I am stiff now.”
“You will be more so tomorrow,” he dabs more salve along the bruise at your jaw. “No strenuous activity such as sword-work for at least several days.”
When he is done, you are wrapped, bandaged, and exhausted enough to sway where you sit. The servant steps forward at once. “Her Grace ordered that the adjoining chamber be made ready for you, my lady.”
You let yourself be led onward, Valarr’s cloak still heavy around your shoulders, and settle into the chamber adjacent to the maester’s quarters, only relaxing when you hear the sounds of the guards’ boots taking up position at the door.
The servants have long since withdrawn to the outer room, leaving only one lamp burning low beside the bed and the distant scratch of Maester Hollis somewhere beyond the partition. Dawn has not yet broken, but the black of night at the narrow window is softer.
You are still not asleep, though you cannot admit to yourself that you have been waiting for him to show.
Pain has settled into you properly now, more deep-seated and insidious than before. Your ribs pull with a throbbing ache with each breath, the back of your skull and shoulder tender where you lie, the bandage at your forearm pulling when you move your fingers.
You are acutely aware of every inch of yourself, so when the latch lifts softly, you are already looking toward the door, relief pooling warmly between your ribs.
Valarr steps inside and closes the door behind him with deliberate care, wearing the same dark tunic as he did in the hall, your blood still staining one of his cuffs. Only his hair is more disordered now, as though he has run his hands through it a hundred times.
The silence stretches strangely between you – too full to be comfortable, too intimate to be proper, his eyes running over the bandage at your arm, the bruise darkening your jaw, the way you favor one side even while sitting still.
“You should be asleep.” He says at last, voice rough and thick, and you almost laugh.
“You should be asleep.” You retort, quirking an eyebrow.
His jaw shifts as if he is holding back a smile. “I am serious.”
You frown. “As am I.”
He makes a sound of exasperation, but goes quiet again, glancing around the room as if he can’t quite look right at you. When he speaks again, his voice is very quiet. “I have been told it is not grave.”
You inhale slowly, shaking your head gently but stopping when it only makes your vision swim. “It is not.”
His jaw tightens, noticing. You push yourself upright, wincing despite your efforts, and he is beside the bed in two strides, half-reaching toward you before stopping himself. “Do not–”
“I am only sitting.” You bite, irritated at being coddled.
He narrows his eyes. “You are injured.”
You scoff. “I remain capable of sitting while injured.”
A flicker crosses his face, somewhere between irritation and relief. “You continue to be insufferable.”
“And your civility continues to be maddening.”
The callback to your heated exchange in the stairwell lands between you like flint striking stone. His gaze catches yours then, and for one charged second neither of you looks away. When he does break first, it is with visible effort.
“I should have– I should have known.”
Your brows draw together. “Known what?”
“That if there were a way through those passages, someone would use it.” His throat works. “That you would be placed in danger because of me.”
The words are clipped now, each one more controlled than the last, which is how you know how close he is to losing his control.
You go still. “This is not your fault.”
His eyes cut back to yours, staring at your injuries rather than your face. “No?”
There is so much anger in the single syllable – not at you, but at himself, at the Keep, at the situation.
You soften despite yourself, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. “Yes. Well. I stabbed him for it.”
A startled breath escapes him – almost a laugh. “Twice, I heard.”
“The first time wasn’t deep enough.” You shrug awkwardly, only using one shoulder.
Despite everything, a real laugh slips from him then – brief, low, disbelieving. It transforms him so suddenly that your chest tightens with it. When the sound fades, he is watching you with something far less guarded.
“He said you tried to protect me.”
You look down at your hands, suddenly defensive. “I only told him it was a fool’s errand, that he should turn around and go home. I was buying time.”
“For me.” He fills in.
You lift your chin. “Don't sound so flattered, Your Grace.”
“I am not flattered,” his voice drops. “I am furious.”
“At… me?” You frown.
“At the thought of you standing between me and a knife.” His voice is cold, his mouth drawn tight as his eyes drop to your arm again.
You try for levity and miss it by half. “Your assassination would do me no favours – who else am I to beat in the training yard?”
His expression does not change, but he steps closer, and from inside his belt he draws something and holds it out.
Your dagger. Cleaned and polished, gleaming softly in the candlelight.
Your breath catches as you take it, your fingers brushing his for the barest instant – the contact is brief, but it feels like being set alight.
“I thought you might want it back.” He says, though his eyes remain fixed on where your skin met his.
You curl your hand around the hilt. “Thank you, Va–” The first syllable of his name escapes before you can stop it. You both go dead still. Your pulse leaps painfully high in your throat, but you clear it, swallowing thickly before continuing. “My prince.”
His gaze lifts to yours slowly, and whatever lives there now is far more dangerous than before, far less deniable. His eyes drop to your lips, then to the bruise at your jaw, then lower to the bandage at your arm, and whatever impulse had seized him is strangled by concern.
He turns sharply toward the door, then pauses with one hand on the latch. “I doubled the guard outside,” he says intensely, without looking back. “They will follow you wherever you go.”
You smile wryly. “Oh good, you know how much I loved that the first time.”
A faint exhale leaves him, nearly a laugh, and he drops his head, nodding. When he looks back over at you, his mismatched eyes catch the lamplight. “Sleep, Lady Peake.”
A.N: This is the end of Act I, my loves! 🩷 You have now read 148k words, so basically finished two books, congratulations! 🥰 Act II is starting on May 3! 🩷
And thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Harvest follows patience.
Word Count: 5,7k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, suggestive themes. MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
Even with the small crack that let the light in through the haze of sleep, despite the pounding in his head and the exhaustion of last night, Robb couldn’t help but think that this was the most peaceful moment he had ever had.
At first he just thought the bed smelled like her. The sweet scent of the flowers surrounded him, making him feel like he was lying in a summer garden, and it was only when her hair tickled his nose that he realized her head was resting on his chest. He dipped his head to bury his nose into her hair, his arms wrapping tighter around her as he felt himself slip back into blissful daze, a faint smile curling the corners of his mouth.
However, that bliss was short-lived.
“Robb?”
Gods, it couldn’t have been five minutes—
She shook him by the arm, her whisper nearly frantic. “Robb, wake up!”
“Mm?”
“Have the maids already been here?”
It was with great difficulty that he managed to open his eyes, but the sight that greeted him was so dazzling that the answer had already left his mind before he could speak. She was still in last night’s gown—her infamous wedding gown that the whole North was going to talk about for the centuries to come, if the many comments that he heard last night were anything to go by. She was bathed in the warmth of the sun coming from the window and spilling through the sheer curtains around the bed, the moonlight still clinging to her in the form of her dress even in the morning, as if it couldn’t bring itself to abandon her.
By the gods, she was the most breathtaking vision he had ever cast his gaze upon, even with worry etched on her face.
A grin pulled at his lips while he reached out to run his fingers over her arm. “Good morning, my wife.”
“The maids,” she insisted. “Have they been here?”
“Only for a moment before I dismissed them.”
Her eyes widened.
“Gods,” she breathed out. “We—Robb, we haven’t…”
She didn’t have to finish her sentence for him to understand the root of her worry, any trace of sleep washing away from his mind. The fur covers pooled in his lap when he pulled himself up to sit in the bed as well, her eyes following his every move.
“They’ll say—”
“They’ll say nothing.”
“They’ll say everything!”
“They will not, because I already took care of it.”
That made her gaze snap up to his, whatever protest she was about to direct at him claimed by stunned silence instead. She looked down at her gown, then back at him, the unasked question making him scoff.
“I’m no wildling to take advantage of you at such state,” he told her and turned his palm up. “I cut my finger, so there was blood on the sheets.”
Her brows furrowed and she blinked a couple of times as if she was straining her mind to remember. Robb wouldn’t have been surprised if the memory had left her completely considering how drunk she had been last night, but he was proven wrong when a look of realization dawned on her face, her lips parting.
“Oh,” she said after a moment, coaxing a smile out of him.
“Come here,” he murmured before he pulled her to his lap, the closeness of her making his heart gallop in his chest. Her fingers caressed over his palm, her gentle touch barely there as if she was hesitant, but then she took his hand in hers to glance down at the tiny slice over the tip of his thumb.
He couldn’t have looked away if he tried.
She had to be a gift to him from the old gods; wrapped in light and warmth, halting all thoughts in his head with her mere presence. Robb swallowed when she ran her fingertips over the back of his hand in an almost absentminded manner, awakening fire underneath before she frowned slightly and raised her eyes to meet his.
“Did it hurt very terribly?”
Robb couldn’t help but smile at the genuine concern in her tone.
“You’re the one with sensitive skin,” he teased her, making her scrunch her nose up at him before he leaned in to kiss her, sneaking an arm around her waist to pull her closer to him. It took everything in him not to flip them over and get rid of all these stupid, unnecessary clothes that kept her away from his gaze and his touch, desire burning through him as he slowly started to bunch up the skirt of her gown—
She pulled back with a gasp and turned her head to look at the door when someone pounded their fist on it, followed by his brother’s gruff voice.
“Robb?”
“Just ignore him,” Robb muttered, trailing kisses down her jaw and she shifted in his lap, making his grip tighten around her thighs.
“I don’t think—”
“Robb, it’s noon!” Theon’s loud voice from behind the door cut off her whisper, and Robb dropped his head on her shoulder with an exhausted sigh.
“Aye,” Jon added, “father sent me to wake you up. Theon is also here for some reason.”
“Fuck you too, Snow.”
“I’m going to kill them,” he muttered into her skin while she ran her nails over the nape of his neck gently.
“You can kill Theon,” she said, still a little breathless. “But I happen to like Jon.”
Much to his displeasure, she got off of him to walk to the other side of the room to grab her dressing gown and Robb discreetly adjusted himself, then pushed himself off the bed to make his way to the door to swing it open.
“Has someone died?”
Jon frowned. “No?”
“Would you like me to change that?”
Theon grinned at him. “Good afternoon to you too.”
“Father sent me,” Jon grumbled. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but you two missed breakfast already, and the feast is starting in the yard.”
Robb gritted his teeth, then his eyes found his lady’s maid standing behind them.
“Eadith?”
“I just wanted to inform my lady that her bath is ready,” she said, averting her eyes while Theon stole a look at the bed, earning a glare from Robb who pulled the door closer to him so that no one could see inside. “In her bedchambers.”
“Thank you Eadith,” she called out before she pulled the door open. “Good morrow.”
Theon mumbled a greeting and glanced up at the ceiling while Jon offered her a smile, and before Robb could say anything, she had already walked past him and stepped into the hallway, making him frown.
“Wait, wha—”
“I must get ready for the feast but I’ll find you in the yard!” she called out and walked down the hallway to enter her bedchambers, her maid following her close. She closed the door behind them, and Robb let out a breath, slumping sideways to the doorframe.
“So,” Theon said with a grin while Jon raised his brows at him. “Judging by the murderous look on your face, I take it your wedding night went well?”
After a quick bath, a change of clothes and being all but dragged to the yard, Robb had already made up his mind:
This was nonsense.
This whole Harvest Feast was nonsense.
He was supposed to be in bed with his wife—who was still nowhere in sight— enjoying their marriage. He could’ve been in her bedchambers or even better, in the bathtub with her, and yet here he was, being stuck in a conversation with his father and multiple lords.
He took a big sip of his drink, his eyes darting around the yard. Everyone seemed to be having a great time, many couples were dancing to the musicians’ tune, some cheering, and some still drunk from last night. Perceon and Braxton were laughing at something Cliff was telling them, Arys was talking with Alton, and for a second Robb wondered where Silas was, but he figured he was with one of his many admirers from the Reach, still in bed.
“…and Robb will come with.”
His head whirled around. “Hm?”
His father exchanged glances with Lord Cassel, both grinning.
“Ease off on him, Ned,” Lord Cassel said. “At least for the day. You pulled him out of the south’s prettiest girl’s bed, he’s bound to be distracted.”
“I’m not distracted,” Robb lied through his teeth while his father hummed.
“Will your lady wife be joining us?”
Finally, now everyone referred to her as his lady wife.
“She’s getting ready,” Robb replied. “It takes her a while and we—we woke up late.”
“I’d gather she’s quite tired,” Lord Umber joked, clasping his shoulder. “As a husband of thirty years, let me give you some wisdom, my boy. You must let her have her rest, otherwise you’ll suffer during the day.”
Well he was way ahead of that, already suffering.
“Aye, she’ll make sure of that,” Lord Karstark said, laughter erupting from the small crowd. “Did you let her sleep last night at all?”
Robb rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh huh.”
“I must admit, I doubt I have ever seen a happier bride,” Lord Cassel chuckled. “Even my lady wife…”
The rest of his sentence disappeared into rest of the chatter when Robb’s eyes caught the sight of his beautiful lady enter the yard with Silas, claiming the air in his lungs without so much as a glance in his direction.
Just as she was the silver moonlight last night, today she was pure sunlight. Her gown looked like it was made of liquid gold, silk shimmering under the bright sun, giving her the look of a vision from beyond this realm even more than usual. The skirt of her gown was embroidered with wheats in accordance with harvest feast—and her own house Robb was guessing, since their sigil had wheats around the goat— as well as tiny flowers scattered along them. To match with the rest of her gown, she also had small golden wheat earrings dangling from her ears, and it was only when she turned to say something to Silas that he realized she had heart shaped braids on the back of her head, making his chest feel all warm.
“I’ll be back,” he heard himself say before he crossed the yard to make his way to them, his heart beating in his ears.
“So you’re seriously not going to tell me—” Silas stopped talking when Robb entered his sight, and his lady turned to him, a smile lighting up her face immediately.
“My husband!” she chirped with an excited lilt in her voice before she took his hand in both of hers, then leaned sideways to his arm. “I’ve missed you already I’m afraid.”
The whole yard was watching, but Robb couldn’t care less as he dipped his head to kiss on top of her head, his hand cradling the side of her neck.
“Good afternoon my beautiful wife.”
“I hate this,” Silas announced with a grimace. “Can you two not do this in front of me?”
“Do what, be in love?”
“I strictly remember your septa telling you it’s a virtue to be humble, and that you should not gloat about your fortune in front of those who are less fortunate.”
She tilted her head. “And you are the less fortunate in this situation?”
“Do you see me looking at people with love shining in my eyes?”
“I see a lot of people looking at you with love shining in their eyes,” Robb pointed out, glancing around the yard to prove his point, momentarily getting distracted by Jon immediately turning around as if he wanted to walk away but ended up bumping into Theon and making him spill his ale instead. “I doubt there’s a lack of fortune there.”
Silas blinked a couple of times, a slight frown pulling his brows together at the sight of Jon walking away. “…Right. Yeah.”
“Besides, we had the same septa and she also said it’s a sin to be a hypocrite,” his lady stated. “I’ve spent my entire life having to endure your wave of admirers—”
“I’ve been through worse, in case you forgot,” Silas insisted, “Ever since that title started being thrown around. How about your wave of suitors who kept ambushing me? I’ve been all over the realm to find you a suitable husband—”
“And to find yourself one hundred lovers,” she cut him off smugly while Robb repressed his laugh, and Silas shot him a look.
“You owe me, and yet you’re encouraging this?”
“My wife speaks the truth,” Robb said with a shrug of his shoulders and Silas heaved a sigh.
“I’m going to have to get drunk again if you two insist on calling each other husband and wife,” he muttered and walked past them to make his way to one of the servants who was carrying a tray of drinks. His lady glanced up at him, a smile warming her face.
“He’ll be alright,” she stated, swaying their entwined hands. “I didn’t make you wait long I hope?”
“Of course not,” he said, lifting her hand to press a light kiss on the back of it. “You look very beautiful today, my lady. You and your gown.”
A giggle escaped her.
“Why thank you, my lord,” she played along, her eyes finding the dancing couples on the yard. “Will we dance today too?”
“If you wish to,” he said and she nodded fervently.
“I wish to!” she said. “I must say hello to my father first—have you seen him?”
“He’s with Lord Manderly.” Robb nodded in their direction through the crowd, his lady following his line of sight, her father’s boisterous laugh echoing in the yard.
“I fear my father likes northern lords more than southern lords,” she pointed out and Robb grinned at her.
“Good,” he said. “They can keep him entertained when he comes to visit, you and I will be busy.”
Her jaw dropped as she shoved his arm playfully, coaxing a laugh out of him before he pulled her closer and they both started walking towards Lord Greensted.
It wasn’t that Robb was an impatient man.
On the contrary he was very patient, he had been the paragon of patience since his lady had arrived in Winterfell, but this was pushing it too much.
He hadn’t got to get her to himself the whole day, not even once.
First it was their families, and now, for the last hour, it had been the rest of the guests. On one hand Robb was glad more and more northern families were accepting her now that they were wed before the guests and witnesses, but he did not appreciate them hogging all her time.
“Father will be angry if you keep glaring at the guests.”
Robb lowered his cup to shrug at Jon while Theon plopped down beside him, then pulled a plate to himself to dig in. Jon grimaced, turning to shoot him a glare.
“Ghost chews quieter than you, Greyjoy.”.
“I’m hungry!” Theon defended himself and nodded at Robb. “And you’re glowering.”
“My wife has been taken hostage.”
“She seems too happy for a hostage,” Theon pointed out while his lady, who was surrounded by many other ladies, let out a clear laugh at something one of them said. Jon’s eyes stopped on someone over Robb’s shoulder, then he cleared his throat, shifting his weight.
“Aye, she seems like she’s having fun.”
“It’s our first day of marriage—”
“And you spent the last night consummating the said marriage, so you can wait a little.”
Robb chewed on his lip, keeping his gaze on his lady.
“Besides what else are you going to do?” Theon asked with a smirk, wiggling his brows. “Drag her back to your bedchambers in the middle of the feast to sheathe your sword?”
Robb’s silence seemed enough of an answer for both of them and Jon’s eyes widened.
“You’re doing no such thing.”
“Not like anyone would notice.”
“Everyone is watching you two,” Jon insisted. “She is standing in the middle of a crowd of ladies hanging onto her every word right now, in case you went blind all of a sudden. People would notice.”
“Then perhaps they should notice,” Robb grumbled. “Why are they still here anyway?”
“Because it’s the Harvest Feast.”
“I’ll rephrase, why am I here?”
“Because you’re the heir,” Jon deadpanned while Rickon crawled under the table with a growl, no doubt mimicking Shaggydog who was somewhere in the Godswood with Grey Wind and the rest of his siblings. “And you have to be here until it’s finished.”
“Well—” He sneaked his plate under the table so that Rickon could grab it, then started running around with a piece of steak in his hand, still growling while Robb got up. “If I’m to be here until it’s finished, there’s no harm in taking a break.”
“Robb!” Theon and Jon said at the same time but he paid them no mind as he passed Perceon and Jorelle who were dancing along with many others, then made his way to his lady.
“…and the children took up calling you The Shiny Lady,” Lady Woolfield was telling her, making her smile bigger as she pressed a hand on her chest.
“Really?”
“Oh yes.” Lady Berena nodded. “My daughter Bess, she already asked me for a gown similar to yours, she is enchanted.”
“Everyone is.”
“My seamstress is the most talented lady that the realm has ever seen, and my brother Cliff is a merchant who’s been all over the realm, he always sends me the best—hello my lord!” She beamed at him, immediately distracted from what she was saying. Robb bowed his head slightly, his chest tight with pride upon hearing her call him her husband.
“Good afternoon,” he greeted the others, then turned to her. “My lady, could I borrow you for a moment? Some news of importance requires our attention.”
Her smile faltered a little, a worried frown pulling her brows together.
“Of course,” she said and excused herself, her hand finding his as if it was second nature while he led her away from the crowd. “What’s happened? Is everyone alright?”
“Mm hm.”
“A raven then?” she asked as they both entered the keep. “Is it from the Reach or—”
The rest of her sentence turned into a squeal when he pulled her into a dark corner in the hallway, wasting no time to crash his lips on hers. A surprised gasp hitched in her throat as his grip around her waist tightened, but then she pressed a hand on his chest to push him back gently.
“What news?”
“The news that I missed my wife while everyone is convinced they should keep her away from me.”
“Robb!” she chastised him while he let out a chuckle. “Those were northern ladies, they finally like me!”
“They can wait,” Robb brushed her off as he dipped his head to kiss her neck, making her let out a breath before she pushed him back again.
“I’m a lady, in case it escaped you,” she whispered. “I will not be—be pulled to corners for…”
He grinned at her. “For what?”
“You know for what!”
“You wound me,” Robb said, clutching at his chest as if she just stabbed him. “I’m not pulling you to corners for that.”
“No?”
“No, I’m pulling you to our bedchambers,” he said and grabbed her wrist to tug it, earning a surprised yelp from her before a laugh escaped her.
“My lord!”
“Your husband.”
She tried to yank her arm back with her full strength, leaning back on her heels like a stubborn goat. “We cannot just sneak out of the feast!”
He tried to keep a straight face, biting back his laugh. “Well, not if you lack faith.”
“Someone will take notice of our—” Her laugh echoed in the hallway as he easily pulled her forward. “Our absence!”
“So what?”
“It’s disrespectful!”
“Even better, maybe they’ll leave if they find us disrespectful—”
“Robb.”
His father’s voice snapped both of them out of it, his lady’s head whipping around, her eyes widening. Robb made a face, then turned his head to look at his father, slowly letting go of his lady’s wrist as she stepped to stand beside him, offering his father that perfect courtier smile he had seen multiple times on Silas.
“Lord Stark!” she said breathlessly while Robb grasped the silk skirt of her gown so that she wouldn’t walk away. “Good afternoon! We were just um—”
“Talking,” Robb finished her sentence for her while she nodded fervently.
“Something of…” She cleared her throat. “Great importance.”
“Aye, very important.”
His father glared at Robb, then turned to smile at her.
“My lady, could I have a moment with him please?”
“Of course!” She took a step forward with Robb still holding onto her skirt and immediately pushed his hand away, shooting him a warning look. She walked away from them both, her heels echoing in the hallway before she stepped out to the yard, and Robb turned to his father who was pinching the bridge of his nose like he had a headache.
“Father,” he greeted him and his father lowered his hand to glare at him.
“Robb,” he said after a couple of seconds of silence. “I hope to the gods that you have many sons just like you.”
Robb shrugged his shoulders.
“When?” he asked. “It’s not as if I can work on making those sons, with the way I’m not left alone with my wife.”
His father brushed a hand over his face with a sigh, as if praying for patience.
“Is that what you want, father?” Robb insisted with a solemn expression. “Do you want our line to end? Do you want House Stark to—”
“Out.” His father pointed in the direction of the entrance to the keep, and Robb held up his hands, gesturing surrender.
“If I’m being blamed for thinking of our house’s future…” He started walking as his father pushed him forward by the shoulder blades, the same way Robb would push Rickon.
“You’ll be with me for the rest of the day.”
“I cannot,” Robb argued. “I’m a lord husband now, I have responsibilities to my lady wife—”
“You also have responsibilities to our house,” his father stated. “Since you’re so concerned about its future, you must be very involved with any possible issues it might face in the future. What better way to do so than listening to all our vassals and their issues?”
Robb threw his head back to let out a groan, then stepped outside with his father beside him.
“Come,” his father said. “Lord Ryder has news from the Rills.”
His father was a man of his word, which meant that for the rest of the day, Robb had to be stuck with many, many vassal lords and their issues instead of enjoying the first day of his marriage with his wife. Eventually his father had decided to talk to the lords in his solar—with Robb beside him— and it had taken such a long time that by the time they were finished, it was way past supper. Robb went straight to the Great Hall once he left his father’s solar, his eyes darting around the hall.
Where was his lady?
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jon getting himself a drink, so he made a beeline to him.
“Jon.”
“Ah, you’re back,” Jon said. “Where have you been?”
“Father’s solar, listening to almost all of the guests,” he said. “I swear, for a moment I thought he’d keep me there until the dawn—who are you glaring at?”
Jon’s eyes snapped back to his. “Hm?”
Robb looked over his shoulder to see what he had been glaring at, but he couldn’t see anything that captured his attention other than Silas talking to a knight, so he turned back to him.
“What’s going on with you?” he asked. “You’ve been strange the whole day.”
“I’m not.” Jon took a sip of his drink. “You’re the one who’s been strange.”
“With good reason,” Robb grumbled. “Where’s my lady?”
“She retired to your bedchambers an hour ago.”
Robb’s head snapped up. “What?”
“Aye. Braxton just asked the same to Cliff, that’s how I know. Do you—”
Robb did not even waste a second. Without another word or so much as bidding goodnight to his brother he crossed the hall as fast as he could while making sure he wasn’t running, but the moment he stepped out of the hall and into the hallway, he darted for the stairs. He jumped over multiple steps as he ascended them to get to the hallway leading to his—their—bedchambers and only when he reached the door he stopped, his heart beating in his ears.
…Now what?
He couldn’t just pounce on her like a damn wildling. No matter how much he wanted her, no matter how hot the fire of desire burned through his veins, he knew he had to be slow. His father had advised him just yesterday at the wedding feast right before he made way to wake his lady up to carry her to their bedchambers:
“Do not rush things and scare her,” he had said. “Love requires patience, do not harm what’s blooming between you two in your haste.”
Not that Robb hadn’t already decided to let her sleep that night even before his father had opened his mouth, but that was valuable advice for the rest of their marriage.
Including now.
He was just going to ask her. That seemed like a good solution; they were both still learning to communicate with each other, and he didn’t want to push her into something she was not ready for.
If his touch scared her, then he had to soothe that fear before touching her.
Was he supposed to knock, or—?
He ran a hand through his hair, took a deep breath, then shrugged to himself and knocked on the door before he pushed it open, his heart slamming against his ribcage hard enough to make it ache. He half expected to find her in bed but he was proven otherwise; she was cozily sitting on the soft furs before the fireplace when he stepped in and closed the door behind him, the warmth of the room surrounding him. She jumped on her feet, blinking fast like she was trying to pull herself out of her thoughts before she smoothed the skirts of her nightgown, a shaky breath leaving her.
Seven hells, she had to have access to some sort of dark spell; it was not fair for her to be able to make him speechless just by standing there.
The soft light coming from the hearth and the candles illuminated her sheer nightgown; the tiny stars on the air light fabric glimmering even in the dim room. Her hair was loose from any braids, all the jewelry and adornments from earlier abandoned except her favorite goat head bracelet clasped around her wrist. The memory of the very first night they met shot through Robb’s head faster than lightning, a warmth dripping inside his chest.
Though he knew she wouldn’t believe him, he found her the most beautiful like this; in her nightgown, simply her.
Simply his.
His voice was hoarse with desire when he spoke: “My lady.”
Hesitation flashed over her face before she managed to give him a mischievous smile, then her fingers grasped the side of her skirt, the thin fabric shining with the light of the flames behind her before she gave him the courtliest curtsy.
“My lord,” she greeted him back and straightened up, her eyes searching his face as if she was trying to read his mind. Robb had to command in his head that he was not supposed to rush to her, so he ended up taking agonizingly slow steps while he crossed the room, the crackling of the burning wood echoing in the silence of the room. She gulped, shifting her weight.
“You—you don’t mind I hope,” she stammered, vaguely motioning at the fireplace. “The maids lit it but it still felt rather cold, so I…I made it bigger, the fire.”
He tilted his head. “You know how?”
“I’m learning,” she said with a ghost of a proud smile that faded as her gaze fell on the bed before it darted back to his face, the unasked question as loud as a scream between them. She nibbled on her lip, then took another trembling breath, her fingers grasping the skirt of her gown.
“Should I, um—”
“Would you like some wine?” he cut her off as soon as the bottle and the goblets on the small table caught his attention. She blinked a couple of times like he had asked the most confusing question before nodding her head vigorously.
“That’d be lovely, thank you.”
“Sit, I’ll bring it.” Robb filled the two goblets with wine, his heart still pounding in his ears before he made his way to the furs, then sat beside her and held one of the goblets out of her reach with a grin.
“Didn’t eat anything Arys gave you, did you?”
“Gods no.” She huffed out a nervous laugh. “I’m planning to stay away from what he brought me unless the situation is dire.”
Her hand was slightly shaky as she took the goblet from him, then took a huge sip before she lowered it to steal a glance at him. Robb took it as a sign to sip his wine as well, the tart taste burning its way down his throat.
“Thank you, by the way,” she rasped out, making him turn his head. “For earlier.”
“Earlier?”
“The sheets. That was a…” she trailed off, “strangely southern way of thinking.”
A small smirk curled his lips. “I’m learning.”
That managed to coax a small giggle out of her before she downed her wine and put the empty goblet down. He could swear she was able to hear his heartbeat, perhaps the whole castle was, with the way it echoed in his head.
Slow.
He had to be slow.
He had to be slow and gentle and not scare her off, no matter how beautiful she was just sitting there, the orange flames from the fireplace illuminating half of her face.
He swallowed thickly, then put his goblet aside before reaching out to brush his fingertips over her bare shoulder. The thin strap of her nightgown slipped down a little as he leaned in press a chaste kiss on her shoulder, her sweet scent wrapping itself around him and pulling him deeper under her spell.
Go slow.
Go slow.
Go fucking slow, Stark.
“My lady—”
Her breath was a gentle caress on his temple: “Your wife.”
“I will not touch you unless I’m given leave,” he managed to murmur through the haze of desire, nuzzling into her shoulder before lifting his head to look at her. “Am I given leave?”
He didn’t know what it was, nor would he have been able to describe it later on had someone asked, but something in her expression shifted. Gone was the worry pinching her brows, and the hesitance swirling behind her eyes just a second ago, melting into something much lovelier, much softer. Her hand came up to cradle his cheek, a genuine smile, brighter than the sun and the moon and the stars, lighting up her face before she nodded, then leaned in to kiss him.
He had tried, he really had, but the feeling of her lips was more than enough to wash away any thought from his mind. If he were able to think he would’ve realized he was supposed to take her to the bed, but somehow what he was supposed to do held no power against what he was feeling, not when she was in his arms, not when he finally could kiss her, not when—
Not when she was his, completely.
How was it that every time they kissed it felt like the first time?
He leaned over her, resting a hand on the floor as he laid her down on the furs and settled between her legs. Her fingers curled over his shoulders before she tugged at his shirt with a small whine, and he pulled it off to throw it somewhere in the room, his heart leaping to meet her palm where it belonged, her touch awakening goosebumps on his skin. He was nearly dizzy as the familiar fire made its way down, his hands slipping from the soft swell of her chest to her waist before squeezing her hips but her breath hitched in her throat when he blindly reached down to bunch up the skirt of her gown. He buried his nose into the crook of her neck, intoxicated by her sweet scent.
“We have unfinished business, wife.” He smirked against her skin. “From two nights ago.”
“But my skin is sensitive!” She giggled, coaxing a chuckle out of him as he pulled back to look down at her, tracing her bottom lip with his thumb when she pouted. “You have a beard, it’d be uncomfortable.”
He grinned before leaning down to brush his lips against hers.
“Is it uncomfortable when I kiss you here then?”
A pleasant sigh left her. “…No.”
“And here?”
She shook her head, her hands shooting up to cover her face to muffle her giggle while he kissed his way down. He gently pulled them off of her face before lacing his fingers with hers, and she buried her other hand into his hair as if she wanted to soothe herself, playing with his curls.
“None of that,” he murmured. “Don’t deny me the sight of you.”
Then, without wasting another second, he lowered his head to kiss her right where he wanted to, taking her breath away.
A.N: My loves, you're absolutely amazing, thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Weddings can be very chaotic.
Word Count: 9k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
You could swear you woke up smiling.
It was as if the sun itself had decided to rise inside your chest this morning, too excited to wait for your maid to pull open the curtains to let the light in. You were quite certain that you were the happiest woman in the North—or in the realm, delight filling you even before you opened your eyes and sat up in the bed.
Your wedding day.
It had taken you a long time to fall asleep last night, first from the excitement, then thanks to Robb and his drunk midnight visit that made your face burn even now; what he suggested—
Well.
It had to be because he was drunk, surely.
This was the North, you were certain they didn’t do that here.
“Tell me it’s not snowing,” you told your maid who was looking out the window and she turned to smile at you, then shook her head.
“No sign of snow,” she said, making you exhale in relief. “All from yesterday seems to have melted with the sunlight too. I’d say it’s a good sign from the gods.”
A happy laugh escaped you and you stretched out your arms over your head, then dropped them.
“I’m to wed the love of my life!”
“Yes you are, but before that happens we have a very strict plan for today.”
You nodded your head. “Yes.”
“You’ll have breakfast with the family first…”
“Then go to the sept, pray to the gods, and then—” You thought for a moment. “I still feel like I should pray to his gods as well.”
“Your wedding is happening in front of his gods, you’ll have the time to pray to them.”
You heaved a sigh. “Alright. I’ll have breakfast, go to the sept, pray to the gods, visit Frost quickly—”
“My lady.”
“She hasn’t seen me for a whole day!” you insisted, causing her to pinch the bridge of her nose before she heaved a sigh.
“I’ll bring her here while you’re getting ready, how about that?”
“Oh that sounds better,” you said, “thank you.”
“Remember,” she told you. “The wedding ceremony will hold place when the sun sets, so you must be here in the afternoon latest. It’ll take us hours and hours.”
You nodded your head again.
“The other maids will bring you luncheon, I’ve already arranged it. But once you’re back in this room, you’re staying. I don’t want you to try sneaking out to go see your betrothed while we’re getting you ready.”
Your eyes widened. “But Eadith, if I miss him during the day—”
“You’ll have all the time to see him tonight,” she cut you off and winked. “All of him.”
Your heart skipped a beat and you swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the heavy worry crashing down on you to poison the excitement in your chest.
The wedding night.
Gods, tonight had to go perfect.
Margaery’s grandmother Lady Olenna had always told you the wedding night would determine how the rest of your marriage would go. That was the reason why she had hired that lady of the night for you and Margaery, so that you two would know what to do to mesmerize your husbands on your wedding night completely, and so that you could pull them under your spell, ensuring that they would be under your control. The wedding bed, as everyone kept reminding you, was the place you could manipulate your husband and make him do your bidding outside your bedchambers but now that you knew you were in love, everything was much more complicated than that.
You wanted it to go great, not because it would serve your interests in the future and give you more power over him, but because you loved him.
You couldn’t take a wrong step. You couldn’t falter or fail. You couldn’t do anything that’d shatter tonight’s perfection because if you did—
“My lady?”
You blinked a couple of times, trying to snap out of your own worried thoughts but before you could answer, someone knocked on your door. You and Eadith exchanged glances and you shrugged, so she went to open the door.
Silas.
You furrowed your brows when he stepped in, a small laugh spilling from your lips.
“You look terrible!”
“I came back to the castle while the sun was rising.” He squinted his eyes at the bright room, then ran a hand over his face before fixing his gaze on you. “How do you feel?”
“Much better than you, I’d say,” you said with a grin and he came to sit beside your bed.. “How much did you drink?”
“Too much,” he mumbled and took a deep breath. “Are you sure about this?”
“About what?”
“Being wed to him,” he said. “Because we can just leave if you changed your mind.”
You tilted your head to the side. “Leave?”
“I’ve learned the secret pathways out of the castle. Say the word, and we will sneak out and go to the White Harbor, get on a ship to Dorne and—”
“Silas.”
“I mean the North is so far from the Reach, and it’s a completely different culture, I don’t know what I was thinking—”
“You were thinking of my happiness as you always do,” you assured him, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “For which I’ll be thankful to you my whole life. But I haven’t changed my mind, nor will I ever. I love Robb, and he loves me back, and I want to wed him.”
“But…” He pursed his lips. “But are you certain?”
“Very much so.” You gave him a bright smile. “You’ve made the perfect choice, why are you sad?”
There was a haunted look in his eyes before he blinked it away, then smiled back at you.
“I feel overly emotional, can you blame me?” he asked. “It’s my little sister’s wedding day.”
“I’m a woman grown, Silas.”
“Yes yes, I’ve heard you the first hundred times.” He waved a hand in the air. “So then. If I’m not sneaking you out of the castle, what’s the plan for the day?”
Robb and most of your brothers except Alton and Silas ended up not joining breakfast. You weren’t so surprised, Robb was in fact pretty drunk when he came to your door last night even though he kept claiming otherwise, so you figured he would sleep the exhaustion off. You had no idea what time the rest of your brothers had returned to the castle, but if you had to guess, it had to be around dawn like Silas, or perhaps even later.
You just hoped everyone would be feeling much better and awake by the ceremony.
On other news, Robb had a point in saying Lady Stark presided over the wedding in a way stricter manner than Lord Stark ruled the North. There really wasn’t much for you to do except to get ready and be in the Godswood at the specified time; everything else was ready for the evening and for the feast. When you thanked Lady Stark and expressed your concern about whether she would be too tired from handling all this, she only gave you a smile and told you that you would understand just how not tiring this was when the time would come for you to do the same for your future children with Robb.
If your calculations didn’t fail you, based on all the tales about the war and Lord and Lady Stark’s wedding, Robb was conceived on their wedding night.
You wondered if Lady Stark expected the same from you and Robb.
Even if she did, this was peace time. Back then, during war, heirs were of crucial importance, a matter of life-and-death for houses and bloodlines. It was different now; Lord Stark was alive, there was no war, no impending danger,—the noble families’ never ending battle for more power aside— no threat to the realm itself or the crown, or the North. Besides, Robb had never so much as mentioned wanting heirs this early on, so you figured he wasn’t in a hurry.
You just wanted to enjoy your marriage, anything and everything else could wait regardless of others’ expectations.
After lighting your candle in the sept and saying a quick prayer to the gods, you stepped out of the sept, your mind still plagued with thoughts but you quickly snapped out of them when someone grabbed your arm. The small scream that left your lips turned into a giggle upon seeing Robb, and you let him pull you behind the nearest tree, your heartbeat speeding up as you leaned back to the trunk of the tree to look up at him. He cupped your face and stole a kiss from your lips, taking your breath away before he smiled down at you, a fond light gleaming in his eyes.
“Good morrow my love.”
You beamed at him, your face growing hotter.
“Good morrow,” you said, your fingers idly playing with the laces of his linen shirt. “You’re awake, finally. Any longer and I was going to come to wake you up myself.”
“Had I known, I would’ve stayed in bed,” he joked, making you scrunch up your nose at him. “Not too late still. Come to my bedchambers.”
“I cannot,” you said with a small pout. “I’m under very strict orders for today. My seamstress and my maids are in my bedchambers already, I’m sure. Every hour of today is planned.”
His thumb caressed your cheekbone. “Is that right?”
“Yes, I’ll have a bath first, and then—”
“You can have a bath in my bedchambers.”
You pushed at his arm, trying your hardest not to giggle. “Robb!”
“To save you the time!” he defended himself with a playful grin. “I’m merely asking you to come so that you can decide whether the room is to your liking. With your four poster bed and canopy with sheer curtains and such.”
Your eyes darted over his face. “What?”
“The carpenters put everything together while I was away last night, it looks like what you described,” he said. “But I think you should see it closer—the bed, to be exact, you should see the bed closer—”
“Are you serious?” you asked him. “You had them change it to my liking?”
“Of course I did, you said you wanted it,” he said, as if that was all the explanation you could ever need. You could swear your heart melted in your chest as you let out a breath, then pecked him on the lips before you pulled back to smile up at him.
“Thank you!”
He smiled back and dipped his head to kiss you again, but you pulled back and went under his arm to step away from him like you two were in a dance. He almost stumbled in his haste to chase your lips, but managed to regain his balance before catching up with you.
“Will I be able to get you alone before the wedding at least?”
You shook your head. “I’m told no.”
“By who?”
“By my maid.”
“By your—?”
“There’s so much to do!” You entwined your fingers with his, leaning sideways to his arm as you entered the courtyard. “I’ve made a very extensive list, and I’m still terrified I’ll forget something. I had a nightmare the other night, I was in the Godswood but forgot my earrings back in my bedchambers, and no one warned me.”
He stifled a laugh. “Disaster.”
“I know!” you insisted, then heaved a sigh. “Robb, can I ask you for something?”
“Name it and it’s yours.”
You could feel the butterflies in your stomach.
“I won’t have the time to see Silk,” you said, biting on your lip. “Eadith will bring Frost to my bedchambers, but I obviously cannot have Silk there. Can you take her out today? I fear she’ll grow restless if she spends the whole day in the stables, I don’t trust anyone else with her.”
A soft smile appeared on his face before he tugged you by your hand to pull you closer so that he could kiss the top of your head, making you gasp.
“People are watching!”
“They’re here for our wedding, they’ll be fine,” he brushed you off as you both entered the keep and ascended the stairs. “And consider it done, I’ll take her out for a ride.”
“Thank you!” you chirped. “And please make sure to give her an apple. A green apple, she likes green apples better than red ones.”
“Of course.”
You opened your mouth and closed it again, thinking over your question before you took a deep breath.
“Lady Stark tells me not everyone will be in the Godswood for the wedding?”
“The feast is a part of the wedding,” he corrected you. “For the Godswood ceremony, it’s going to be only specific people apart from our families. Everyone else will be waiting back in the Great Hall, at the feast.”
You hummed. “And the feast is as good of a confirmation as the Godswood ceremony even though they don’t see it?”
“Exactly.”
“The ceremony itself sounds rather simple,” you wondered aloud. “I memorized every step of it, but now to think of it, you are certain no one missed anything?”
That seemed to make him chuckle as you both turned the corner to your bedchambers.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know!” you insisted with a small laugh before you pouted. “I don’t know. I just—I overthink things when I’m nervous, you know that. I don’t want anything to go wrong, that is all.”
He stopped you, his hands cradling your face in the gentlest manner, making your heart skip a beat.
“Nothing will go wrong,” he assured you. “The ceremony sounds simple, because it is very simple. You have nothing to worry about, I swear it.”
You had a lot to worry about, he just didn’t know all of them yet.
You nodded your head, your eyes fluttering close as he dipped his head to kiss you again, making you heave a sigh and lean into his touch, nearly melting in his arms. You were certain that you were never going to grow tired of his kiss, and you had to repress a whine when he pulled back to rest his forehead against yours, nudging your nose with his to make you giggle.
“You might want to go in there before I change my mind about not dragging you to my bedchambers.”
You breathed out a laugh before you stole a kiss from him, then stepped out of his embrace despite your body begging you not to.
“I believe they are to be our bedchambers and not yours as of tonight,” you teased him as you walked backwards. “Since it’s decorated to my taste and all. Get used to it.”
“Get used to being there,” he teased you back, coaxing a giggle out of you.
“Sounds a fair trade,” you said. “See you in the Godswood tonight.”
With that, you dropped an exaggerated curtsy and entered your already crowded bedchambers, then closed the door behind you.
Eadith was right, getting you ready took hours and hours. You had spent more than an hour in the bathtub, soaking in warm water and flower oils that made your skin softer than silk. The real preparations began when you finally left the bathtub; your hair, your jewelry, your wedding gown and your cloak, they all had to look as planned. It had taken you a long time to decide on everything, but now that you were seeing all of it together, you couldn’t help but be proud of yourself and everyone else for their efforts.
You had chosen to abandon the intricate braids of the south and instead adapted the loose hairstyles of the north, save for two braided pieces that were wrapped around the thin crown of blue winter roses atop your head. Diamonds dangled from the silver filigree earrings in your ears, catching light whenever you so much as moved your head, much like the bracelet around your wrist. Though it was your favorite, you were leaving your signature goat head bracelet and Margaery’s gift on your vanity for the night, opting for a silver bracelet adorned with tiny diamonds you had custom made before you came here.
But even the most delicate jewelry couldn’t compete with your gown.
You had joked about it before with your seamstress. Back in the Reach, while you were planning it and coming up with ideas for your gown, she had asked you what you had in mind, and you had grinned at her.
“He’s a wolf, is he not?” you had asked. “Everyone says so. Then I’m to be his moonlight, for him to follow and admire.”
“Rylene,” you breathed out, gawking at your reflection while she fixed the back of your dress. “You are the most talented woman I’ve ever met, and I’ll cry for days when you go back to the Reach.”
She shushed you.
“This is not the time to speak of crying,” she chastised you lightheartedly. “Because I’ll cry as well, so let’s just focus on how beautiful you look, hm?”
You had no idea how she did it, but she had woven the moonlight into silk.
The gown itself was iridescent, many different shades of gray and the softest blue coming together to gleam in harmony at the smallest motion you’ve made, may it be your arm moving or your chest rising with your breath. To make it even brighter, she had spun a second layer; a net of pure silver threads as light as air draped over the gown. The soft fabric didn’t even seem like it belonged in this world, rather something that was gifted from far beyond, from the stars themselves perhaps, letting you borrow their shine for the night. If you weren’t the one wearing it, you would’ve thought it was a trick of light, too fragile to even gaze upon like the shy light of the moon who, despite being so powerful to rule the waters, had to retire behind night clouds from time to time to breathe in peace.
Your maiden cloak, which was decorated with your own house’s sigil, was only going to be on you until Robb replaced it with his own, yet you had made sure to stitch the small squares of goat embroidery Sansa and Arya had given you upon your arrival here on it. It was much bigger and heavier than the gown, but thankfully Eadith said she would carry it until you reached the Godswood, so you didn’t have to worry about whether it would make you trip or mess up your gown somehow on your way there.
“This is the most beautiful gown I’ve ever seen in my life,” Sansa said from behind you and you exchanged glances with Rylene in the mirror.
“You’ll have an even prettier one when you wed my sweet,” you told her, and Sansa batted Arya’s hand away when she reached out to touch the skirt.
“Ouch!”
“Don’t touch it you idiot, you’ll stain it!”
“I won’t!”
“Mother, Arya is trying to ruin the wedding gown!”
“But my hands are clean!”
“Arya, don’t touch the wedding gown,” Lady Stark called out from the other end of the room and you smiled at Arya while Rylene crouched down to inspect the hem of the skirt.
“You can touch it once we’re sure Robb has seen it,” you whispered as if giving her a secret and she shifted her weight, her gray eyes darting over the fabric.
“Your everything is shiny,” she pointed out. “Your gown, your jewels…Even your horse.”
“Silk is so gorgeous!” Sansa added. “I saw Robb take her out for a ride earlier.”
“Oh, good!” you said. “I was worried he wouldn’t have the time.”
“No no, he did,” Sansa said and frowned. “Do people in the south ride horses after their wedding?”
“Hm?”
“I heard some lords say Robb was going to have enough of a ride later tonight, so he shouldn’t have bothered.”
Your heart dropped to your stomach, your insides churning with worry but you managed to smile at Sansa, Rylene lifting her head from your skirts to steal a look at her.
“We sometimes hold jousts for wedding feasts,” you lied through your teeth. “Some southern guests still think we’re in the Reach and not the north, I suppose. They’re not familiar with northern weddings or customs.”
It was fine.
Everything was going to be fine tonight.
You weren’t going to mess it up.
“My flower, time to go!” Your father’s voice reached inside the room and Rylene fixed your skirts before she stepped away from you. You quietly thanked her, then tried to smile at Lady Stark who approached you.
“You look so beautiful my dear,” she said. “Are you ready to leave?”
“Actually, can I—can I have the room for a moment before we leave?” you asked, your voice cracking mid-sentence and she reached out to squeeze your hand.
“Of course,” she said. “Are you sure everything is alright?”
You nodded fervently. “I just need a moment, I think. I’m afraid I’m too excited.”
She gave you a knowing smile, then squeezed your hand in an assuring manner and turned to the rest of the room.
“Out, everyone.”
“Mother—”
“Yes Sansa, you too. You’ll wait outside with me.”
“But I could help!”
“You’ll help by waiting outside, come on,” Lady Stark said, and everyone in the room followed her, leaving you with Eadith.
“I know what you’re going to say—”
“I cannot mess this up, Eadith,” you said, blinking back the tears. “I cannot.”
“And you will not,” she said. “He loves you.”
“Right now,” you corrected her, pacing in the room. “But if I do something wrong, if I…if what I do tonight is not to his pleasure—”
“Not to his pleasure?” she repeated. “Do you hear yourself? He is too mesmerized by you to be displeasured with you, you know that.”
You shook your head, wishing for the thousandth time that Margaery were here despite how badly she broke your heart.
“I’m supposed to be perfect tonight,” you reminded Eadith, wringing your hands. “Everything that I do is supposed to be seductive and confident. But I—I don’t feel that way, I feel like a clumsy idiot who’ll say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing, and then Robb will change his mind and he will stop loving me because he’ll be disappointed in me, and I’ll be heartbroken and replaced and—”
“My lady.” She stopped you, rushing to grasp you by your upper arms so that you would stop pacing. “You will not say or do the wrong thing. I doubt he’ll hear a word you say while you look like this, he’ll be too busy trying to get the prettiest girl in the realm out of the prettiest gown in the realm.”
“Lady Olenna would always say the result of desire had to be even better than the anticipation,” you whispered, stealing a look at the door. “I’ve been keeping him on the edge for a month. That comes with a price, his expectations must be high, and if I fail to meet them—”
“His expectations are just you,” she whispered back. “You being your sweet self. Which will be more than enough, I promise you. He’s in love with you, you couldn’t disappoint him if you tried. You’ll calm down, and it will go great.”
You fanned your face and opened your mouth to argue, but the idea struck your mind like lightning, making your breath hitch in your throat. Eadith raised her brows as you stepped away from her, then turned around to rush to the chest Arys had brought you.
“What are you doing?”
“Arys brought me herbs for everything, and I checked all of them earlier, I swear I saw something…” You opened the chest and pulled open one of the drawers to take a look at the pouches before you moved to the next drawer. “Because he knows everything about everything, and—there!”
You took out the pouch that was labeled “Relaxing the Mind” with Arys’ graceful handwriting, then untied the string around the top part.
“My lady,” Eadith warned you as you took a look inside the pouch, then took out two pieces of what seemed like dried pieces of plant roots. You popped one in your mouth to chew and swallow it, the taste making you grimace before you shoved the other into her hand.
“Keep it with you please,” you said. “If one doesn’t work, I’ll take another before we retire to our bedchambers.”
“I don’t think that’s wise—” she started but was cut off when the door opened, and Elinor stepped in to close it behind her.
“Make haste, everyone is waiting outside,” she said, her eyes finding the chest behind you. “What are you doing?”
You shot her a glare and put the pouch into its place, then closed the chest while Elinor leaned on her hip.
“What’s that?”
“It’s nothing!” you snapped. “Leave me be.”
“Aw, what’s happened?” she mocked. “Too scared to wed your barbarian? Now you remember there’s a reason why southern girls don’t marry into the north?”
You gritted your teeth and narrowed your eyes at her before you let a smirk pull at your lips, then nodded at her.
“How’s your arm?”
That was enough to wipe that smug smile off her face and you scoffed a laugh, then walked past her. Eadith rushed to open the door for you and you took a deep breath, then stepped outside and plastered a smile on your face.
“I’m ready.” You went to press a kiss on your father’s cheek. “Let’s go.”
The Northern wedding customs were rather different than those of the south.
In the south, all weddings took place in the sept in the morning, led by a septon. In the North however, the weddings were held at night by the torchwood, and the moonlight. There was no septon because the old gods didn’t have such structure, instead the groom’s father would officiate the wedding.
So, Lord Stark.
Gods, Arys’ herb hadn’t done anything to soothe your nerves, you were still shaking as you reached the Godswood. Eadith helped you put your maiden cloak over your gown before you clutched your father’s arm and started walking beside him, your brothers following you two close.
“You are the most beautiful bride in the whole realm, my dearest,” your father whispered to you as if he could hear your thoughts. “That being said, are you certain about this?”
You stifled a laugh despite the nerves. “Father, we’re quite literally walking in the Godswood to my wedding.”
“So what? I’ll start a war with the North if my beautiful flower has changed her mind.”
You blinked back the tears and shook your head.
“I haven’t changed my mind,” you said. “Nor will I ever, father. I love him.”
“I know sweeting,” he said with a smile, squeezing your hand in an assuring manner. “He loves you too.”
You could see the light of the torchwoods and the weirwood, so you swallowed thickly, your heart slamming against your ribcage before you stole a look at him.
“Father?”
“Yes dearest?”
“Thank you,” you said, making him turn his head to you. “For everything. I know that you like to say mother would be proud of me, but she’d be proud of you too, and how happy you’ve made me my whole life.”
You could see the tears rushing to his eyes but he let out a breath and waved a hand in the air.
“Don’t make me cry in front of all these northerners my flower, they already think we’re not as tough as them.”
That coaxed a small giggle out of you and you nodded your head.
“Alright,” you whispered, catching the sight of Grey Wind and his siblings afar. “Alright, I won’t.”
It was rather strange, how almost every woman, for thousands of years, had said the same words and went through the same ceremony, but somehow you felt as if you were the only one. You knew the ceremony, you had practiced it in your mind thousands of times but now that you were here, your whole mind had gone empty, especially the moment your gaze fell upon Robb.
By the Gods, he was so handsome.
The look of surprise that settled over his face was almost too familiar; it was the very same expression of awe when he had first seen you in that hallway, on your first night in Winterfell. You could hear the whispers of the guests as your father led you to the weirwood tree, and you gave Robb a tentative smile that made him let out a breath as if he was in too much of a daze at the sight of you. Your heart was beating in your ears so loud that for a moment, you were worried all these people could hear it over the words being exchanged; with Lord Stark asking who came before the gods, and your father introducing you and himself and your house, and Robb introducing himself as well. Much like steps to a dance, you found yourself repeating the words in your head along with them as they spoke, and it was almost a relief to find that no one said a different word than what you had already memorized.
In a second now, Lord Stark was going to ask you—
Your head snapped up when you heard your name, and Lord Stark gave you a small nod.
“Do you take this man?”
Seven hells, who were you going to look at when you made your vows? You had forgotten to ask that, were you supposed to look at the tree or Robb?
You swallowed thickly and decided to focus your gaze on Robb’s handsome face, praying that it was the right move.
“I take this man,” you said, your voice not shaky by a miracle, and a smile curled Robb’s lips before he let out an exhale of relief. He held out his hand and you entwined your fingers with his, then you knelt down before the weirwood tree with him, the whole Godswood going quiet while it waited for your silent prayer.
I know I’m not of the north, you prayed in your head, closing your eyes, but thank you. For him and for this, thank you. I’ll try my hardest to earn your approval, I swear it.
You could see the darkness behind your eyelids light up just a little as if someone lit a thousand candles. The moment you opened your eyes, you had to blink a couple of times because of the sudden brightness, then lifted your head to look up at the full moon bathing you in silver. Grey Wind howled at the moon, his siblings joining him immediately while you stole a glance at Robb who looked like he couldn’t drag his gaze from you.
That was a good sign from the gods if you said so yourself.
Lord Stark cleared his throat as if he was giving him a signal, and Robb snapped out of his daze before he helped you up, and went behind you to take your maiden cloak off your back. You could hear the surprised gasps of the guests at the sight of your gown shining under direct moonlight before Robb placed his own cloak over your shoulders, then dipped his head so that you could hear him.
“You look very beautiful tonight, my lady,” he murmured, his smile apparent in his voice. “You and your gown.”
You had to swallow your giggle before you turned your head. You could now see everyone under the moonlight; Lady Stark was smiling wider than you had ever seen her before, Sansa was wiping at her eyes while Arya clung to Jon’s side with a small frown. Rickon looked rather confused at the reason why Sansa crying and tugged at Bran’s sleeve to whisper something to him but Bran shook his head, whispering something back. You could see your father clasping Silas’s shoulder who faked a cough and used that pretense to wipe at his eyes, Elinor leaned her head on Alton’s shoulder, squeezing his arm as he rubbed her back. Cliff offered Arys his flask, and Perceon grabbed it before Arys could, earning a warning hiss from Braxton. Lord Stark gave you and Robb a smile and approached Lady Stark, all the guests making their way away from the weirwood tree and in the direction of the keep. You nibbled on your lip, at last turning your gaze to Robb to beam at him.
“Good evening, my husband.”
“Good evening, my wife,” he greeted you back, that fond light playing in his eyes before he kissed your temple. “Ready?”
“For what?”
Your answer came in the form of him literally sweeping you off your feet to lift you up in his arms, the high pitched squeal that escaped you echoing in the woods, earning laughter from the crowd. You immediately wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging tight.
“Robb!”
“I’m supposed to carry you to the feast,” he told you with a wink. “Northern customs. Did they forget to tell you about that part?”
An hour, the second piece of Arys’ herb and multiple drinks later, you were finally relaxed and having fun.
Had it been an hour or two? Or mayhaps three, you really couldn’t tell.
But what you could tell was, from your first dance alone, Robb was a very good dancer even though he preferred not to take part in the rest of the dances. It wasn’t just you having fun, a lot of northerners had already told you that this was the biggest celebration the North had ever seen, and though you weren’t familiar with the other northern celebrations, you were very familiar with southern ones.
And this surpassed even the biggest feast back in the Reach.
You had danced with everyone after Robb. You had danced with your father, and your brothers, and Lord Stark, you had even danced with little Rickon and Bran; both of whom had very serious expressions on their faces as if it was the most important matter, so you had made sure to compliment their dancing skills afterwards.
In addition to that, as a very pleasant surprise, the southerners and northerners looked like they were getting along much better than anyone could’ve anticipated. In fact, you had already heard multiple of your friends planning to exchange letters with their northern dance partners once they were back in the Reach, and many lords and ladies seemed rather taken with each other. Loras had asked you for a dance for old times’ sake, and you couldn’t help but feel like you were back in the Reach, like you were going to rush back to Margaery once the dance was over.
“The infamous Knight of Flowers,” you teased him as you circled each other and he grinned.
“The infamous Blossom of the Reach,” he teased you back. “Or do we call you the Flower of Winterfell now?”
You let out a giggle as you took a step towards each other, your movements fluid as if you were trailing on water, both of you too trained to look anything but perfect.
“You seem happier than ever, and that’s saying something.”
“I am!” you chirped. “I really am.”
“Good,” he said with a chuckle before he twirled you, your skirt flowing around you like waves in the ocean. “I really hope he’ll make you happy, Blossom.”
“He will,” you told him. “And can you tell Lady Olenna I said thank you for everything?”
He made a face. “I did not need to know that.”
“I said nothing!”
“You don’t have to say it, I know what it means.”
Your laughter echoed in the hall, your body following the steps of the dance almost on instinct after years and years of practice.
“Blossom.” He took a deep breath, his eyes searching your face. “About Margaery—”
“I’m not talking about her tonight,” you cut him off and he raised his brows, then nodded.
“Very well,” he said after a second. “Just like we’re not talking about what exactly you’re thanking my grandmother for.”
“To repeat, I said nothing!”
“And to repeat, you don’t have to say it,” he joked. “Will I get my face broken by your husband for daring to dance with you? I’m asking because I watched him beat a knight merely two days ago.”
“Loras!”
“But hey, at least now we know the North is in good hands. If the whitewalkers come, he’ll just beat them up.”
You both took a step back before stepping towards each other again, your hands brushing as the dance required.
“I still remember you joking about white walkers to scare me and Margaery off,” you told him, scrunching your nose up. “Father had to swear to me they weren’t real.”
“You were so easily scared as a child,” he reminisced with a chuckle before eyeing you up and down. “Now look at you. The Lady of Winterfell, hm? It’s your turn to scare people.”
You let out a giggle, sticking your nose up in the air with an air of exaggerated arrogance. “And all shall tremble before me.”
When the music came to a stop and applause rippled in the hall, you dropped a curtsy and thanked him, and he bowed before you two walked away from each other back into the crowd. Robb seemed like he was trapped in a conversation with Lord and Lady Karstark, stealing a glance at you while you tilted your head, trying to decide whether you should interrupt or not—
By the gods, Robb was so very handsome.
Someone touched your arm, snapping you out of your thoughts, and you smiled brightly at Arys.
“Hello!”
“Hello back,” he said with a small smile. “Having fun?”
You nodded your head so fast that for a moment you got dizzy.
“So much fun!” You grabbed a goblet from the tray a footman was carrying, then took a sip of wine. “I got upset about Margaery for a moment but um—I wanted to thank you!”
“Thank me for what?”
You took a deep breath. “The herbs you brought, they work! At first I thought they didn’t but they do, I feel so relaxed and calm and…warm, strangely enough.”
He pulled back a little. “Herbs?”
“I was rather nervous earlier, so I checked the herbs you brought me, and I found the pouch with the uh…it looked like pieces of dried roots? It said Relaxing the Mind,” you said. “I had to eat two pieces, but they’re working!”
Arys blinked a couple of times, his gaze falling on the cup in your hand before back to your face.
“You ate two pieces,” he repeated. “And you’ve been drinking?”
You nodded again. “I ate one before the Godswood, and then it didn’t work, so I ate the second piece when I got here.”
It wasn’t everyday Arys was at a loss for words, and the last time you had seen this exact expression on his face was when Braxton had dared Perceon to swallow a dead grasshopper when they were six. He muttered a curse under his breath, running a hand over his eyes before grabbing you by the arm.
“Come with me.”
“Where?”
“Closer to the light, come,” he said and pulled you closer to one of the candles, then tilted your head up. “Let me see your eyes.”
You blinked up at him and he carefully inspected your eyes, then lowered his hand to take out a coin from his pocket.
“Catch this.” He flipped it in your direction and you caught it, then squinted your eyes at him.
“Why are you throwing me a coin?”
“What’s going on?” Silas’s voice made both of you turn to him and Arys licked his lips.
“She’s fine—you’re fine,” he told you and stifled a laugh. “Good news my dear sister, you won’t be nervous at all for the rest of the night.”
You pumped your fist in the air. “Hooray!”
“Bad news is, you might not remember tonight in general.”
“Oh.” You pouted, your shoulders dropping. “Not hooray.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Silas asked and Arys cleared his throat.
“Remind me to give you a very long speech about herbs and responsibilities tomorrow,” he told you, then stopped a footman. “You. Your duty is to bring my sister water for the rest of the night, alright?”
“Yes, m’lord.”
“But I’m drinking wine!”
“You don’t need to drink anymore, trust me.”
“Are you drunk already?” Silas asked you and Arys heaved a sigh.
“Worse.”
“What do you mean worse?” Silas asked, his gaze sharpening in a second. “Arys?”
“Don’t Arys me, I did nothing—”
“He threw me a coin!”
Silas’ frown deepened. “What in the seven hells are you two talking about?”
“He threw me a coin but I caught it,” you said helpfully and Arys pinched the bridge of his nose while you opened your palm to show Silas the coin. “Here. Is it a charm of the sort?”
“Uh, sure. A charm.”
“And his herbs are working, Silas!”
Silas gawked at you in complete silence before he slowly turned his head. “Arys…”
“Before you finish that sentence, let’s all remember that the gods curse the kinslayers,” Arys recited in a solemn manner. “I’m your kin, Silas.”
Silas gave him that perfect courtier smile of his in case anyone was watching. “The gods didn’t say anything about breaking your kin’s jaw, you fucking—”
You gasped when Robb touched the small of your back, a bright smile lighting up your face.
“My betrothed!”
“Your husband, lamb,” Robb corrected you with a smirk before he pressed a kiss on top of your head, and you giggled, hanging onto his arm with both hands to rest your head on his shoulder.
“I forgot,” you said. “It’ll take me a while I think. It’s so strange, being married, you’d think I’d get used to it by now. I mean how long has it been since the weirwood, four hours? Five?”
“Barely two,” Robb said, stifling a chuckle. “How much did you drink?”
“That’s my fault,” Arys said before you could say anything. “She was uh…she was rather nervous, and I gave her an herb to relax her mind. Didn’t think to tell her not to drink, wine heightens the effect.”
Robb’s smirk was replaced by a worried frown in a second. “What?”
“But she’ll be fine!” Arys said in a haste while Silas ran a hand over his face as if trying to control himself. “It poses no danger to her wellbeing at all, she’s just drunk.”
“M’lady.” The footman brought you a cup of water and you smiled at him, then took the cup from him.
“Thank you!”
“Silas!” Your father called out, making him turn his head. “Arys! Come here!”
Silas cursed under his breath while you gulped down your water.
“I’ll be back, just…”
“I’m with her, don’t worry,” Robb assured him. “You go ahead.”
“Come on.” Arys tugged him by the arm and they both made their way to your father while Robb stepped up to stand in front of you, his gaze softening.
“And how does my lady feel?”
You lowered the cup and took a deep breath.
“Time is strangely slow—Robb, I was thinking,” you added, gazing up at him. “Should I tell my gods?”
He reached out to push your hair behind your ear. “Tell them what, my love?”
“That we’re wed,” you said. “I mean your gods already know, but mine might not? I feel like I should go tell them, lest they misunderstand. The sept is right there, I doubt anyone would notice my absence if I tell them very fast and come back—” You stopped mid-sentence when Perceon who was holding a bloodied cloth to his nose entered your sight. “Perce, why are you bleeding?!”
“Oh it’s nothing,” Perceon brushed you off. “Not broken or anything. Robb, is House Fenn important to House Stark?”
“Depends. Why?”
“I just broke their heir’s jaw,” Perceon said, making your eyes widen.
“You what?”
Robb looked rather calm about the issue. “What for?”
“Where’s Braxton?” you insisted and Perceon waved a hand in the air.
“He’s fine, he’s in the rookery.”
“In the middle of my wedding feast?”
“He’s drunk,” Perceon said. “So naturally he decided that it was of utmost importance Myria knew how much he loves her. He is going to send her a raven, I think he’s still writing a letter there.”
You pressed a hand on your chest, getting distracted for a moment by the idea striking your mind. “Robb, we should send each other ravens too!”
“It’d be a short flight,” Robb pointed out, “considering we both live in Winterfell now.”
“It’d still be rather romantic!”
“So anyway, I went out to find him, but on my way there I heard two idiots talking about courting a lady in a very vulgar manner, so of course I had to stop them, and I find breaking someone’s jaw is the perfect way to do so,” He lifted the handkerchief from his nose to motion with his hand. “One is lying in the courtyard face down and the other has multiple broken teeth, I doubt either of them will be able to speak for a while.”
“Good work,” Robb commented while you covered your mouth and Perceon grinned.
“Thank you. Who’s Jorelle Cerwyn?”
You exchanged glances with Robb before lowering your hand. “Why?”
“That’s the lady they were speaking of, and courtesy demands I go apologize to her for letting such talk take place anywhere near me before I stopped it.”
Robb repressed a smile and nodded in Jorelle’s direction, who was in a deep conversation with a lord. “Over there.”
Perceon followed Robb’s line of sight and did a double take the second his eyes found her.
“That one?”
“Aye, in the green gown.”
“…Oh,” Perceon said after a beat and cleared his throat. “How do I look?”
“Bloody,” you replied and Robb smacked his back.
“She’s northern, she won’t mind. Go on.”
Perceon lingered in his spot for a moment before he took a deep breath, then made his way to Jorelle while Robb turned to grin at you.
“Should we have told him about the mistress issue?”
You shoved at his arm. “Very funny.”
“You never know, he might be disturbed by our vast and passionate history of dancing twice—”
“Why did we dance only once?” you cut him off, your brows pulled into a small frown. “You danced with her twice, why did you dance with me once?”
His grin widened. “You’re certain you can dance?”
“That’s the same as asking if I can sleep, Robb,” you whined. “Just as natural for me.”
“Very well then,” he said as he laced his fingers with yours, then lifted your hand to press a kiss on the back of it, making you giggle. “If my lady wife wants to dance, who am I to say no?”
Robb, holding every promise sacred, indeed danced with you as many times as you wanted, so much that eventually Lady Stark had to approached you to remind you that you were both also dance with other people even though it was your wedding feast. Robb entrusted you to Jon, muttering something to his ear that made Jon suppress a laugh though he had looked rather unwilling to dance at first. After you danced with Jon and then with Theon, your brothers pulled Robb aside for some reason while Jon took you to the High Table so that you could sit a little. It was yet another good surprise that he was allowed to sit at the High Table with you during the wedding, but you had a feeling it had less to do with Lady Catelyn and more to do with Robb’s insistence.
When you crossed your arms on the table to rest your head on them, you were still talking with Jon, so you had no idea when exactly it was that you dozed off. All you knew was that one moment you were talking to Jon about how he had to see the Reach, and the other you were having the weirdest dream about someone asking Robb—very loudly— whether it was the time for the bedding ceremony, and many guests cheering for it.
“There will not be one, Lord Burley,” Robb’s voice had none of the warmth it usually held with you, earning many displeased groans from the hall.
“Robb, it’s the tradition!”
“Aye, it is!”
“Come on!”
“The whole Reach came all this way!”
“We came all this way too!”
“There will not be a bedding ceremony,” Robb repeated sternly. “If anyone wants to disagree, make sure to ask Ser Gwayne how his injuries feel first.”
His words had the same effect of drawing a sword, the whole hall falling into stunned silence for a couple of seconds before Ser Gwayne spoke.
“Not good!” he called out, making laughter erupt in the hallway, dissipating the tension in the air. “Wouldn’t say it’s a pleasant experience.”
Music and loud chatter filled the room again, and you felt yourself being pulled out of the comfortable embrace of sleep as Robb’s soft murmur of your name caressed your ears, his hand on the small of your back. You raised your head, squinting your eyes at the bright light, barely aware of the pout on your lips before you blinked a couple of times, trying to focus. He helped you up and your father forced a smile as if he was trying to hide the worried look in his eyes.
“Good night, my dearest.”
“Good night father,” you muttered, leaning to Robb’s side before he scooped you up into his arms. Your head dropped to the crook of his neck, your fingers curling into his shirt as he carried you out of the hall, away from the chatter and music. You repressed a yawn while he walked down the hallway, then started climbing the stairs.
“I wasn’t done dancing,” you murmured. “I was just resting.”
Laughter vibrated in his chest as he reached the top of the stairs, then turned the corner to step into the hallway leading to his bedchambers. “You can dance all you want tomorrow, time to retire now.”
“Where’s Grey Wind?”
“In the Godswood with his siblings,” he said. “Too many people in the hall.”
“We must make sure to see him tomorrow, I don’t want him to feel excluded.” You couldn’t stop your yawn this time. “I have so much to tell you, I’ve met so many people, and I think some of them like me. Well, I hope. I don’t know, northerners smile less than southerners so it’s still rather difficult to tell, but they seemed rather friendly. And Jon isn’t half bad when it comes to dancing, I have no idea why he looked that tormented at the suggestion of it.”
“That’s just his face at this point.”
“And before I forget,” you mumbled, “I’m glad you were so calm and polite to Lord Meadows’ comment about Winterfell’s warmth.”
“What do you mean, calm and polite?” He frowned down at you. “Wasn’t he asking about how we keep it warm?”
You shook your head, trying to keep your eyes open though they felt like they weighed a ton. “No, he was being rude.”
“Is that why you brought his castle into it?” he asked with a small laugh. “When you said he had nothing to worry about the upcoming winter in the Reach, because his castle is small and cozy?”
“That was an insult.” You nodded this time. “I insulted him.”
“I will never understand how you southerners talk each other.” He opened the door to his bedchambers, stepped in, then closed the door and made his way to the bed to put you on it gently.
Despite your vision being slightly hazy because of wine, you could still tell that the room looked exactly like how you described it to him. There was a sofa and a smaller table by the fireplace, a plate of fresh fruit and a bottle of wine and two cups on it. The furs bundled up in front of the fireplace looked so cozy that if you could stand, you would go and bury your hands into them to see if they were as soft as they appeared. The bed looked nothing like how you remembered it either; each corner of it had a wooden column carved with direwolves. The sheer curtains draped around it made it look out of an enticing dream in the candle light, and your eyes darted over the carvings of snarling direwolves on the huge headboard before you reached out to trace the small figure of a lamb with a smile.
“It’s so beautiful,” you breathed out, sleep still laced in your voice even though you tried your hardest to sound sober. Robb pulled the half folded sheet on top of the actual sheet from underneath you, coaxing a giggle out of you while he walked to the small table to grab the knife from the fruit plate. You lifted yourself on your elbows and narrowed your eyes to get rid of the blurriness on the corners of your vision while he nicked his thumb.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing of importance my love, go back to sleep.” He came back to the bed to let the blood drip from his finger to the half folded sheet before he threw it near the door so that the maids could pick it up next morning when they entered the room, though you had no idea why he wanted to stain a perfectly good sheet. Although you wanted to ask him, you were rather exhausted and your eyes were way too heavy to keep them open so you fell back on the bed.
“Robb?” you murmured into the pillow when he sat beside you on the bed, and you couldn’t help but heave a sigh when he leaned in to kiss your forehead, his pleasant scent filling your lungs.
“Yes, my beautiful wife?”
You let out a giggle. “We’re bound forever now.”
“We are,” he whispered, his voice as soft as his touch on your cheekbone. “Finally.”
And in less than a mere second, the warm haze of sleep claimed you, pulling you into darkness.
A.N: My loves, you're absolutely amazing, thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Drinks can lead to recklessness.
Word Count: 4,5k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, MDNI- Do not read if you're under 18.
Series Masterlist
As the future lord of Winterfell, Robb was no stranger to expectations. It was as natural as breathing at this point; he was the heir to House Stark, so he was expected to follow his father’s footsteps, and take over his responsibilities when the time came. He was expected be a fair and honorable lord to their vassals and to the North, he was expected to make sure his people and his house survived in the winter, and of course, he was expected to wed.
Beyond others’ expectations, he had let himself hope that in time, he and his wife would grow to love each other just as his parents did, but this?
He hadn’t expected this.
“I cannot believe you betrayed me like that.”
Jon lowered his cup and ran a hand over his face, heaving an exhausted sigh. “Robb—”
“My own brother,” Robb said, glaring at him, “has stabbed me in the back.”
“I only interrupted you and your betrothed!”
“My wife!” he corrected him. “We were in the middle of something.”
“Aye, kissing.”
Robb leaned in so that Jon could hear his hiss in the crowded hall. “It could’ve been more if you hadn’t interrupted!”
Jon shot him a look that was the perfect combination of pity and disbelief.
“As if she’d let you do that in the Godswood,” he snarked. “Besides, you’re lucky it was me and not father. He sent a maid first, the poor woman came back to say she couldn’t interfere because you two were yelling at each other.”
“We were but that was before.” Robb let out a breath, a smile pulling at his lips. “We’re in love.”
“Congratulations,” Jon said drily. “Hasn’t escaped me or anyone else in the castle.”
“I cannot believe my mother is hoarding her like a dragon with its treasure, she all but forced her to go with her right after breakfast.”
“She is going over the details of tomorrow’s ceremony with her,” Jon corrected him. “Your wedding.”
“Well yes, but—” he stopped talking for a moment when he saw Theon making his way to them. “but everything has been handled, I’m told.”
“She’s a southerner,” Jon said, “she might not know everything about a northern wedding.”
“I could’ve explained it to her,” Robb insisted and nodded at Theon. “Hey.”
Theon sat down as well with a grin on his face. “Ready for tonight?”
Robb blinked a couple of times. “Hm?”
“Your last night as an unmarried man!” Theon said, clasping a hand over his shoulder to shake him slightly. “Your last night of freedom, Stark!”
“Theon, I know this will sound difficult to believe because I’ve been rather subtle about it,” Robb deadpanned, “but I actually want to wed my lady.”
“Subtle as a dagger to the throat,” Jon commented before turning to Theon. “I fear to ask what you’ve planned.”
Theon wiggled his brows. “Then don’t.”
“Whatever you’ve planned, it cannot take long,” Robb told him, making Theon’s eyes widen.
“We’re not coming back home until the morning!”
Robb scoffed a laugh. “That’s not happening.”
“Robb, come on!”
“You two can stay outside and drink all you want—”
“Your brothers-in-law are coming as well,” Theon said and Robb shrugged his shoulders.
“All of you can stay outside and drink all you want,” he corrected himself. “I’m coming back to the castle before midnight.”
“Why?”
Robb shot him a look.
“My mother has all but taken my wife hostage,” he said, “And I’d like to spend time with her.”
“You’ll spend your whole life with her!”
“Wait a moment.” Jon narrowed his eyes. “Why do I feel like one of the plans for tonight includes a visit to the brothel?”
“Because it does.”
Robb rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to a brothel, I’ve told you that a hundred times.”
“Yes but it’s your last night as an unwed man!” Theon insisted as Robb sipped his drink. “It’s a special occasion! All men do it, she won’t mind—”
A chuckle escaped Robb and he lowered his cup.
“I don’t want anyone but her,” he told him. “We’ll drop you off at the brothel at the end of the night.”
Theon huffed out and turned to Jon. “Snow?”
“As always, no.”
“I’ll just convince one of the Greensteds then,” Theon muttered. “I’m sure Silas will come.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Jon said, causing Theon to give him a quizzical glance. “He doesn’t like paying for it, sees it beneath him.”
“What?” Theon sounded as if Silas had come to the table to personally offend him. “How do you know that?”
“He said it once.”
“When?”
“I don’t remember.” Jon shrugged his shoulders. “Some time earlier.”
“And you two are best friends all of a sudden?” Theon asked while a footman approached their table, then bowed his head.
“My lord, your father wants to see you in his solar.”
Robb nodded his head, then downed his drink and got up from his seat.
“Robb.” Theon stopped him. “If you’re serious about coming back before midnight—”
“I am.”
“Then we’re skipping dinner to start earlier.”
Robb opened his mouth to argue, then exchanged glances with Jon and heaved a sigh.
“Fine,” he groaned. “Tell Silas and the rest.”
“Yes!” Theon pumped his fist in air in victory, coaxing a laugh out of Jon while Robb walked away from them to go to his father’s solar, shaking his head despite the fond smile on his face.
His father was talking to the swordsmith but he dismissed him when Robb got there so that they could talk alone. Robb frowned slightly, clasping his hands behind him, his back straight.
“Father.”
His father motioned at the seat across from his desk.
“Maester Luwin says Ser Gwayne is healthy enough to attend the wedding.”
Robb’s jaw clenched as he sat down. “Is he?”
“And when he does as it’s his right, you will be respectful.”
This was even more proof that he should have thrown more punches to break his face and a couple of bones regardless of his mother had told him, but judging by the look on his father’s face, he already knew what he was thinking.
“Robb,” he said. “You won. The duel is over, let it rest.”
Robb gritted his teeth. “He already renounced the guest right, he doesn’t really have the—”
“He does,” his father cut him off. “That was for the duel. Now that it’s finished, so will your hostility. You’re the heir, your feelings on the matter cannot affect your judgement.”
Robb gave a slight shrug, leaning back in his chair.
“Theon tells me there’s to be a celebration tonight,” his father added, making his head shoot up. “In Wintertown.”
“Aye.” Robb cleared his throat. “We’ll skip dinner but I’ll be back before midnight. The guys will probably come around dawn, I’d say.”
“Jon and Theon and…?”
“The Greensteds.”
“All of them?”
“I don’t know if Theon invited Alton, now that I think of it,” Robb muttered. “But yes, I’ll ask him.”
“He’s going to be the head of the house after Lord Greensted, you must be on good terms with him.”
“As long as he’s on good terms with my lady, I’ll be on good terms with him.”
His father kept his gaze on him, then cleared his throat.
“Speaking of your lady,” he said, drumming his fingertips on the table. “You two seem to have come to a solution with your disagreement?”
Right.
His father knew about their argument, that was the reason why he had sent Jon.
Robb chewed on his lip and nodded. “Mm hm.”
“In fact, you were almost too…joyful, when you came back to the Great Hall.”
“Too joyful?” Robb repeated with a confused frown. “Should we not be? We’re to be wed tomorrow.”
“You should, but it hasn’t escaped anyone’s attention how something between you has changed right before the wedding, after you disappeared into the Godswood with no one to see you,” his father said. “And you’ve been quite impatient lately.”
Realization dawned on him like a ton of bricks and he threw his head back, his whole face on fire. “Father…”
“If something has happened in the Godswood—”
“Nothing has happened!” he insisted. “I don’t—I was unaware the rumors would arise every time we’re out of sight.”
“Just be patient until the wedding and avoid causing any more rumors,” his father said, pinching the bridge of his nose like he had a headache. “Your mother is right, with the way you have been behaving, we should throw our own celebration if we manage to get through this wedding without a scandal.”
“There’s no scandal,” Robb said, his ears burning. “My lady is too careful about that.”
His father lowered his hand to shoot him an incredulous look.
“And not you?”
“Why would I? We exchanged vows in front of the weirwood tree—”
“You did what?”
“Before the gods,” Robb continued as if his father didn’t cut him off. “We’re wed already.”
His father stared at him for a couple of seconds in complete silence, then took a deep breath as if reminding himself to keep his composure.
“The wedding is tomorrow,” he said slowly. “You’re telling me you two went ahead and wed before that?”
“We didn’t plan it, it was an accident.”
“An accident—Robb, who was the witness? Jon?”
“Why does everyone keep bringing up witnesses?” Robb wondered aloud. “It was just us but it matters not. She’s my wife now and I’m her husband, though she insists we’re not wed yet. It doesn’t count without the witnesses, she says.”
“At least one of you refuses to abandon logic when it comes to this union,” his father muttered. “Do you think you can wait one more day to start calling her your wife in public?”
“Do I have a choice in the matter?”
“No,” his father stated, making him huff, but someone knocked on the door before he could retort.
“A moment,” his father called out and pointed at Robb who stood up from his seat. “You’re not telling your mother any of this, do you hear me?”
“Sure.”
“And Robb, if I so much as see you in the hallway to her bedchambers…”
Robb held up his hands, gesturing surrender at his father’s warning tone.
“I’ll be in Wintertown,” he said as he walked to the door. “I doubt I’ll get to see her until tomorrow.”
Well, no.
That was a lie.
He was going to make sure he saw her until tomorrow, especially when he came back from Wintertown, but his father looked like he was two seconds away from sending him to the Wall, so he didn’t need to hear that.
This had to be some sort of intentional backstab both from his father and his mother, because his mother still hadn’t left his lady be by the time he was to leave for Wintertown. Not only that, she had all but sent him away from her door when he went there to see his lady before they left, saying that she and her seamstress and multiple maids were busy with her wedding gown to make sure it would look perfect tomorrow.
He had only had the chance to hear her giggle before she wished him a fun night before his mother closed the door in his face and Theon pulled him away.
The alehouse was crowded with both northerners and southerners tonight, the food warm and the drinks unending. Cliff had somehow managed to start a game of cards that had no shortage of willing participants even though they kept losing, Arys was by his side, sipping his ale and watching the game, Theon was already drunk and talking to a couple of southern lords, and the twins were exchanging stories about Dorne and the rest of their family, especially Alton who had kindly turned down the offer to join them, saying that Elinor had been feeling rather down lately.
But at least everyone seemed to be having a good time.
Well, everyone but Silas, who had been uncharacteristically silent save for a couple of jokes.
“I wouldn’t have come if Myria asked me not to either,” Braxton said. “Trust me, I blame Alton on a lot of things, but not on this particular instance.”
Perceon made a face. “Except that Myria wouldn’t have asked you not to come, because she knows you have your own life and friends just like she does.”
“Myria?” Jon asked and Braxton turned to him.
“She’s my betrothed.”
“You have a betrothed?”
“Mm hm.”
“I’m guessing from the smile on your face that you’re happy about that union?” Robb asked and Perceon let out a laugh.
“He’s been in love with her for a while now,” he said. “Ever since she beat him at a sparring contest.”
“She’s such a good warrior,” Braxton said, pride clear in his tone. “She’s good at everything, really.”
“Just not good at rejecting a less skilled warrior for some reason,” Perceon joked and Braxton scoffed.
“She rejected me just fine at first,” he told Jon and Robb. “Merely for the fun of it, she says. I was put through utter torment for almost a year.”
Robb’s eyes found Cliff and Arys over his shoulder before he returned his gaze to Braxton.
“But hey.” Braxton tilted his cup in his direction. “I don’t care how far it is, you are bringing my sister to Dorne for my wedding, Stark.”
Robb smiled and nodded his head, barely aware of the way Silas took a huge sip of his ale.
“I am,” he assured Braxton. “I’ve never seen Dorne, but everyone says it’s beautiful.”
“Once you’re there, you won’t want to come back,” Perceon told him. “Trust me. It’s the most beautiful place in the world.”
“Once the winter arrives in the North, you can just wait it out in Dorne.” Braxton shrugged his shoulders, making Robb chuckle.
“That’s not an option I’m afraid,” he said. “But we’ll certainly come to Dorne for your wedding. And Perceon’s, one day.”
“That day will never come!” Perceon protested immediately. “We’ve divided the family in a certain way. Alton and Brax and our sister will be the ones who wed. Arys is out of the equation, because you know—”
“The celibacy vow.”
Braxton covered his laugh by scoffing into his cup, his gaze following Arys, Cliff and Theon who were making their way to them through the crowd.
“Because even he has to play by some rules, is what I was going to say. But me and Cliff and this heartbreaker here,” Perceon slapped Silas’s leg, “will not ever wed.”
“You won’t?” Jon asked Silas who snapped out of his thoughts, then shook his head.
“No.”
“No sons or daughters?”
“I cannot be bothered with the wailing of babes,” he said and motioned at his brothers. “I raised all these fools, that’s enough for me. No reason to wed.”
“Not for a lack of prospects, mind you,” Cliff slapped his shoulder and flung himself next to him while Theon took the seat across from Robb. Arys sat next to Perceon, snatching his drink out of his hand.
“Hey!”
“Go get your own.”
“That was my own, prick!”
“I forgot mine back at the gambling table,” Arys said as if it was the perfect explanation, taking a huge sip before motioning for another cup at the innkeeper. “What are we talking about?”
“Marriage.”
“Ah.” Arys grimaced. “How dull.”
Theon grinned. “Not everyone can take a vow of chastity, my friend.”
“Vows are open to interpretation,” Arys told Theon. “I made a vow not to father any children, which I shall not. Anything else is no more than a small obstacle which anyone can walk around.”
Robb and Jon exchanged glances.
“But vows are sacred,” Jon said and Arys made a noise of disagreement.
“To you,” he said. “And no gods have come down to punish me, I’d gather they’re fine with my choices.”
Silas reached out to smack him in the back of the head, making the twins burst in laughter. “Maybe don’t say that in front of our very northern brother-in-law?”
He did very much mind to see vows being perceived as unimportant and unbinding, but he held up his hands.
“Your gods,” he pointed out, “not mine.”
“There you go.”
“Speaking of vows.” Cliff said. “Any uneasiness about tomorrow, Stark?”
Robb sipped his ale. “Uneasiness?”
“Yeah, you’ll be forever bound to our sister.”
“I am already,” Robb said, earning a warning cough from Jon, but no one seemed to have picked up on that. “And to be honest, it cannot come soon enough.”
“It cannot come soon enough for me either,” Jon commented while Theon nodded fervently. “At least after you’re wed I’ll have some peace of mind.”
Robb flipped him without so much as a glance in his direction.
“Gods, I’m still not used to picturing her as the Lady of the North,” Cliff commented as Silas swallowed thickly. “But she seems to like you, that’s good enough for me. I do business at White Harbor sometimes, I’ll be sure to visit.”
“The hospitality of Winterfell is yours,” Robb said. “My lady will be very happy to see you, I’m sure.”
Silas downed his drink and stood up.
“I’ll take a walk to get some fresh air, excuse me,” he muttered and made his way through the crowd to go outside. Arys shook his head slightly while the twins exchanged glances, and Jon stood up before Robb could.
“It’s easy to get lost at night,” he said to the table. “I’ll take a walk with him, it’s too hot here anyway.”
Robb watched him cross the room to step outside, and Braxton raised his hand to motion for another bottle.
“Well then, heir to the North,” he said. “It’s your last night before your wedding. While I’m certain you’re in love with your soon to be lady wife, you are still obligated to get drunk.”
While the southerners did not take all the vows seriously, it appeared that there were exceptions because by the time Robb went back to Winterfell, he was drunk.
Well, tipsy.
He knew better than to appear drunk in public as the heir to Winterfell. His father would have his head on a spike otherwise, so he had made sure that he didn’t stumble or anything as he left the rest of the party behind, insisting that he had to wish his lady goodnight before tomorrow. He hadn’t seen her since breakfast, first because of his parents and then because of Theon, but he was not going to end the day before he talked to her.
It wasn’t even midnight yet, surely she was awake.
He meant to knock light and whisper, but all the drinks in his system seemed to have affected him more than he had assumed.
“My lady!” His voice boomed in the hallway the moment his knuckles touched the wood, the sound of rushed footsteps reaching his ears before the door swung open.
Seven Hells, she was so beautiful.
Robb couldn’t even bring himself to snap out of the daze that settled upon his mind at the sight of her. She looked like a dream that decided to grace him with the vision of her, and Robb half wondered whether she would disappear into the fog in her room if he touched—
Why was there fog in her room?
“My betrothed!” she said breathlessly, opening the door wider so that he could see the maids preparing her a bath. “The excitement of tomorrow did not let me sleep so I asked for a bath, and your maids were kind enough to draw me one at such hour. How kind of you to come to let me know you’ve returned just as I asked you to, I feared you would not!”
…She hadn’t asked him to.
“Come, tell me what mischief my brothers have been up to!” She stepped out of the room and grabbed him by the arm, closed the door behind her, and tugged him to the other side of the hallway.
“How are you so beautiful?” Robb breathed out in awe and a smile pulled at her lips despite the chastising glare she gave him.
“Are you drunk?”
“I don’t get drunk in public,” he defended himself while she leaned back to the stone wall to look up at him, still smiling.
“You appear drunk.”
He ran a hand over his face, forcing himself to focus. “I drank a little.”
“How much is a little?”
“Some ale, wine,” he listed, absentmindedly playing with her loose hair. “Mead. Cliff brought rum apparently...”
“Sounds a lot,” she commented. “Is everyone back in the castle safe and sound?”
“I came back, they’re still there,” he said. “I uh…I wanted to tell you earlier but my mother kept you hostage—”
“She was kindly helping me with some last minute details about my gown.”
“But I don’t want any other misunderstandings between us,” he continued as if she didn’t cut him off. “And knowing Theon, he’ll be joking about it. Some of them will go to a—do you know what a brothel is?”
She pressed her lips together as if trying to hold back her laugh. “I’ve heard of it.”
“Aye, some of them will go to a brothel, I think. I mean Theon will for sure, I don’t know who he’ll drag with him. But I didn’t—I didn’t go. And I don’t want you to misunderstand it, so I’m telling you beforehand I didn’t go.”
She raised her brows, tilting her head to the side in an amused manner.
“Oh?” she said. “Why not?”
“I don’t go to those places, and I don’t want anyone but you—and it’s your husband.”
“I know who you are Robb, you’re standing in front of me.”
“No, you called me your betrothed just now,” he corrected her. “You should be calling me your husband.”
“And I will,” she said, a playful light glimmering in her beautiful eyes, “starting tomorrow night.”
“No I meant now,” he whined. “We’re already wed—”
She shushed him, looking around in in the hallway. “Not so loud!”
“I’m your husband,” he insisted. “You should call me such.”
“Will you call me your wife if I call you my husband, then?” she asked with a teasing smile and he carefully cupped her face in both hands, coaxing a giggle out of her as he pressed his lips on her forehead.
“My wife,” he murmured and lowered his head to kiss the tip of her nose. “My lamb.” His lips brushed over hers. “My love.”
He didn’t believe in the new gods or their practices or their promises, but Robb was quite sure that she was the eighth heaven.
For once she didn’t withdraw from the kiss, instead she let him pull her closer, a small gasp leaving her the moment his arm tightened around her waist, his other hand cradling the back of her head. Desire shot through him faster than an arrow through his heart, sending a shiver down his spine as her pleasant scent surrounded him, swirling around him like the sweetest summer day, filling his lungs in warmth and sunshine.
Nothing but her was real.
Nothing but her and how good it felt to have her in his arms, and how her kiss managed to silence everything in his mind, and—
And how he needed more.
Her skin was softer than any silk he ever touched as he kissed his way down her throat, her fingers curling in his hair, a small gasp taking her breath away the moment his lips traced down where her heartbeat was the strongest, the flimsy gown keeping her body hidden from his gaze, though not from his touch. He blindly reached down to grab the smooth fabric of her skirt to bunch it up in his hands, slowly pushing it up as he got on his knees, but as soon as he did, she let out a surprised squeal, pushing her skirt down.
“Wh—what’re you—?”
Robb gave her a grin despite his heavy lidded gaze as he looked up at her, his hands going to her hips to squeeze them.
“Can a man not kiss his wife?”
She gawked at him.
“But you…” she stammered and swallowed thickly, then tugged at the arm of his shirt so that he would stand up, her eyes not leaving his face even once. “How—?”
His mind was still hazy with desire, yet he couldn’t help but chuckle before he stole a chaste kiss from her lips, cupping her cheek.
“I’ll show you how if you let me.”
She blinked a couple of times as if trying to focus, her mouth half agape in confusion.
“…But you have a beard.”
He tilted his head in confusion. “Hm?”
“Your beard!”
“What of it?”
“I’ve heard of such um—such practices,” she stammered, her cheek growing hot under his palm. “Back in the Reach, there was a lady who told me and Margaery about it, but I brushed it off because I assumed it was a…a regional custom.”
He tried his hardest to keep a straight face. “A regional custom?”
“My skin is very sensitive, you know that!” she whined, coaxing a laugh out of him which she responded by shoving at his arm, pouting her lips almost petulantly. “I’m serious! It sounds like it’d be—um, it’d cause discomfort to the lady. In the North I mean, seeing that beards are fashionable here unlike in the Reach.”
By the Gods, she was the sweetest creature to ever walk the realm.
“And I know you like to tease me but I don’t see how it’d—”
She was cut off when he kissed her again, the rest of her sentence turning into a soft sigh against his lips but the bliss was shattered when her maid’s voice carried into the hallway, causing her to withdraw from him immediately.
“My lady, your bath is getting cold!”
“I’m coming, Eadith!” she called out and took a step but he grasped her wrist to pull her back, making her giggle.
“Don’t leave yet,” he said, aware of the pleading tone of his voice but she pecked him on the lips, skillfully wriggling out of his grip as she turned around to give him a proud grin, walking backwards while he stepped towards her.
“I shall see you tomorrow my lord—”
“Your husband,” he corrected her and made a move to catch her arm but she jumped out of his reach with an excited squeal that turned into a giggle, the pleasant sound echoing in the hallway before she swept a well-trained curtsy.
“I shall see you tomorrow my husband,” she beamed at him and whirled around to rush to her bedchambers, the silky skirt of her gown flowing behind her, light as a whisper. Her happy laugh reached outside as she closed the door behind her, her sweet scent still clinging to air, making his heart gallop in his chest.
Just one more night.
One more night, and then she was going to be in his arms.
Forever.
Grey Wind let out a howl outside somewhere in the Godswood, making Robb turn his head before he let out a breath and willed himself to walk away from her door, running a hand through his hair.
“I know,” he muttered as if the direwolf could hear him, his heart still beating in his ears. “Trust me, I know.”
A.N: My loves, you're absolutely amazing, thank you so so much for your wonderful support, you've made me so happy! 🩷I hope you'll like this one as well, and please let me know what you think🩷 ILYSM, kisses! 🩷
Pairing: Robb Stark x F!Reader
Summary: Honesty is the solution to many issues.
Word Count: 5,3k
Warnings: Explicit language, adult themes, MDNI. By clicking 'keep reading', or asking to be tagged, you confirm you're 18 +.
Thank you to my wonderful beta @chibi-lioness !
Series Masterlist
The wedding was in two days, and Robb couldn’t have been more confused.
He would’ve been lying if he said he didn’t expect his lady’s cold demeanor to warm up after he won the duel for her hand, and he had even managed to stop himself from breaking that knight’s face as his mother had made him promise, but his lady didn’t look pleased at all.
For some reason.
“I don’t understand,” Robb muttered and sipped his ale. “Aren’t girls supposed to like it when men fight over them?”
Theon nodded wistfully. “Aye, they do.”
“All those ballads say little else!” Robb insisted and Theon tilted his cup in his direction.
“They say nothing else.”
“Then what is happening?” He ran a hand through his hair, then turned to Jon. “What do you think?”
“I think there are no girls at this table,” Jon pointed out. “Which means it’s not much use to assume what they like.”
“I know what girls like,” Theon said, making Jon grimace.
“Has anyone informed them of it?”
“Aw don’t be so envious Snow, someone will warm your bed eventually.”
Robb raised his hand to get Silas’ attention when he stepped into the hall and he approached them to plop down next to Jon.
“Here’s the victor’s table,” he joked and nodded at Robb. “How’s your hand?”
Robb clenched and unclenched it, ignoring the bruises on his knuckles.
“It’s fine,” he said with a shrug. “How’s my lady?”
Silas puffed up his cheeks in deep thought, stealing a glance over his shoulder as if he expected her to appear out of thin air.
“Your maester prepared her a draught, she’s resting,” he said after a beat. “Better let her. It’s been a long day for one so…”
“Angry?” Theon suggested, earning warning glares from both Robb and Silas. “At Robb, I mean.”
“She’ll calm down,” Silas said, “she just doesn’t have the stomach for violence. Even in the jousts, Margaery has to tell her if it’s alright to look because she doesn’t want to see the bloodshed—her best friend,” he added when he saw Jon’s confusion, and Robb scoffed.
“I still don’t know how I feel about her.”
“Makes one of you,” Silas replied. “Because trust me, Margaery has already decided how she feels about you.”
Robb drummed his fingers on the table.
“And my wife?”
“You’ll have to ask her,” Silas said with a smug smile. “But if you’re asking about my sister, who is your betrothed and not yet your wife, I can tell you that her anger does simmer down eventually.”
Except that she was indeed his wife, Silas just didn’t know it yet.
Robb chewed on his lip, trying to ignore the sinking in his stomach. “It didn’t sound like it’d simmer down.”
“No wonder.” Silas rolled his eyes. “Her biggest issue back home was to decide on which gown to wear for which feast, not her betrothed putting himself in danger—”
“I wasn’t in danger.”
“At least not in the way she thought, but Lord Stark would’ve disowned his precious heir if he lost to a Reach knight,” Theon joked, clasping a hand over his shoulder to shake him, and Robb huffed out a laugh.
“Aye, he would have.”
“We’d have Mikken melt down your sword for horseshoes.” Jon grinned at Robb. “So that you could take up needlework with the girls.”
Robb flipped him with a chuckle. “Fuck off.”
“Simpler than my plan” Silas said, “I would’ve killed Ser Gwayne if you lost.”
Jon raised his brows. “Would you?”
“My sister is not going to be wed to that prick,” Silas said. “Robb’s wellbeing has nothing to do with that, no offense.”
Robb sipped his ale. “None taken.”
“I’d just betroth her to the prince of Dorne.”
Robb lowered his cup immediately. “What?”
“Yeah, don’t tell the twins though.” Silas motioned at a servant. “It took me a lot of time to decide between you and him earlier, so it only makes sense.”
The mere idea of her being wed to anyone else made jealousy shoot through his veins so fast that for a moment his mind went black before he cleared his throat, aware of the frown pinching his forehead while the servant put a cup in front of Silas, then filled it with ale.
“My lord.”
“Thank you,” Silas said. “Anyway, I’m glad you didn’t die and I don’t have to go through this whole nonsense again. Much appreciated.”
She wasn’t going to wed anyone else. Not in Dorne, not in anywhere, she was staying right here in Winterfell to be his lady, and—
Well. That was if she ever forgave him.
“Could you two give us a moment?” Robb asked Jon and Theon, taking Silas by surprise. Theon frowned but let Jon pull him by the shoulder and walked away with him to another table while Silas sipped his drink.
“Well, this can only be about my sister,” he commented. “What is it?”
“She’s cross with me.”
“Hasn’t escaped me.”
“And she has been for a while.”
“I have a feeling this duel made the earlier times look like friendly banter,” Silas pointed out. “But yes?”
“She wanted me to withdraw before the duel,” Robb said. “I don’t think she understands—”
“She doesn’t, but nor do you.”
That made Robb frown. “What do you mean?”
Silas ran his tongue over his teeth, then sucked in a breath.
“It appears,” he said, “she cares for you more than I’d like her to.”
“More than you’d like her to?” Robb repeated. “We’re to be wed in two days. Is it so bad that she cares for me?”
Silas lifted his cup to his lips.
“Your maester just had to give her a draught so that she can sleep the remnants of today’s fear away,” he muttered and took a sip. “Because she was worried you’d die in that duel, and wouldn’t listen to anyone including me for the very first time. So you tell me if that’s bad, Stark.”
Robb’s heart clenched painfully in his chest, guilt crashing down on him like a ton of bricks. The memory of her on the verge of tears flashed in his mind, making him let out a breath as he ran a hand through his hair.
“I know why you did it,” Silas continued. “I know you wouldn’t withdraw and that you would win, that’s exactly why you’re the one who’s betrothed to her and not one of these idiots who are here for the wedding. I can understand the way the North works, and dislike its toll on my sister at the same time.”
“Silas, I—” He licked his lips, his stomach doing a painful flip. “I hate that I made her cry.”
“Good,” Silas said and downed his drink, then gave him that perfect courtier smile of his. “Do keep that in mind. Because the next time my sister cries, so will the rest of House Stark for losing their heir.”
With that, he walked away from him, leaving him there dumbfounded.
He decided to go to her door around dinner time to see if she had woken, but the sight of Arys leaving her room greeted him as soon as he turned the hallway leading to her bedchambers. Arys gave Robb a quick smile and closed the door behind him, then stepped away.
“She’s still asleep,” he said, making Robb’s stomach drop in disappointment. “I don’t want to wake her for dinner, she can eat when she wakes. Her maid will be with her for the night, until the morning.”
Robb swallowed thickly and nodded, then went to sit on the windowsill facing her door.
“She should rest,” he muttered, chewing on his lip. “But she’s…she’s alright, is she not?”
“She’s fine,” Arys assured him. “She’ll be completely rested tomorrow morning, trust me. After sudden fear, the body has a way of fixing things. Sleep is the best way to do so, the draught Maester Luwin prepared is just making it faster.”
Robb nodded again, keeping his eyes on the door as if it would magically open to let him see his lady without disturbing her slumber.
“I would listen to me and not Silas on this if I were you.”
Robb’s head shot up. “How did you…?”
“I know my brother,” Arys said with a chuckle. “Don’t take anything he says today as a personal offense. It is now dawning on him that he’s going to leave her here after the wedding, and that he’s going to have to trust you with her.”
“He can.”
Arys offered him the same smile he had seen on Lord Greensted multiple times.
“He won’t,” he muttered as he went to sit beside him on the windowsill. “And it has nothing to do with you. He’s going to need more time than my sister to handle the fact that she will be away from the Reach. He doesn’t know how he’s going to go back home.”
“He can stay in Winterfell as long as he wants.” Robb shrugged his shoulders. “All of you can. Her family is my family now.”
“I appreciate that,” he replied. “But in any case, don’t let what he said haunt your mind.”
“It’s not what he said,” he admitted, making Arys hum.
“Then?”
Robb fell quiet for a moment before he forced himself to take a deep breath.
“What happens if she never forgives me?” He couldn’t help but ask. “She claimed she would never.”
“As southerners, not every word coming out of our mouths is an oath unlike you and your countrymen,” Arys told him. “We’re taught to yield our words as weapons. You’re a good warrior, you know better than anyone that not everyone who swings their swords is trying to kill another. Some simply use it to protect themselves.”
Robb brushed a hand over his face and rubbed his eyes, exhaustion creeping up on him.
“I know,” he muttered. “I just don’t like that I’m the source of her sadness. I’m supposed to be sheltering her from any distress as her husband, not impose such upon her.”
Arys raised his brows and shook his head.
“Don’t blame yourself on that either,” he said. “Nothing you can do, really. It’s the family curse, Cliff used to say.”
Robb tilted his head in confusion. “What?”
“You’ve seen our family,” Arys said. “We tend to stand out in one way or another. You’d think it’d make things easier, but seems to be the opposite. Alton evaded it with Elinor somehow, but Silas, and Cliff, and the twins, and my sister...In a vast sea of admirers, we’re drawn to the one who’ll torment us the most, purposefully or otherwise.”
Robb’s frown deepened and Arys shook his head as if trying to shake off the thoughts, then slapped a hand over Robb’s shoulder in an assuring manner and stood up.
“You should follow her example and get some rest,” he said, nodding in the direction of his lady’s bedchambers. “Congratulations on your victory, Stark. Let my sister sleep.”
Robb watched him make his way down the hallway and turn the corner in complete silence, his thoughts like a storm in his head. He exhaled and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, then turned his head when he saw Grey Wind enter the hallway. A small smile curled his lips despite his mood, and he reached out to scratch the direwolf behind his ears, earning a low rumble in return.
“Very well then,” he murmured. “Let’s go get some fresh air, hm? I don’t feel like attending dinner yet.”
Eventually, he would decide to forgo dinner altogether in order to avoid the crowd that was surely still going to be there in the morning for breakfast as well. He could barely sleep that night, only falling into slumber towards the dawn, his dreams restless as if he knew what tomorrow morning would bring.
Summer snow.
All the southerners in the castle seemed rather excited to see it. The hallways were buzzing with chatter, but all Robb could think about was how his lady wasn’t going to like it if it snowed tomorrow during their wedding as well. He couldn’t help but wonder whether that old saying was correct after all, seeing that at least the start of their marriage was going to be cold as winter itself if he didn’t explain himself and made his lady understand why he could not have withdrawn.
He went to her bedchambers first thing in the morning, but her maid informed him she had left, so he made his way into the Great Hall with Grey Wind, his eyes darting around to catch a sight of his lady, yet she was nowhere to be found. As if it wasn’t enough, his presence seemed to have gathered attention, judging by many of the northern lords congratulating him for the duel, some slapping his back and some squeezing his shoulder as they walked past.
“You and I both know you’re not genuine, and so does she—” He heard Lady Jorelle chastise her mother who shushed her as he walked past, but he was in too much of a hurry to stop and greet them. He approached the twins who were in a deep conversation with Theon by the corner, and Braxton nodded at him as Perceon turned around to see him better.
“Good morrow.”
“Good morrow,” Robb said. “Is my lady around?”
“She was here half an hour ago,” Theon said. “She just left.”
“Where?”
“She said she would go to the Godswood to enjoy the snow,” Perceon said and Braxton nodded.
“Alone,” he added. “She wants to enjoy it alone, she said.”
Robb looked over his shoulder in the direction of the entrance, then nodded and took a step but Braxton stopped him.
“Robb, that’s not a good idea.”
“What?”
“You don’t want to talk to her right now,” Perceon said. “Listen, I get that you’re this great warrior, but even a Targaryen on a dragon wouldn’t be able to handle my sister when she’s truly angry. Let her anger simmer down.”
“We’re to be wed tomorrow evening,” Robb reminded him. “I need to talk to her beforehand, if I explain—”
“She’s not going to listen to your explanation,” Braxton said. “She’s not going to listen to anyone. Let her calm down, then try to talk to her, you’ll still have the time until tomorrow evening.”
Robb shook his head.
“I’m not waiting any longer,” he said and strode away from them with Grey Wind padding along beside him. He ignored the lords and ladies on the way that bowed or greeted him as he went down the stairs, then stepped outside to the yard. He crossed it and passed the gates that led to the Godswood, Grey Wind picking up the pace as if he was too excited to stall.
He found her sitting on a fur cloak under the weirwood tree, her knees drawn to her chest, her back resting against the trunk of the tree. It was almost funny, how the mere sight of her was enough to make him stop dead in his tracks, his heart galloping in his chest without her even realizing he was there. She was watching the snowflakes fall from the sky, the wide branches and the blood-red leaves of the weirwood tree almost sheltering her, but the rest of the Godswood was already covered in a thin layer of snow, bound to melt away at the first rays of sunlight.
Was he ever going to get used to the sight of her? Or was he going to lose the air in his lungs every time he cast his gaze on her?
Grey Wind made his way to her, seemingly pulling her away from her own thoughts as she cooed at him, reaching out to give him head scratches. The direwolf rumbled deep, plopping down in front of her so that she could pet him better, and Robb tried to ignore the tension churning his stomach.
“My lady.”
The only clue to how she felt about his presence was the momentary clench of her jaw, yet she sounded calm when she spoke.
Almost too calm.
“Is my presence wanted in the Great Hall?”
He shook his head, now daring to enter her sight though she didn’t lift her head to look up at him, instead kept petting the direwolf.
“No,” Robb said after a beat. “Unless of course you want to go back.”
“I do not,” she said. “I decided to enjoy the scenery.”
He licked his lips. “I thought it would bother you.”
“The weather?”
“The snow,” he corrected her. “Because of that oldwives tale. I doubt it’ll still snow tomorrow, but—”
The rest of whatever he was going to say got lost somewhere between his mind and his mouth when she lifted her head to give him a glare sharper than any sword. She eyed him up and down as if she didn’t just pin him to his spot without uttering a word, then shrugged her shoulders.
“I don’t need a sign from the gods to understand what kind of marriage we will have,” she deadpanned. “You’ve demonstrated it perfectly yesterday.”
His stomach sank.
“My lady.” He took a step towards her. “About yesterday…”
She heaved an exhausted sigh and pushed herself to her feet, dusting off the skirt of her gown.
“I require no explanations.”
“I’d like to give them anyway,” Robb insisted as Grey Wind left them there to go deeper into the woods, no doubt to find the rest of his siblings. “I know that you’ve been cross with me, I know this duel did not help, but I assure you, I was never in danger. You had no reason to—”
“Worry?” She finished his sentence for him. “How strange, that’s what everyone kept telling me back in the Great Hall before I excused myself. Singing your praises, telling me I had nothing to worry about. Lady Cerwyn even dared tell me there was no reason to cry.”
“There wasn’t.”
“Just like there was no reason to fall for childish provocations?”
Robb’s head shot up, his jaw clenching at the remark.
“That was no childish provocation.”
“It was,” she said, “and you entertained it.”
“What did you expect me to do?” he asked tersely. “Not accept it?”
She threw her hands up. “Yes!”
“I had to.”
“Why?”
“Honor demands—”
“Who cares?!” she exclaimed. “Nobody cares about that—”
“Maybe not in the south where they lack it.”
…That was the wrong thing to say.
It took Robb less than a second to realize that was the wrong thing to say.
She stared at him in complete silence for a heartbeat before a burst of laughter left her lips, making her lower her head, covering her mouth. If it were any other time, the sight of her shoulders shaking with laughter could’ve been a good sign, but for some reason, Robb had a feeling this was a way, way worse than her glare. She stayed like that for a couple of seconds, then lowered her hand and looked up at him, a menacing smile pulling at her lips.
“I only meant—”
“You’re right,” she cut him off, putting her hands on her hips. “You’re absolutely right. Honor means everything in the north and nothing in the south. You seem to have enough of it for the both of us anyway, so it should be of no issue if I started breaking promises. If anything it’s expected of me, so would you like to be the one to tell Jorelle Cerwyn I withdraw my offer, or should that responsibility fall upon me?”
Well, that was completely irrelevant to this conversation.
He strained his mind to understand how this had anything to do with the reason why she was angry at him, but came up empty.
“Because I think you should do it,” she spat. “While you’re at it, tell her neither her nor her family will ever step foot in Winterfell while I live here. And don’t you ever give me a speech about honor, when you hold no regard for anyone else’s but your own.”
Robb rushed to follow her when she moved away from him. “My lady, I didn’t mean to offend you—”
“Yet you’ve done nothing but!” Her voice rose as she whirled around on her heels. “Ever since I arrived here! So allow me to return the favor; if you wish to bed your mistress so much, you’ll have to go to her cute little castle. I’m told it’s near here, should be easy enough.”
He gawked at her. “…What mistress?”
“Or if that’s too much of an inconvenience for you, go back in there and tell your family we’re breaking the betrothal,” she snapped, making his heart drop. “The whole north would rejoice, and you could go tumble in the snow with her. I’ll be all the way down in the south, and never even think about you ever again.” She pointed back at the castle. “Off you go!”
A silence fell upon them while he tried to wrap his mind around what she had just said.
“You—” He paused, disbelief numbing his mind so badly that he had to force himself to ask: “You think I have a mistress?”
“What game are you playing at?” she asked back, disdain etched on her beautiful face, a couple of snowflakes falling upon her lashes. “There’s no one else here.”
She was jesting. She had to be jesting.
There was no way she believed he could so much as look at another woman let alone take a mistress when she occupied every corner of his heart and his mind. A chuckle escaped him despite his attempt to control himself, but that seemed to awaken a new wave of anger in her.
“You know what?” she said, her voice trembling with fury. “Forget it. I’ll go back to the Great Hall and announce that I will never, ever wed you!”
When he was a mere boy, there was that one time he had heard his mother angrily insisting his father would send Jon away. The idea had scared him so badly that he had stopped in the hallway to listen, and soon enough his father had left his mother’s bedchambers with anger etched on his face. After taking him to his solar to assure him Jon would be going nowhere, Robb had asked his father why he had walked out of those bedchambers looking that angry if Jon was to stay anyway, and his father had heaved a sigh.
“Robb,” he had said. “You’re nearly a man grown. And as the heir to House Stark, it is your duty to make our house proud and set an example. As a Stark and as a man, no matter if it’s your mother, or your sisters, your future lady wife, or any woman you see on the street, you will never be the source of fear for any woman. On the contrary, you will protect them from any man who may impose fear on them. Do you hear me?”
Robb had nodded fervently.
“And,” his father had added, “if you ever find yourself in any kind of argument with a woman, you will never, ever raise your voice or advance upon her. No matter what she says. The only time you move, you walk in the opposite direction. Do you understand me?”
In his defense, he was going to walk in the opposite direction, but with his lady.
He grabbed her hand before she could walk away from him, making her let out a squeal before he pulled her towards the weirwood tree.
“How dare you?” Her voice went high-pitched while she tried to yank her hand back. “Let go of me this instant, or else—”
He stopped in front of the tree and turned to her, letting go of her hand.
“Ask me.”
“What?” She narrowed her eyes, still breathing hard. “What are you talking about?”
“We’re standing in front of the weirwood tree,” he stated. “I cannot lie here. It’s clear you don’t take my words as they are even if I told you to, so ask me whatever you want.”
“You think I won’t?” she taunted him. “Go on. Say it in front of your gods that your mistress—”
“I don’t have a mistress,” he cut her off. “I swear it by my gods and yours.”
“Not yet perhaps, but you plan to take Lady Jorelle as your mistress.”
“No!” Robb said with a huff of indignation. “I do not, and I will not. Do you believe me to be that low?”
“You said—”
“I’ve never said I’d have a mistress,” he insisted. “I told you I would never dishonor you or our marital vows. What part of that suggests I’d do such a thing?”
She pulled back slightly, stealing a glance at the weirwood tree as if she wanted to make sure it was indeed the right tree before turning to him.
“Then what?” she demanded. “You’ll love her from afar and yearn for her your whole life while wed to me?”
He knew he had to set this right and make her stop believing whatever folly she seemed to believe, but seven hells, it took everything in him not to grab her by the shoulders and kiss her senseless.
“No!” he exclaimed. “Of course not, why would you think that?”
“You said I should put her in my ladies-in-waiting—”
His hands shot up so that he could run them through his hair in an attempt to control himself. “You asked for my help!”
“You said you had an arrangement not so different than the southern court!”
Robb dropped his hands, trying to find the right words through disbelief.
“Her family,” he started slowly, as if that could make her understand it better, “has been loyal to mine for generations. There were talks of a betrothal between us, like I’ve told you. I figured it would be a good idea to include her in your ladies-in-waiting as a way of honoring her family and their loyalty, so that they wouldn’t feel spurned. Is that not the same as the southern court? Keeping loyal families close to reward them and keep the alliances going?”
“But you disappeared with her just the other night! You followed her outside and left me in the Great Hall, and—”
“Jon said everyone talked to her family and not her,” he said. “So I wanted to talk to her to make sure she wasn’t heartbroken, and she wasn’t. That whole conversation took less than five minutes, then my father pulled me into a meeting with Lord Bolton as I’ve told you—do you not hear anything that comes out of my mouth, or do you simply refuse to believe it?”
She gawked at him with wide eyes before she averted her gaze, her brows furrowed in deep thought as if she was trying to find more proof of his infidelity.
“So then, you—” she said after a torturous minute and cleared her throat, sticking her nose in the air. “Am I to understand you don’t have affections for her or anyone else?”
The look he gave her was nearly chastising.
“Or anyone else?” he repeated and she shrugged her shoulders, still pouting.
“You said to ask.” She pointed at the weirwood tree. “You cannot lie.”
“I would not,” he said, his heartbeat speeding up. “I do not. My lady, I…”
Gods, now he knew what his father meant when he used to say he was more intimidated by his mother than by the war. A fire spread over his face and ears despite the cool wind shuffling the leaves above them, his stomach doing flip after flip as if his lady held a sword to his throat instead of just standing there, looking up at him.
He could’ve laughed at the absurdity of her having to hear what he felt if he wasn’t so tense all of a sudden, how did she not know?
The whole castle knew. The whole North knew by now.
But perhaps that was the reason. Perhaps he hadn’t been open enough in southern standards, with their flowery language and court banter.
“I wasn’t raised to embellish my words.” He tried to ignore the tightness in his chest, clasping his hands behind him. “Nor write ballads or poetry.”
“I require neither,” she was quick to say. “I’ve grown tired of them long ago. I don’t crave flattery, but honesty.”
“Then trust my honesty when I say you’ve never had to worry about any mistresses,” he told her. “I’ll be loyal to you until my last breath.”
“Because honor and duty demands it?” she asked, making him swallow thickly before he shook his head.
“Because my heart is at your command,” he rasped out, barely able to hear his own voice from the blood rushing in his ears. “For you to decide its fate. Beyond honor or duty. I yield and welcome the defeat if it’s by your love.”
Silence clung to snow as it descended upon the Godswood.
He couldn’t look away even if he wanted to, he realized, not even if his own gods willed him to, not when she held his gaze captive. She stared at him in complete disbelief before realization dawned on her beautiful face, and she let out a breath as if a terrible weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Despite the tears still sparkling in her eyes a soft smile curled her lips, sending hope through his veins faster than lightning in a storm.
“Your heart’s fate is forever twined with my own I’m afraid,” she told him, stealing the air from his lungs. “Yours is at my command, mine is at your mercy. It’s no defeat, I’ve found, though it may appear such when one is not used to the idea of truce. But I’m yours and you’re mine, where’s the defeat in that?”
…She loved him back.
By the Gods, she loved him back.
Any hope of finding the right words deserted him, his ears muffled with the blood rushing in them, excitement almost too much to bear. He lifted his hand to wipe the remnant of tears before cupping her cheek, her eyes fluttering close, her skin almost icy under his warm palm. He pulled her closer in an instant, wrapping an arm around her waist to shield her from the cold wind blowing through the woods before he traced her cheekbone with his thumb, his heart still slamming against his ribcage hard enough to hurt. A giggle escaped her when he playfully ran the tip of his nose over hers, the pleasant sound warming his insides like liquid fire.
He was nearly in a daze when he spoke: “Where have you been all this time?”
Her face lit up with a happy smile, her gaze slipping down to his lips before it snapped up to his eyes again while she traced the direwolf clasps holding his cloak together as if she was too delighted to keep still. Her sweet scent was all around him when he leaned in, flooding his senses, pulling him deeper under her spell and making him lightheaded as it settled in his lungs to make them its rightful home.
“Down in the south,” she breathed out softly. “Waiting for you.”
synopsis: summoned to the red keep to prove her family's loyalty a decade after the blackfyre rebellion, the lady of house peake only intends to survive court politics — becoming entangled with prince valarr targaryen was not part of the plan.
author’s note: guys this chapter had me giggling and kicking my feet for real, you're not ready i fear!! it's just past midnight and this is Barely proofread so please forgive any errors, but otherwise, enjoy!!!
wordcount + tags: 6,193 + enemies to lovers, slowburn, forbidden romance, sparring as flirting, heavy tension, canon-typical misogyny/violence, pre-akotsk
part one || part two || part three || part four || part five
Valarr Targaryen x F!Reader
You do not expect to be in a good mood as you make your way to spar this morning.
It sits nervously in your chest as you cross the Keep at first light – fragile, like an animal that might startle and run if you look at it too closely, a strange sense of anticipation lingering and softening your sharp edges as you descend toward the yard.
Perhaps it is the soft morning air, or the lingering quiet of the past week – the godswood, Matarys’ easy laughter, the Queen’s warmth – or perhaps it is something else entirely.
You do not name it. You do not even think of hi– of it. You won’t.
It renders you entirely unprepared for when you step through the archway and find that the yard is far from empty.
There are knights lined up at the rail in loose clusters, squires gathered at their elbows, servants lingering just a touch too long for tasks that do not require that much attention. The low hum of conversation dies the moment you are spotted, replaced by rapt, unashamed attention.
You slow immediately, the warmth in your chest tightening and cooling. Ser Matthos stands in his usual position at the center of the yard, arms folded, watching you approach with a pinched look that makes you apprehensive.
“Is there a reason,” you ask lightly, though there is already a sharp undercurrent beneath it. “That half the castle appears to have risen early for my morning drills?”
The master-at-arms folds his arms across his chest, the hint of a grimace on his face as his eyes drift past you. “His Grace thought it might be… Instructive.”
Your brows pinch together at the idea the King cares about something so trivial as your weapons training. “His Grace–?”
“The Prince.” Ser Matthos clarifies, gesturing behind you with a nod of his head.
And just like that, your mood turns sour. You turn to look across the yard, finding Valarr standing near the far rail, speaking quietly with another knight, looking composed, restrained – the picture of princely discipline.
When his eyes lift and meet yours, though, his relaxed expression falters for a moment before he schools it once more into composed impassivity as he approaches you. “My lady.” He greets, inclining his head.
“Your Grace.” You curtsy, though the gesture feels stiffer than intended.
A beat passes where your eyes meet, and you glance away nervously. “I had not realized,” you say, your voice mild enough to pass as polite despite the uptick of your pulse. “That my morning exercise was to become a public affair.”
Valarr’s expression remains perfectly calm, though you think he seems faintly apologetic as he glances between you and the impromptu audience. “I–”
“His Grace suggested it,” Ser Matthos cuts in, handing each of you a practice blade before the prince can finish. “Thought it would do the court good to see harmony between your houses.”
Harmony. The word sits poorly as you turn it over in your chest, looking at Valarr with unsolicited betrayal flickering in your chest. You had thought your bout the day before to be a moment of camaraderie, of understanding, but it seems that to him it is just be another way to prove your obedience to the court.
His jaw tightens as he watches you, brow furrowing slightly as he sees your perturbed expression. “It is not–”
You do not let him finish. “Of course,” you say, far more lightly than you feel. “Why not make a spectacle of it?”
His face flickers with confusion, faint and immediate, but the moment passes too quickly for you to grasp.
You take your place opposite, scanning the crowd, and that’s when you spot him – at the far edge of the yard, on an upper level overlooking it all, stands Prince Baelor, watching attentively from the shadows.
Your stomach tightens – so that’s what this is. A demonstration for the Hand, the young prince showing off to his father. You roll your shoulders, adjusting your grip on the sword hilt. Fine. If they wish for a spectacle, that’s what you’ll give them.
Ser Matthos raises an eyebrow at you, and you nod, prompting him to lift his hand. “Begin.”
Valarr moves first, all measured strikes landing carefully against your blade with a clean crack, controlled and courteous.
You meet it in kind, and for a time, you fall into polite choreography. He tests your guard, you deflect, you press, he gives ground – the two of you moving through the expected rhythms of a spar.
His second strike comes faster, and you manage to block, countering sharply enough to force him back half a step. A few of the watching knights murmur quietly as your lips press together, focus honing in.
Valarr’s eyes flicker to the side occasionally as the bout continues, and you track the movement up to where his father stands. He’s nervous, you realize, and you feel sympathy, but not enough to win out over your general indignation at the situation.
Your blades clash, drawing the two of you closer, and he finally speaks, quietly enough that only you hear it. “You’re angry.” He observes, and you frown.
“Of course not, my prince.” You parry another strike.
His mouth twitches faintly at the blatant lie. “You dislike having an audience.”
You knock his blade aside harder than necessary. “Don’t you?”
“I was told it would be… beneficial.” He says simply as he steps back.
“Beneficial,” you repeat, the word sour on your tongue. “For whom?”
Another exchange, faster now, and his voice drops again as he nears you. “My father… he thought it wise to show the court that House Peake bears no resentment toward the crown.”
Your teeth clench as you push forward, stepping even closer to him. “And what do you think?”
His mismatched eyes pass over your face, apology and doubt ghosting through them for a moment before he steps back a full pace, shaking his head. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”
You bite back the scoff that threatens to escape your lips, and move – not restrained, not careful, but real, driven by your anger more than your training. Your next strike lands with enough force to jolt through his guard, forcing him back a step, and the watching yard falls quiet around you, rapt with attention.
Valarr adjusts quickly, only now he is just reacting, not leading. His attention narrows, fully on you at last, the expected choreography gone. “I understand that you’re angry,” he says, breath steady even as he yields another inch of ground. “But–”
“Do you?” Your next strike whistles past his guard close enough to graze his sleeve, your chest heaving.
You press forward again. And again. The careful restraint drains from the bout as the tempo sharpens, your strikes coming faster now, harder. The prince’s brows knit together as he adjusts his stance defensively, glancing nervously at the upper level.
The watching knights are silent now, even Ser Matthos’ face twisted into stony consternation. Valarr steadies himself, feet shifting across the stones, and you can see the frustration in his expression as he has to readjust. “You’re proving their point.”
“And what point is that?” Your lip curls, spinning your sword by your side.
He cocks his head, courtly politeness all but gone. “That you still bear… resentments.”
The words land like a spark in dry tinder, igniting the deep seated rage that’s been smouldering below the surface since your arrival. Your next strike comes faster than either of you expects, and Valarr manages to block it, but only barely.
You pivot immediately, driving forward with a rapid series of blows that force him back across the stones. The watching squires gasp softly as wood cracks sharply against wood, the flurry of motion enough to make the prince falter – just for a moment.
You seize the opening. Your foot hooks his ankle, your blade knocking his aside, and in the next breath you drive him backward and down, your wooden sword pressing hard across his throat as he hits the stones.
Your chest heaves as you stare down at him, his own eyes wide as they look up at you, filled with… admiration? No, it couldn’t be.
Silence crashes across the yard, rendering it utterly still, and you feel it all at once – the weight of eyes, the murmurs that are bound to follow, the whispers of Peake defiance. Your stomach drops.
For one mortally long moment neither of you moves, eyes locked, before you take in a deep breath and loosen your grip on him, just enough, surrendering your hold.
Valarr feels the shift immediately, his hand instinctively coming up to catch the wrist of your sword hand, foot hooking around the back of your knee, twisting sharply and rolling the two of you across the stones before you can react.
Your blade skids away as the tip of his presses to the hollow of your throat, leaving him as the champion of the match. The yard exhales with palpable relief.
“Yield?” He asks loudly, though his face seems almost hesitant, his brows tugged together as he mentally runs back through what just happened.
You stare up at him, fury still burning behind your ribs, achingly aware of the eyes on you, the pointed edge of the blade against your skin, the warmth of his thighs bracketing your hips, keeping you pinned. “...I yield.”
The yard erupts in relieved laughter and applause. Ser Matthos claps, though there is no approval in his expression. “Well struck, my prince.”
Valarr withdraws immediately and stands, offering his hand, but you ignore it, pushing yourself up and brushing dirt from your sleeves before walking toward the arms rack.
You hear his boots following you as you get further away from the crowd, and you speed up. “Wait.” He says from behind you, and you pretend not to have heard him.
“Wait.” He repeats, and against your better judgement, you still do not.
He speeds up, and his hand catches your forearm, firm but not rough. “I command you to stop.”
You wheel around to face him and yank it free, his words hardening the anger bubbling up inside you.
“Apologies, your Grace.” You spit, your tone anything but apologetic, his title leaving your mouth like it tastes bad.
His expression flickers, hurt passing quickly behind the composure. “I did not mean–” He huffs, taking in a deep breath before speaking again. “You had me.” He accuses, brow furrowed low over his eyes.
You resist the urge to scoff, turning to unstrap your gauntlet so you don’t have to keep looking at him. “Did I?”
“You had me, and yet you let me gain the upper hand,” his voice is quieter now, lower, hushed to avoid any prying ears. “Why?”
“You flatter me, your Grace,” you hang your practice blade carefully on its peg, still deliberately not catching his eye. “You simply recovered quicker than I expected.”
His jaw tightens, frustration threatening to get the best of him. “Do not play the fool with me, we both know it doesn’t suit you.” You blink, caught off guard by the sudden honesty. “Just tell me. Why?"
“Because,” you snap, lowering your voice sharply as you turn to face him. “You are in line to inherit the Iron Throne and I am the daughter of a house half this court would happily see dead.”
His expression flickers – confusion first, then something more upset. “You think I require your deference?”
“I think I cannot afford triumph,” you reply evenly. “The entire Keep was watching. The Hand was watching. If I had left you in the dirt, it would have been called insolence.”
Valarr goes still, but he’s coaxed your irritation out of you, and you’re not done yet. You gesture vaguely back toward the yard, towards the knights and courtiers pretending not to stare. “What do you think would happen if I simply walked away after pinning the prince to the ground in front of half the castle?”
The question hangs in the air, and his expression shifts slowly as the realization settles. You wait for him to speak, breathing heavily, glowering at him before he exhales softly. “I hadn’t considered–”
“No,” you cut in. “You hadn’t.”
Your temper is still simmering dangerously close to the surface. “Next time you orchestrate a scheme to display harmony between our houses,” you continue coolly. “Perhaps you could be kind enough to choose a less theatrical method of putting the traitor in her place.”
“That was not–” He cuts himself off, the muscle in his jaw jumping as he regulates his own words. “I had no hand in planning this, but I can assure you, that was far from the intention, my lady.”
You consider him for a moment, the genuine upset in his face, the frustration held in the tension of his jaw, and some of your rage drains from you as realization settles. His Grace suggested it. The Prince. But not Prince Valarr. Baelor. You clench your jaw. “It may be that it was far from yours.”
He shakes his head, glancing toward the crowd, then back to you, obviously very aware of the eyes on the both of you, but unwilling to let it rest. “You should have taken the win.” He says at last, achingly quietly.
“And you, my prince,” you reply, voice steady now as you hold his gaze. “Should remember the roles we are meant to play here.”
You turn away again, and this time, he does not try to stop you.
The fight does not release him easily.
Even after you have disappeared back into the castle, after the murmurs swell back into conversation and the gathered knights begin to disperse, a feeling of discomfort lingers heavy in his chest.
He tells himself it was the spectacle of it all – his father’s watchful eyes, the tension, the risk. And yet none of that is what presses at him, lingering behind his eyelids with every blink.
No, it is the sharp, unyielding memory of you above him, your breath unsteady, your blade firm against his throat, your eyes lit with an unrestrained fire that has crawled under his skin and lit him ablaze.
His hand twitches by his side, the feeling of your wrist in his palm imprinted into his skin.
It follows him across the stones, up the steps, through the corridors of the Red Keep like an unsettling shadow he cannot quite outrun.
His pace sharpens. Servants step aside as he passes, their heads bowing low, but he scarcely registers them, his thoughts churning around the fight, your face, his father’s presence, quiet but unmistakable at the edge of it all.
His Grace thought it might be instructive. Valarr had not questioned it, had accepted it as he always does, as he has been taught to. Duty first. Always. So why does doubt creep in now?
He spots his father ahead – moving at an unhurried pace, hands clasped loosely behind his back, his Kingsguard trailing a respectful distance behind him.
Valarr quickens his stride, clearing his throat before calling out, “Father.”
Baelor pauses, turning at the sound, his expression calm as it always is, but there is a watchful sharpness beneath it now, taking in the set of his son’s shoulders, the tension held too tightly in his frame. “Valarr.”
Valarr slows as he reaches him, forcing his breath back into something even and controlled. The remnants of the fight still cling to him, an ache in his limbs, a tightness in his chest that has not yet settled.
Baelor takes it in with assessing eyes, though his mouth spreads into a fond smile. “You fought well today.”
It should feel like praise, yet it does not land right. “It should not have been done like that.” Valarr says, the words escaping before he can regulate them.
Baelor’s brows lift with interest. “No?” He asks mildly.
“We will never gain favour with House Peake by treating their lady as a prisoner and a spectacle.” Valarr says, his tone kept level but his words carrying more bite than usual.
They stand in the middle of the corridor, servants passing at a distance, heads bowed low, careful not to linger. The Kingsguard remains still behind Baelor, as though he has always been part of the stone itself.
Baelor regards his son calmly, but his eyes sharpen, betraying the flicker of surprise that passes through them. “Is that what you think she is here for? For us to gain their favour?”
Valarr pauses, throat bobbing as he swallows, dropping his gaze to the floor. He had sat in the council meetings, had heard the discussions, the careful weighing of loyalty and risk, of punishment and control. He knows exactly what you are here for. And yet his throat tightens.
“…No,” he admits, quieter now. “But I believe there is a more civilised way to accomplish what we need.”
Silence stretches. He can see his father’s face turn pensive, turning over not the argument, but the delivery of it. The restraint in Valarr’s tone, suggesting far greater involvement than diplomatic ideas.
Baelor hums softly, fingers idly toying with one of his rings, though his attention has not shifted from his son’s face. “You believe it was uncivilised.”
“I believe,” Valarr says, gaze dropped to the stone floor as he carefully regulates his words before they leave his mouth. “That we ask for loyalty while reminding her she has none to give freely.”
That gives Baelor pause. His eyes narrow slightly in thought, studying his son as though recalibrating something he had assumed fixed. Interest, faint but unmistakable, settles in his gaze. “You are concerned for the Lady Peake.”
Valarr does not look up, his jaw tightening, fists curled. “I am concerned for the Crown’s reputation.”
A corner of Baelor’s mouth lifts, faint and knowing. “Of course.”
Valarr’s jaw tightens as he looks up. “I simply– I do not think it to have been necessary.”
To place her in that position. To place either of them there. He does not voice the end of that thought. Baelor studies him for a long moment – long enough that Valarr feels the weight of it settling, pressing lightly but insistently against his composure.
Brief, restrained approval flickers in Baelor’s eyes. “I will consider your words.”
Relief hits harder than Valarr expects. “Thank you, father.”
Baelor inclines his head slightly, as though to dismiss him – but then his gaze sharpens once more, catching his son before he can step away. “Valarr.”
The younger prince stills. “Yes?”
Baelor steps closer to his son, and his voice, when he speaks again, is softer, more deliberate. “Be mindful,” he says lowly, glancing down the corridor for a moment. “Of how easily you display your favour.”
The words settle between them, heavier than the tone suggests, and Valarr holds his gaze for a moment. “I understand.”
Baelor searches his face, eyes softened by affection, and then nods, satisfied with whatever he finds. “You may go. Thank you.”
Valarr inclines his head and steps past him, the Kingsguard shifting just enough to allow it. The corridor stretches ahead, long and cool, early sunlight cutting across the stone in pale bands as he walks slower now, yet the tightness in his chest has not eased. If anything, it has settled deeper.
He exhales slowly, deliberately. Somewhere deeper, beneath the frustration and the lingering heat of the bout, a quieter, more dangerous feeling settles into place. Awareness.
Not just of you, but of the space between you, and the fact that, for the first time, he does not entirely know how to stand within it.
You do not remember leaving the yard.
One moment there is heat and noise and the weight of him above you, the press of wood at your throat, the echo of your own voice telling him off – and the next there is stone beneath your feet and quiet closing in around you like a held breath finally released.
You turn the first corner you find, then another, and only when the sounds of the training yard have faded entirely behind you do you stop.
It hits you all at once. You brace a hand against the wall, breath catching in your throat, your other hand curling uselessly at your side as if it still holds a blade. Your chest rises too quickly, lungs dragging in air that feels too thin, too sharp.
Gods. You close your eyes, and for a moment the world tilts – not enough to stagger you, but enough to make you press your shoulder more firmly into the cool stone, grounding yourself against it.
You had him. The thought arrives unbidden, unwelcome. You had him on his back, your blade at his throat, the entire yard gone silent around you – and for one long, terrible heartbeat, you had not cared who was watching.
Your stomach turns. What in the Seven Hells were you thinking? Your father would kill you if he knew how stupid you’d been.
You press your lips together, willing the memory to fade, to dull into something distant and manageable, but it refuses. It lingers instead in flashes – the look in his eyes, sharp and searching, the heat of him beneath you, the sudden, sickening awareness that had followed.
A spectacle. A prince. And you–
You exhale sharply through your nose, pushing yourself upright from the wall. Your hands feel unsteady, your limbs still humming faintly with the remnant energy of the fight.
You had nearly humiliated him. No – worse. You had nearly exposed yourself before you had let him win. You had yielded before the Targaryen prince, as had no doubt been intended. Your jaw tightens – you do not know which part of it unsettles you more.
You push away from the wall at last, smoothing your sleeve where it has creased beneath your grip, forcing your posture back into something composed, as though nothing had happened, as though you do not still feel the echo of his hands on you, the shift of weight as he turned the bout in his favor.
You do not want to return to your chambers, and you also do not want to face the rest of the court, the watchful eyes, the questions.
So you walk, letting your feet carry you through corridors you have begun to recognize, past servants who bow and avert their eyes just quickly enough to suggest they have already heard. Of course they have, the thought needles at you. The Keep breathes gossip.
You round another corner, and nearly collide with a figure stepping into your path.
“My lady.” Lady Dayne inclines her head, dark eyes sweeping over you in a way that is not entirely decipherable, a flicker of quiet amusement held carefully in check.
“Lady Dayne.” You greet in return, inclining your head in kind.
“I had wondered if I might find you,” she says lightly. “The court is gathering for petitions.”
You hesitate – the last thing you want is more eyes, and yet petitions mean distance, distraction, a crowd to disappear into. “And you thought I might wish to attend?” You ask.
Her mouth curves faintly. “I thought you might wish to be seen attending.”
The reminder settles cleanly into place as your lips press together briefly, but then you take in a deep breath and incline your head. “Lead the way.”
The throne room is already filling by the time you enter. Light spills in through the high windows, catching on the polished floors and the dark gleam of armor as knights take their places along the walls.
The lords murmur quietly among themselves, their voices low and measured, while supplicants gather near the far end of the hall, clutching petitions in uncertain hands.
It is easier here, the noise and movement giving you something to disappear into as Lady Dayne guides you to a place along the side of the hall, near enough to observe without being observed too closely. You fold your hands before you, posture straight, expression carefully composed.
The doors at the far end open, and the court stills. The King enters first, measured and deliberate, the weight of the realm settling into place with him. At his side walks his heir, and just behind– you do not mean to look, but your gaze finds him instinctively anyway.
Prince Valarr comes to stand beside the window, hands clasped loosely behind his back with practiced ease. Sunlight from the narrow arch drapes across his features, rendering them softer, more elegant.
He looks every inch the prince he is expected to be, no trace of the yard on him now. No sign of the fight, of the breathless moment where everything had narrowed to the space between you. It is as though it never happened. And yet–
His eyes lift and catch yours.
Your stomach drops as you look away suddenly, the movement abrupt and conspicuous. Heat floods your face, and you settle your gaze firmly on the King as he takes his seat, refusing to even chance looking behind him.
Voices rise and fall in careful cadence as the petitions begin – requests, grievances, disputes laid bare before the throne. You had sat before a number of petitions of your own at Starpike, so it is a familiar sequence, but today the words blur at the edges, slipping past without settling.
The space across the hall feels much narrower than it should. You feel it again – that same pull, subtle but insistent, like the brush of movement in your periphery. You do not look. You won’t.
Until your gaze betrays you, flicking up, just briefly–
To find him already looking.
Your breath catches, and it is his turn to look away hastily. Your lips curl at the absurdity of the moment, watching as his cheeks colour faintly, his posture suddenly rigid.
The rest of the court resumes around you, voices rising once more, the steady rhythm of petitions continuing as though nothing at all has changed, even though your pulse refuses to settle.
By the time the last petition has been heard and the court begins to dissolve into softer conversation, you are already being drawn gently but insistently back into the orbit of the ladies.
“Come,” one of them says. “You must dine with us tonight.”
You agree somewhat hesitantly, allowing yourself to be folded into their number as they drift from the throne room toward the great hall, silks whispering against stone, voices rising in a low, constant hum as they discuss the handsome new Kingsguard and who danced with whom the last time the court gathered in earnest.
The great hall is alive with light, candles burning in their hundreds, casting a warm, flickering glow across the long tables and the banners that hang above them. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, the low swell of voices rising and falling in waves as lords and ladies take their places.
Music threads through it all – soft, unobtrusive, something meant to fill the spaces between conversation without drawing attention to itself.
You are seated among the ladies, midway down one of the long tables, where the press of bodies and voices makes it easier to fade into the background.
Your attention drifts – not to the high table, though you are aware of it, aware of him there without looking – but outward, to the movement of the hall, the shifting currents of conversation that ebb and flow around you, a lord’s voice rising just a little too loudly at the next table over–
“…One girl in silks does not change what they are,” the lord’s voice is loud and bold and grating. “If it were me, I would not risk giving ‘er a weapon!”
Something in your chest goes very still as you catch onto what he’s saying.
“King Daeron would be smarter to just get rid of ‘er!” The ensuing boisterous laughter rings sharply in your ear, making you flinch. “If there’s no more heir to the house, you’ve got no more threat of future treason!”
The sounds of the hall seem to recede as though you are hearing them from a distance now, through water, through something thick and heavy that presses at your ears.
You turn agonizingly slowly, your eyes landing upon the source of the voice. It’s a lord of some house you don’t recognize, his cheeks ruddy from the wine and his goblet swinging wildly in the air as he talks.
But it’s not the lord who causes horror to bloom in your chest – it’s the crowd of courtiers around him, nodding along and clapping him on the back, agreeing with him.
The blatant insult and borderline threat to you goes mostly unnoticed by the rest of the banquet hall, drowned out by music and other lively conversations alike, but it echoes harshly around in your skull as you push back from your seat and stumble out of the hall, ignoring the questioning glances and inquiries thrown at you as you disappear out the doors.
You stumble into a quiet stairwell that branches off from the main corridor, leaning against the cool stone and breathing in the silence, before you press a hand over your mouth in pure shock.
The lord’s comments, despite your best intentions, worm their way into your mind. In a sinister way, they make sense.
Without you, your house would be weakened, your father likely incentivized to collaborate with the Crown however possible – or, in truth, would force your father’s hand towards the Blackfyres, making your house the enemy they already thought it to be.
Though it sends a bolt of fear down your spine, admittedly, it does not seem like the Targaryen’s style. Still, your mind races, irritatingly missing your assigned guard as the dark stairs stretch out below and above you.
You are so focused on recalling the lord’s words, your blood rushing in your ears from paranoia, that you ironically do not hear the footsteps behind you until it is too late.
A soft rush of air washes over you, your mind alert with a sudden awareness of another person’s presence. Panic floods your senses.
Your dagger is drawn from beneath your corset on instinct before you can even think, wielding it before you defensively as you spin around, but the intruder is already inside your space. One hand catches your wrist, the other forearm pressing lightly against your collarbones and pushing you back to the wall, trapping you.
Your mind catches up to your eyes, the haze of fear and instinctive defense clearing just in time to realize–
“Lady Peake.” Prince Valarr greets, eyes flicking down to where your dagger glints in the torchlight, the muscle in his jaw jumping as his grip on your forearm tightens slightly.
“Seven fucking Hells,” the curse spills from your lips, your heart pounding against your ribcage as you lower your weapon. “What is wrong with you?”
“With me?” He blinks at you, brows pulling together in puzzlement as his forearm falls from your chest. “I’m not the one with my blade drawn.”
“No,” you hiss, cheeks heating up as you yank your arm free from his grasp. “You’re just skulking around darkened corridors and ambushing unaccompanied young women.”
“I am not–” He stops short, mouth agape, and you watch him physically reign in the retort at the tip of his tongue. “I just– I heard the lords talking, and I saw you leave, and I– I wished to make sure you were alright.”
It is a sweet sentiment, one that would give you pause if you were not so entirely consumed by your mounting frustration and a tinge of shame at having been caught so off guard. You raise your eyebrows. “By jumping out at me in the dark?”
“I called your name,” he grits out, eyes narrowed at you. “And you really ought to be careful, if the Kingsguard saw you pull a dagger on me–”
“Of course, I forget, princes do not have to suffer the consequences of cornering ladies in the middle of the night. My apologies, my prince.” You bow in a mini mock-curtsy to top it off.
“Cornering–?” Valarr’s expression goes through several emotions at once, bewilderment and irritation chief among them. “Gods, you really are impossible, you know that?”
“And your sanctimonious civility is maddening!” You spit back.
He tilts his head as he surveys you, his eyes narrowed, and for a moment you see a flicker of the dragon within him. “I am truly at a loss, my lady. I was under the impression that your hostility toward me had faded, but I see now that–”
“My hostility? Mine?”
“Yes, yours. You have made your ire for me evident from the moment that we met, and despite my best attempts to reconcile any wrongdoings you may feel I have done you–”
“I may feel?” You scoff, the sound echoing off the stone walls, and his stoic mask of impassivity finally, completely drops, revealing the utter vexation beneath.
He steps closer. “See, this is exactly what I speak of, you–”
“You speak of understanding and reconciliation, and yet nothing changes. You do not change.”
“I do not know what I am supposed to be changing!” His voice raises for the first time since you’ve known him, and you blink in shock, watching him squeeze his eyes shut, his chest rising and falling as he regains control.
The sudden display of emotion causes your indignation to ebb, and you realize that your chest is heaving as well. You inhale and exhale slowly, gaze dropping to the floor in what feels dangerously close to guilt for your outburst.
“Those lords,” you start, not daring to look back up at him. “See me as nothing more than a problem to be dealt with. They feel comfortable enough to say so much, under the banners of your family, in the name of your house. They face no consequences, while I have been taken from my home and–”
Your mouth snaps shut, the words taken prisoner burning at the tip of your tongue. Your chest heaves, teeth digging into your lower lip as you prevent yourself from saying any more on the matter – you’ve already dug yourself too deep, speaking so impetuously to a prince.
Valarr watches your face carefully, and for a moment, you think you see something akin to guilt flash across his expression. He shakes his head, voice softer now, gentler as he steps closer. “Lord Lefford will face consequences for his words, I can assure you.”
Your own voice is quieter when you speak again, less angry, more resigned. “Gods, you really do believe that, don’t you?” His brow furrows, and you continue. “He, and all the other Lords calling for my removal, will face a slap on the wrist before being served their next round of wine, and nothing more.”
“Do you really think so little of my family? That we would be so lenient as to let such vile things go undisciplined?”
“I think that the lords in your family’s favour have bought themselves leniency, my prince.” Your words are harsher now, sharpened, holding back your honest opinion of what you think of his family.
He flinches slightly at the title, his eyes narrowing as they rake over your face, realizing how seriously you believe what you’ve said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Heat flares in your face at the insinuation, suddenly feeling like a scolded child being condescended upon. “Fine. Prove me wrong, then.”
“Maybe I will.”
His breath leaves him in a sharp exhale, and as it ghosts over the exposed skin of your chest, you suddenly become aware of how close to one another the two of you have ended up.
The prince now stands barely a pace away from you. There is a strange, suspended moment where you both seem to realize your proximity at once – and yet neither of you make to move away.
You swallow thickly, suddenly at a loss for words as your tongue darts out to wet your lips, and his eyes, dark in the dim torchlight, track the movement intently. In an act of great betrayal, your own eyes flick down his face and rest for the barest of moments on his mouth.
A beat passes, the only sound in the silent stairwell your intermingled breaths, before the tension snaps. Valarr steps back suddenly, his entire body rigid, jaw clenched achingly tight as he gives you a terse nod.
“Forgive me, my lady.” He says, throat working as he swallows, before he spins on his heel and strides down the stairwell.
You watch him leave blankly, your capability of speech stuck somewhere between your hammering pulse and your clouded brain.
At the end of the stairwell, Valarr – Targaryen prince of the realm, second in line to the Iron Throne, son of Baelor Breakspear – has to stop and press his hand into the rough stone to collect himself, dragging the other over his face, before he heads back to his chambers.
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