Namaygoosisagagun First Nation/Collins has burned to the ground. The entire community is nothing but ashes after being quickly consumed by wildfires. They did not have any support from emergency services, and no one offered aid. The community saved themselves by escaping into boats because no one came.
Mishkeegogamang and Cat Lake have lost power. Families are ending up in shelters with nothing. Armstrong, Lac La Croix, Whitesand, Gull Bay, Lac des Mille Lacs are currently in the fires path and all members are being evacuated.
All this loss, all this devastation, and it was entirely preventable.
After steadily underfunding wildland firefighting and purposefully excluding Indigenous wildland firefighters and Indigenous wildfire organizations from wildfire operations, firefighter training, decisionmaking, and resource exchanges, in 2025, Doug Ford slashed the forest firefighting budget.
It's hard to ignore his decision to cut funding and leave us out of adequate fire training (even though we've lived with forest fires for thousands of years—far longer than settlers have been in Canada—and made sure fires like the ones we're all seeing today were prevented through kinisitotēn) when, despite making up less than 5% of the population, we account for 42% percent of all wildfire evacuations in Canada.
And when we are successfully evacuated, we face discrimination and racism—like Kashechewan—because it's always been easier to blame us than it is to blame the true culprit: denialism, corportate greed, and colonization.
The people of Collins and every other impacted community deserve better.
Right now, the AFN is currently accepting donations to help Collins First Nation. If you're able to, please consider donating.
ONWA (Ontario Native Women's Association) is another great place to donate to. They have outreach vans going to motels and inns and offering food, water, resources, and cultural support to those impacted by the wildfires.
Other places to consider donating to are Mikinakoos Emergency Fund, Red Cross, True North Aid, Indigenous Climate Action. You can also send donations directly to Whitesand First Nation via e-transfer ([email protected]) and they request that you add your full name in the e-transfer comment section to receive a tax receipt.
*Before sending money, verify that the appeal appears on an official First Nation, Tribal Council or registered charity channel.
If you can't offer financial support, please consider donating items of need. Moontime Connections is currently accepting drop-off donations. If you live in the Thunder Bay area, Namaygoosisagagun Health Office is also taking in donations! They can also bemailed to Superior Inn Hotel & Conference Centre at 555 West Arthur Street, Thunder Bay, ON, P7E 5P8.
me when other people tag me in things: this person??? thought about me???? i'm so flattered??????? 🥺💕🥺💕🥺💕🥺💕
me when i consider tagging someone in a post: i am annoying!!!! i am overstepping every single boundary!!!! i am making an absolute fool out of myself!!!!!!
A/N:
1. I am so sorry it has taken me almost a year to get to this…
2. Thank you so much for the request anon! I know I’m the slowest writer on the planet but thank you for sending it in and giving me this wonderful idea! I really enjoyed writing it (and by that I mean it put me through seven levels of emotional torture which is exactly the conditions I thrive in…)
Edit: I have spent a week writing this and I have never been so drained both emotionally and physically while writing fanfic omfg
Summary: When Cregan Stark begins looking for a second wife, you are put forth as a viable candidate. But once you are chosen, all your fantasies of having a loving husband and the chance for a family are poured away when you find out that everything is not quite as it seems.
Word count: ~24.3k (what the actual fuck)
Trigger Warnings: 18+, she/her pronouns, AFAB reader, ANGST, unrequited love, depictions of a panic attack, thoughts of suicide/suicidal ideation, depictions of depression, canon-typical views on women/sex/gender/marriage/etc, smut (but it’s both sad and sexy), kidnapping (technically), (please let me know if I missed any)
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters. I do not claim to own any of the House of The Dragon/Fire & Blood characters. I do not own any pictures used nor do I claim to do so.
Always appreciate comments, likes, and reblogs :)
You smiled as you patiently waited for Dyanna to finish threading the last of your hair into a braid. You smoothed your hands over the silvery grey fabric of your skirts and tried your hardest not to twist it in your hands. Though you were trying to be patient, you were also excited.
When the call was first sent out into Winterfell and the surrounding areas that Lord Cregan Stark, Warden of the North, was looking for a wife, a flurry of activity began in every house with an eligible daughter. It had, of course, only been two moons prior that each of these houses had come to pay respect to the lord for the death of his infant son and the precarious condition of the Lady Arra. It appeared that the pressure of producing an heir, and the never-ending suggestions of his advisors for him to take a second wife had proved fruitful. The call was sent out, and all eligible ladies of some relevant rank were invited to Winterfell to take part in a week of festivities, during which Lord Stark would choose a new bride.
You were not low-born by any means, but you were also most certainly not going to be the lady of the highest rank in attendance. Furthermore, your presence at these festivities (starting with a welcome feast in the great hall of Winterfell) was purely for the joy of it. You had two older brothers, married already and with enough heirs to ensure the continuation of the line. You even had an older sister who was happily married to a more southern lord and had taken up residence in his manor. You were the last of the children in your home, and though your parents wished for an advantageous match for you as well, it was not so essential anymore. You were given rather more freedom than your siblings in this regard, and though your family hoped you may somehow come out of this week of festivities as the new Lady of Winterfell, they also knew Lord Stark would not be the only eligible male in attendance. There were options abound and even endless entertainment for the young ladies. It suited everyone.
Your attitude had settled itself somewhere in the middle of all of this scheming. You wished to be married now. Even in childhood you had always wanted to play mother, to walk about with your ragged dolls made of cloth and pretend you were happily married and raising your baby. You longed for the chance to make the games reality, to find a man whom you loved, to have a horde of children and run a home the way you wished to. You had heard time and again from other ladies of matches made with no consideration for love and homes that turned into prisons, but you were just sheltered enough to believe you may be the exception.
However, you also knew you had the luxury of time still, that you need not rush to find a match. So you made it your mission to enjoy the festivities as well. You would eat the delicacies they offered, explore every nook and cranny of Winterfell, and enjoy having time to frolic with friends you may never see again after the festivities were over. You were determined to enjoy yourself, and to simply hope to find a match rather than chase it.
Your family was lucky enough to be one of those housed at the castle and not a nearby inn, and so you could observe the preparations for the feasts and festivities. Upon the arrival of your carriages, there had been a distinct lack of the Lord. One of his advisors had greeted your family, apologised on his behalf (some excuse on being called away on urgent business or other spilling from his lips hurriedly), before leading you to your chambers. And there you had stayed, lounging and slowly readying yourself for the magnificent opening feast to be laid before everyone that evening. You could occasionally hear servants bustling by your door, speaking about their duties, and it had filled you with a buzzing sort of excitement, simmering deep in your limbs as you walked back and forth in your room.
Though time passed slower than you would have wished it to, eventually you were led to the main hall just behind your mother and father. It had been beautifully decorated, with tapestries and sashes of fabric gracing the walls and each chandelier fully lighted (the occasional stray drip of wax falling somewhere near the edges of the hall). As many long tables as could be fitted crowded the main floor and were already brimming with ladies and their families.
The table of honour was set on the dais facing the rest of the great hall. Advisors lined each side and in the middle sat Lord Cregan. As you walked further into the hall, you barely even offered him a glance, watching everyone and everything else with wide dazzled eyes. He was draped in dark grey furs and sat low in his seat, gazing off into the distance. He seemed to be frowning, but you couldn’t tell if he was actually annoyed or if it was simply a naturally set furrow on his brow. Then you looked away once more as you were led to your place at one of the more middle tables but near the edge closest to the dais.
You gathered your skirts and sat down, instantly twisting this way and that to marvel at the festivities, like you had become a curious and squirrely little girl once more. Another maiden sat to your right and both of you smiled brightly and fell into giggles upon noticing the matching looks of awe you wore. She commented on the plates, you on the tapestries, and you were quick to fall into conversation
Once everyone had entered the great hall and the chatter became so deafening you had to yell to hear one another, Lord Cregan stood from his seat and raised his goblet high in the air. A hush was quick to fall over the entire room as they followed suit, standing at their seats and picking up their goblets in return, and you finally took a moment to properly study your lord.
Though he was smiling now, it seemed practiced, bordering on disinterest. His furs were beautiful, cleanly cut and balanced on his shoulders with a certain regality one must be born with. You could not deny that he was handsome, perhaps more handsome than many of the other men you had ever seen. He was stocky in build in a way that belied muscle, with a broad torso and shoulders, arms as thick as tree trunks. Though he was not the most tall man you had ever seen, he would still tower over you, and his long hair was clean and well-kept, tied back to keep out of his face. You were sure that the Lady Arra must have been quite ecstatic upon their betrothal, and at the thought you turned your face away for a moment and as a hot blush rushed your cheeks. It would be safe to say that whichever woman was selected in the coming week would be blessed in many ways.
“Welcome everyone,” he began, slowly moving his eyes over the crowd. “We are glad to host you at Winterfell for what is sure to be a joyous time. Eat, drink, and be merry,” then he raised his goblet once more and took a deep swig from it.
“Aye, aye!” A chorus, loud and deafening, as everyone raised their cups in return. Hands were slammed against tables and raucous chatter was already beginning anew as large platters of food were quickly brought out and set down all over.
You smiled at those around you and took a sip from your own cup, grimacing slightly at the tartness of whatever you had been served before sitting back down once more. Your mother was already pulling pieces of chicken from the platter and placing them on your plate but you took a moment to look back at the Lord of Winterfell. He was sitting again, but his eyes were unfocused as they gazed off into the distance. He took another sip from his goblet but did not engage in any conversation with those around him. He didn’t even bother reaching his hand out to eat something. He seemed so solitary, a bare tree in a wasteland, and your heart clenched in your chest.
You turned away and back to your food, taking a large gulp from your drink before beginning to eat. Of course he would not be at his most merry, you reasoned. His son had died, his wife only just saved from the same fate, and here he was being forced to take another and act as if he was merry. You too would not be so enthusiastic if you had suffered the same fate. You shook your head free of the thoughts and put forth your best smile as the girl next to you began speaking between bites. You could be upset for your lord later. For now, your own merriment awaited.
After much of the food had been consumed, the tables on the main floor were pushed to the sides to create a large space for dancing. A small troupe of musicians appeared in the corner and began playing a variety of jigs and servants walked around offering jugs of wine and ale.
At first you stuck to the sidelines, bouncing on the spot and enjoying the songs, laughing as the different men and women swung each other around. You spotted many of your acquaintances dancing vivaciously and clapped along to the music. Then a boy from House Glover had asked you to join him for a dance and soon you were being passed from hand to hand, laughing jovially and getting lost to the music. A sea of faces passed you for the next hour, hands slipping through your own, feet tripping over yours, gowns and doublets and all sorts of fabric brushing against your dress. You were lost in the array.
But before long, your feet began to ache and the heat from the dance floor became suffocating. The jostling from one dance to another created a pulse just behind your temple and you knew it was time to get away from the hall. You extricated yourself from the grip of your latest partner and stumbled out of the circle. You took a deep breath, but the air was still stale inside the great hall and you could feel your back drenched in sweat under the fabric of your dress. You snatched a cup of something from one of the tables and gulped down the sweet drink before slipping between the many people and stumbling through the doors that led out of the hall.
You stood still for a moment and took a deep breath, allowing your heart to finally slow down and the cool air in the long hallway to gently touch your cheeks. You smiled, letting out a small, almost dazed, giggle before finishing off the contents of the cup and placing it on the floor by the door.
Though you knew you shouldn’t be wandering around without a chaperone, especially at night, the wine and ale had made you a bit more loose and carefree. Everyone would be busy in the hall anyway except for the few servants who would be preoccupied in the kitchens. You were free to run about and explore. And you were not stupid, you would ensure your presence back in the hall before the festivities truly began to wind down and allow your mother and father to You walked out of the rear doors and perused the courtyard, milling about this way and that, poking at the bales of straw that must be used for training on a normal day. Though it was not snowing, there was the everpresent chill in the air that never left the North, especially in the evening. You shivered, shaking out your arms. Though you did not regret the choice of your dress - it had served you well in the stifling heat of the great hall - you did wish that the material was a little thicker in preparation for your spontaneous outing. You simply hoped if you walked a little more you could evade the chill.
You meandered your way out of the gate and toward the thick line of trees you could see just behind the castle. When your eyes set upon the wood, you began walking with a little more purpose. You had a mission now, to find the heart tree in the weirwood. You had always wanted to see it, to perhaps pray and feel closer to the old gods, but your usual home did not have a weirwood to speak of and you rarely ever ventured north enough to find one.
After you crossed the empty plane and met the tree line, you could see a clearing not far off. It was a bright night with not a cloud in sight, bathing the entire world in moonlight. You could see it shining off the white bark of the heart tree in the clearing, even the sheen of the blood red leaves. You smiled and hopped toward it, keeping a light jog despite how precariously thin your slippers were and the uneven ground.
When you entered the clearing, you sighed long and deep. Your shoulders dropped and you closed your eyes for a moment. You could almost feel the silence press over you. It was quieter in this little spot, like not even the birds or the breeze touched it. The air was thick and still, and the leaves didn’t move. It was exactly what you needed after the buzz of the great hall.
You moved to sit on one of the old logs placed under the cover of the heart tree’s branches. You looked up into the leaves and realised you couldn’t see far. It was a dense mesh of leaves and branches and you were lucky if you glimpsed even a touch of the sky. You thought you saw a crow or raven somewhere near the top, a flash of black in the moonlight, but no other sign of life appeared.
You marvelled at how large the tree was. The trunk was so thick it would need four of you to be able to link arms around it, and the sudden realisation hit you that someone could be on the other side and you would be none the wiser. You stiffened for a moment but then shook your head. No, no, you were being so unnecessarily silly. There would be no one else here, not at this time of night when a perfectly jolly feast was being held not far off. No one would be as stupid or reckless as you. You huffed out a laugh and pressed your hands to your face, shaking your head before standing up and doing a little spin.
“Do not let your own imagination poison your reality,” you mumbled to yourself. But once the seed of doubt has been planted, it takes root and you knew you would not be able to settle until you had taken one complete stroll around the tree to ensure you were alone.
At first you saw nothing on your charge around the tree, just more empty logs and creeping roots. But at the exact spot you would not have been able to see from your own place on the other side of the tree, a shape took hold. You were stopped short, stumbling back and almost falling on your behind onto the forest floor as your slipper moved precariously over a root. You pressed a hand to your heart where it hammered in your chest. Your lips dropped open, a choking sound disturbing the quiet. You pressed your other hand to your hair, closing your eyes for a moment before opening them again.
The shape was clearer now, a man who had moved to stand, one hand still outstretched as if he could catch you before your fall despite the distance. You smiled, bashful and embarrassed as you sucked air in quickly and began to laugh. You patted your hair, chest, the skirts of your dress before shaking your head.
“My apologies, Ser,” you giggled out, before finally opening your eyes again and looking at the man. When you looked a little closer, the smile dropped from your face. “Uh-” Your eyes widened and you fumbled as you looked around, unsure what to do. You were about to bow into a curtsy but the man across from you held up his hand with a small smile and shook his head.
“It is I who should apologise to you, my lady,” he began in his deep voice, all rough and gravel. Your cheeks felt hot all of a sudden but you didn’t lift your head to look him in the eye. You couldn’t, you may simply cease to exist from the amount of shame and embarrassment filling you up. “I should have announced myself when I heard you approach. I suppose I was hoping I may continue to go unnoticed,” he shrugged and you glanced up. He looked almost… forlorn. His smile had fallen away and his brows had pulled a little tight. He was gazing at the heart tree once more and you felt a little better about lifting your head. You brought your hands to clasp in front of you and held them tightly as you tried to smile once more. It came out as a grimace but he still wasn’t looking at you.
“Then my apologies again, my Lord,” you said, clearing your throat as all the earlier laughter fled you. “I will leave you to your solitude,” you bowed your head once more, “I am sure you require it more than most at this moment,” you added softly. When you glanced back up he was looking at you again, the frown softened just slightly. He shook his head and gestured to the log behind you.
“Please, do not leave, my lady. The heart tree is not mine to covet, and I would be loath to deny someone else access to it,” and he moved to sit on one end of the log. You hesitated, watching him in the moonlight. He was still dressed as he had been at the start of the feast, but his hair was slightly more unkempt, a few strands falling in front of his face. His eyes were so grey, almost luminescent in the dark, and you scolded yourself for staring so unabashedly.
You nodded at his invitation, smiled softly, and sat on the other end, tucking your hands into your lap. Silence fell over the two of you once more, broken only by the rhythms of your breaths and the forest. You glanced awkwardly between the tree and Cregan, trying not to look at him too long lest you be caught. A few more moments passed and the quiet became difficult to bear, your mouth itching to speak.
“It is a grand feast you have hosted,” you began softly, fidgeting with your hands in your lap. He hummed in acknowledgement and lifted his head to look at you. You smiled awkwardly and pushed a strand of hair behind your ear, before clearing your throat. “I…” you weren’t sure if you should keep speaking, say what you actually wanted to say, but Cregan leaned back and watched you curiously and you huffed out a breath before continuing. “I wished to express my condolences for your son,” you gulped, “and to pray for a speedy recovery for Lady Arra. It seems… unfair of your advisors to not allow you a little more time to mourn before speeding along… business.” You dropped your gaze to the ground and rubbed the fabric of your dress between your fingers. When you glanced back up, Cregan’s eyes had widened, his lips parted just slightly.
“Thank you, my lady,” he whispered in return, pressing his palms to the log under him and shifting a little so he faced you more fully. “Though I must admit… I am surprised you would express such a sentiment. I believed all the ladies attending would be ecstatic at this… opportunity,” he finished with a grimace but you simply smiled conspiratorially, laughing a little before shrugging.
“I think you may have misconstrued the emotions of their families as their own, my lord,” you teased, smirking a little. “While it’s true that many may be excited at the thought of becoming the Lady of Winterfell, I do believe others - like me - are simply excited at the opportunity to dance and mingle and be merry. And I believe all would offer their sympathies for the tragedy you have suffered. The loss of a child is a different kind of pain, I think,” you blinked softly at him as he nodded in agreement.
Your body felt looser now and you allowed your hands to fall to the log you sat on, swaying back a little and stretching your legs out in front of you. You gazed at the heart tree once more, avoiding Cregan’s eyes as he looked at you once more.
“So you are simply here to dance and be merry then?” He asked, a little smirk of his own pulling at his lips. Your head lolled to the side to look at him and you squeezed your eyes shut and laughed. His smile felt… precious.
“I came with no expectations of being selected from the large array of ladies at your disposal, my lord,” you smiled sarcastically, and when he chuckled softly a sharp giggle fell from your lips and you leaned forward, almost completely bent in half before picking up your head a little. “My parents are hopeful that if I am not picked by you then I shall discover some other match among the brothers and fathers in attendance. Though I do wish to marry, I would like to spend this time in the company of friends and simply… enjoying myself,” you sighed. “Young ladies have few opportunities for this,” you added quickly, giggling again, but Cregan just watched you thoughtfully. He wasn’t smiling anymore but he wasn’t frowning either.
You shook your head back and forth, humming a little before a cool breeze blew by and your entire spine shivered. You wrapped your arms around yourself and made a funny little ‘brr’ noise, chuckling to yourself as you exaggerated how cold you truly were. When you glanced back at him, Cregan was shuffling closer, pulling the fur from his shoulders and leaning forward to wrap it over yours. Your lips parted as you tilted your head up. He gently placed the fur over both your shoulders and you gazed up into his eyes. They were even more beautiful up close, a mix of blue and grey like rocks on a clear riverbed. His hair was more brown than black and gently brushed your shoulders when he leaned close to adjust the way it fell over you. He smelled softly of earth and cotton, a hint of sweat but not in an unpleasant way. He seemed to radiate warmth like he was the sun itself. You could feel it when you clasped the edges of the fur to your chest and your fingers brushed against the tunic over his chest. His warmth had transferred to the fur and you snuggled deeper into it. Your fingers dug into the fuzzy fur and the entire thing seemed to bathe your torso.
When Cregan leaned back, he was sitting only a hand’s breadth away from you and you continued to watch him from your place deep in the fur. He seemed to run his eyes all over you, from the top of your head to where your pretty silver slippers sat daintily on the dirt. You looked down at yourself for a moment, trying to see what he was gazing at. You saw the edges of the grey fur, surely a large fox or even a wolf, and the beautiful shiny silver fabric of your dress that made you look bathed in moonlight.
“Thank you, my lord,” you whispered, glancing back up at his face. A hush had fallen over the weirwood. He shuffled a little closer and your breath caught in your chest. You trembled a little even under the fur. Cregan reached up and gently tucked a piece of your hair behind your ear, his breaths brushing over your lips and chin, his thumb brushing the place between your ear and cheek. You gulped, lips parting and then meeting again. Then he leaned back and stood from the log, clearing his throat and smiling gently down at you before looking back in the direction of Winterfell. The hush was broken.
“Come, my lady, I shall accompany you back to the castle,” Cregan held his hand out for you and you smiled awkwardly, nodding and placing your hand in his. He gripped you gently but still engulfed your palm and fingers before letting you go and allowing you to walk just ahead of him. After the first few steps, you turned back to look at him.
“You needn’t leave your solitude to return me to the castle, I am capable of finding my way back,” you spoke softly, smiling in encouragement, but he shook his head and smiled in return.
“No need to worry, my lady, I think I have had enough solitude for now,” and he gestured to the path ahead of you, waiting until you turned away from him and began walking again.
The rest of your journey back to the castle was spent in silence. He guided you inside and through the doors, but when you turned back to thank him, he had disappeared. You frowned as you reentered the great hall but quickly shook it off. The merriment had neither ceased nor decreased. The musicians played a lively jig and people filled the dance floor, a little more wobbly with drink than they had been before you left.
You picked a place near the side of the hall, sitting at one of the tables that had been shoved to the side and sipping from a cup of ale. You smiled and swayed to the music but did not dance. You pulled the fur from around your shoulders and folded it up before putting it on the bench beside you, stroking it distractedly. When you glanced up at the head table, Cregan was back in his seat of honour and his eyes were on you.
Your breath caught in your throat, and you offered him a shaky smile, but he simply turned his head away, bringing a hand up and lightly scratching at his chin as he gazed down at his plate. You dropped your head and frowned at your lap but then shook off whatever odd feeling had taken over you for a moment and forced yourself up onto your feet. You would allow yourself one final dance before dragging yourself back to your rooms.
You stayed true to your word, turning in circles for only one song before pulling away from the grabbing hands of the men and maidens and making your way back to your little spot at the table. You picked up the fur that had been entrusted to you and found your way to your mother and father, yelling that you would be returning to your room before heading back out of the great hall.
You hummed as you strolled down the corridor in the direction of your chambers, swaying slightly with the music you could still distantly hear. As you rounded the corner to the final hallway, you spotted a servant walking in your direction.
“Oh! Hello!” You flagged them down, waving toward them as they got closer. You smiled as the older woman curtsied to you before proffering the fur in her direction. “This is Lord Stark’s property, would you be able to return it to him?” The older woman looked shocked for a moment, her eyes widening just so before she schooled her expression and nodded, gently taking the fur from you.
“Of course, my lady. Would you like a message to be passed on as well?” The woman asked, but her tone seemed heavy with something you didn’t quite understand.
“Uh, no, no, I do not think so?” Your face contorted and you tilted your head in confusion, clasping your hands in front of you. “Perhaps a simple thank you will suffice,” you shrugged, smiling at the woman and bidding her farewell. She curtsied once more and just before she turned away you saw her eyebrows raise. Your own furrowed in confusion once more but you simply finished the journey to your rooms.
The next day was made for the fathers and brothers who had accompanied the young ladies; a casual tourney to simply enjoy the sporting prowess of all the men who had gathered. The weather was perfect for it, clear blue skies and bright sunshine, the best of the summer without being unbearably hot. Everything had been set up on the grounds just outside the palace, a myriad of tents for different purposes dotted the wide open space. There were the large tents for the women to lounge and meet, split up into many rooms with swathes of fabric. There were the smaller, more open tents for the men to rest and ready in just beside the grounds dedicated for archery and riding and hand-to-hand combat. Even the tables from the great hall had been dragged out into the open so the evening’s feast could be held out of doors.
A hustle and bustle filled the fresh open air. There were clinking goblets and cups, the tittering of the older ladies as they discussed their children with varying tones of love and disregard, the loud unabashed giggles of the younger children and the hushed little laughs of the maidens. There was the clank and clatter of weapons, the rush of bowstrings pulled and arrow fletching brushed, the boisterous talk of the men and the neighing of horses. Everything held an overwhelming degree of sound.
Though the young ladies had spent a few of the morning hours in the tents, attached to your mothers and sisters, upon the arrival of noon you had ventured out to watch some of the sport being carried out. The archery had been put next on the agenda and you all gathered on the benches that had been brought out for any spectators.
You had settled yourself down between two of the ladies you had become most familiar with over the course of the morning and began looking around for Lord Stark. When you found him nowhere, your face fell into a puzzled frown for a moment before you shook it off. Though he was known to be an accomplished warrior, perhaps archery was not his strong suit. Or perhaps he had been called away on business once more, the demands on a lord were never-ending. You didn’t have any business worrying about his whereabouts anyhow, you reminded yourself, laughing softly and pinching yourself on the wrist.
Though the short time with him at the heart tree the previous evening had softened his image in your mind, it did not change much else. Yes, he may have endeared himself to you with his valiant offering of his fur, just like the knights and lords of the old stories told to little girls, but it meant naught. He simply was valiant, and it had nothing to do with you whatsoever. You nodded at yourself in confirmation before turning to the girl on your left and striking up a conversation about one of the men in the tent on the other side of the archery course.
You had enjoyed yourself thoroughly bouncing between watching the tourney, sitting in the cool shade of the tent and simply strolling about with the other girls. Lord Stark had been curiously absent the entire day but when questions were finally probed, everyone was told that he had been called on urgent business but would return in time for the evening feast. And true to his word, he had returned just as the final event of the tourney had finished and the sun was setting.
The tables had been set up as they would have been in the hall, but canopies had been set up over them dangling with candles and lanterns to light the merriment well into the night. Even bonfires had been set up around the perimeter of the tables and everyone was bathed in warmth and soft golden light.
The feast was just as lively as it had been the night before, perhaps moreso. There was a certain sense of freedom that came with being out of doors, the land dark and endless, and it seemed infectious. The laughter was more boisterous, the yelling more raucous, and the drink more free-flowing. Everyone seemed ruddy-cheeked and silly.
You had been as merry as you could since the sun set. You had sipped on wine (though much less than those around you) and eaten your fill. You had laughed and made others laugh, and even sung along when music broke through the chatter. But just like the night before, your limit was soon reached and you craved a few moments away from the stifling crowd. The air had begun to fill with smoke from the bonfires and though it would be warmer to stay near everyone, you desired peace more than anything else.
You slipped away as people began mingling to talk and perhaps even start an impromptu dance in the field. Your destination was clear in your mind, and you followed the wall all the way around until you found the woods once more. You took the same path you had done before, though this time you were better equipped for it in a pair of pretty but hardy boots and a thin shawl around your shoulders. You hummed as you walked, hoping to keep whatever had unsettled you the night before at bay, and gently rubbed the material of the shawl between your fingers.
You felt a little giddy in your stomach and tried to force the smile from your lips every time it tugged at your face. It was not anticipation, per say, that seemed to writhe in your spine. Perhaps a little innocent hope? No, you wouldn’t say that. You were simply confirming to yourself that you would be happy if Lord Stark happened to be present at the heart tree, but you would not be disappointed if he was not. You clamped your lips together, which then made your face look a little odd, before releasing a breath that made them flutter and create a funny little ‘brbrbr’ sound.
You schooled your face as you reached the edge of the clearing. You could not see him when you first entered the circle of moonlight, and a little twinge plucked in your heart. You simply shook your head and moved further toward the tree when you heard someone clear their throat. You froze in your spot, not yelping or jumping but startled all the same. You looked in the direction it came from and walked a little further around the tree to find your lord sitting on the log you both had occupied the night before.
He was already looking at you, a softness in his eyes you had not seen previously. He did not smile, but his face was at ease and he stood as you approached. Though custom would have dictated he reach out for your hand and press a kiss to the back of it, you stayed too far to be within reach of him. You smiled gently, twisting your fingers as you clasped your hands in front of you, hoping to disguise the way your heart seemed to soar in your chest.
“I have disturbed your solitude twice now,” you sighed, but your smile did not match your wistful words.
“It is not unwelcome,” he responded, and it only served to widen your smile. He gestured to the log and waited until you sat on your end before retaking his seat. He was turned toward you this time, and his eyes did not stray to the tree the way they had done the night before. Though your body pointed to the tree, you twisted at the waist to ensure you faced him as well.
“I hope it is known that I do not intend to disturb,” you told him, brushing some hair out of your face. His chuckle was just the huff of a breath as he glanced down at his lap, but you wanted to grab it in your hands and keep it close to your chest.
“You need not worry,” he assured as he glanced back up to lock eyes with you, “I believe your presence could not disturb me even if you attempted it.” Your face was instantly furiously hot and a shiver tingled from the back of your head down your spine as you turned to face the tree. You gulped, suddenly a little parched, and you clenched your hands tightly together in your lap. Then you huffed out a little laugh as well, airy and slightly awkward as you glanced at your lap, then the tree, then your lap again before returning your gaze to him.
“I fear my family would not agree,” you quipped, but he only offered you a boyish smile. “It is true!” You argued, as if you must prove to him that you could be a pest if you tried. “On more than one occasion I have chattered so much that my mother has looked at me incredulously, then threatened to shove a stocking between my lips just to hush me for a moment.”
He laughed then, deep and long, his eyes squeezed shut and his body rolling up and down. You joined at first, slightly awkward then awed and jovial as you took pride in being able to make him laugh. He rubbed at his cheek for a moment, as if his face was unused to laughter and smiling and his cheeks were beginning to ache. You uncurled slightly, stretching your legs out in front of you so their weight rested on your heels and you could swing your feet side to side. You pressed the heels of your hands against the log and leaned your weight back into them. You turned your head to look at him as his laughter calmed and his small became a little smaller.
“I fear my suspicions have been confirmed,” he finally spoke, taking a deep breath to replenish after his bout of laughter. “Even upon telling a story of how you can be an annoyance, I still find you to be altogether too pleasant.”
After you shot him a bright, rather mischievous, smile, the two of you fell into a comfortable silence. You turned your head up to gaze through the branches again, watching the leaves twitch and sway in a phantom breeze. You slowly brought your gaze down to the tree and the face carved into it. You watched the trail of dark red sap that had already dripped through the eyes and mouth before glancing away. When you turned your head back to face him, he was already looking at you again.
“Does something trouble you that you seek this refuge once more?” He asked in his deep gravelly voice, more hushed now. You smiled a little, a barely there stretch of your lips and shook your head.
“No, nothing in particular,” you sighed. “I love to dance and be merry, and enjoy everything that comes with a feast,” you began slowly, hesitantly, “I do. I enjoy it very much. But sometimes… everything is suddenly too… much. Everything irks me. The lights are too bright, the people too loud, and it is intensely overwhelming.” You shrugged, looking down at your lap. “I just want to be quiet, and just… at peace for a few moments, I suppose.” You shrugged again and kept your head dipped low but flitted your eyes to look at him. His face had settled into a neutral sort of expression and you could not tell if he understood what you were babbling about. “I can return to the merriment again afterward,” you added hastily, “I do not need to escape it completely, that would be no fun either.” Cregan nodded sagely, gazing at the ground in front of him.
He was leaning his elbows on his thighs, hands clasped in front of him in the space above his knees. He fiddled with his fingers a little and hummed in agreement.
“I wish to do away with all these feasts altogether,” he grumbled, and your limbs suddenly went a little rigid.
You felt that you had said something wrong, done something wrong, destroyed the peace between you somehow. Your mouth was dry but your back was suddenly a little damp with sweat. You turned your head to face your lap once more but glanced in his direction over and over.
The two of you were silent for a few moments, your teeth worrying at your lip as you continued your quick little eye movements between your lap and the man sat to your left. You were completely still otherwise, not even swinging your feet. Then Cregan let out a long breath and shook his head where he had dropped it between his shoulders. He leaned back and straightened up, looking at you with a sad little smile that made you feel more upset than comforted.
“That was unfair of me,” he breathed out. “If not for the feasts then I would not have had the pleasure of your company.”
You smiled, though it twitched and your eyes felt stuck to his face. You let out an awkward little ‘heh’ of a laugh, and nodded, but Cregan was already standing and brushing down his clothes before offering you his hand.
“Come, let us return to the merriment. Perhaps you can enjoy one more round of dancing before you truly cannot stand it anymore,” and he was smiling like he had done before, so who were you to argue?
You daintily placed your fingers on his palm and allowed him to haul you up, but you were quick to bring your hand back to your side as soon as he released it. You clutched your shawl tightly in your hands and allowed him to lead you back on the familiar path.
Though two nights of feasting had already passed, many more awaited. Three nights of feasting were to be followed by another for the announcement of the betrothal. The guests would stay on, for the wedding would be slightly rushed and held the week after, giving enough time for any other family members to make the travel and preparations to be made for a simple ceremony. On the third day, the men gathered themselves for a hunt. The women saw them off at the gates of Winterfell, waving handkerchiefs and wishing luck to all before simply returning to their chambers. It proved a rather boring day filled with embroidery or reading, perhaps a shared luncheon, but ultimately mostly solitary for everyone.
You supposed it was good, it made you crave the music and dancing that awaited you in the evening. A messenger had returned just ahead of the hunting party in the late afternoon announcing that the hunt had been extremely fruitful and that Winterfell would be blessed this evening. It had enticed everyone to put on their best clothing and surely to be even more joyful at the feast.
You kept with your theme of greys, whites, and silvers, though this dress was finer than the other two you had worn thus far. You had Dyanna thread pearls through your hair, and when you were fully dressed, twirled around in front of her with a happy little squeal. The fabric of your dress was shiny in the light and you were sure to catch many an eye in it. You felt beautiful, and it made you smile broad and unabashedly. You pressed your hands to your cheeks for a moment and closed your eyes, just allowing yourself to feel the joy before straightening up and clearing your throat. You nodded at Dyanna as if you were a soldier and schooled your expression to be slightly dimmer. Dyanna simply giggled and ushered you out to join your parents and enter the great hall once more.
When you entered, you felt a little shy for a moment. Though it was not a sea of heads turning to stare at you, some definitely watched your approach. You simply clenched your hands together and forced yourself to look ahead, breathing slowly as you followed after your parents. As you lowered yourself into your seat, you glanced in the direction of the head table and found Cregan already gazing in your direction. You went a little wide-eyed, turning your head away sharply before feeling foolish and girlish and tilting your head to the left a little so you could see him out of the side of your eye. He was still looking at you but his eyes had softened and he was almost smiling. The same burning under your skin began and you looked ahead once more, hoping someone would sit down next to you quickly so you could be distracted with conversation.
Your prayers were eventually answered and you became distracted for the rest of the meal, laughing and joking with those around you until your plates were emptied twice and your cups thrice. When everyone stood to move the tables and open the floor for dancing, you were loose with joy. Though you were still proper of course, all the young ladies were, you were also Northerners, and Northerners loved to dance.
You danced the first with a blond boy who had yelled his name at you but you had not heard, and the second with a slightly older but more enjoyable partner who you were sure was the eldest brother of one of your friends. You sat out the third to catch your breath, linking arms with another of your acquaintances and sipping ale slowly. You were so jovial that you did not notice the presence of Lord Stark until he was right at your shoulder.
A shadow fell slightly in front of you and you turned to glance in the direction of it, thinking nothing at first, before your eyes landed on the familiar locks of dark hair that settled about his shoulders. Mouth parting a little, your eyes trailed up from his neck to his face where his lips were pulled up on just one side, an innocent smile. He stood so close that his chest was practically pressed into your shoulder and you could feel the warmth he radiated on your arm. You gulped, finally gaining enough control to close your mouth, and returned a rather shocked smile. He held his hand out lightly and leaned down so close his lips brushed your ear as he spoke.
“Would you dance the next with me?”
You shivered. His breath was still brushing your ear and your entire body seemed to tingle from it. He was so close that you could smell him again, that soft clean cotton and earth smell that made you want to press your face to his neck and simply breathe over and over. You nodded, a jerky and slightly hurried motion, but it seemed to widen his smile and you would do it again and again just to see that happen once more.
The previous song was already at its end and you gently placed your hand in Cregan’s grip, allowing him to lead you to the other dancers as the next began. You could feel eyes on you, could just hear faint whispers of your name and Lord Stark’s without catching anything else. You ignored it all to focus on the man in front of you.
Though you expected him to know the dance, you did not expect him to be very graceful. He defied even that expectation, his movements lithe and clean. Perhaps he was not the most graceful, but he still moved with ease and timed it well to the music, a warrior through and through. You smiled brightly the entire time you danced, laughing with each hop or swish of your skirt, memorising the feeling of his palm against your own or the press of his hand at your waist. Your eyes glimmered in the candlelight and the pearls in your hair made you a beacon on the dancefloor. And Cregan was not the most expressive person, communicating through subtle shifts in a naturally stony expression, but he seemed relaxed and light as you danced, even smiling at your laughs and giggles.
When the song ended, you were out of breath and clapping with everyone else. You swayed a little on your feet and Cregan reached out quickly to steady you but you politely patted his hand and stepped out of his reach. You curtsied as the other partners did and beamed at him. If you could only save this moment in the palm of your hand, weave it in a tapestry exactly as it was, you would live in it forever.
You and Cregan parted ways and you rejoined your earlier acquaintance, gulping deeply from your cup as Cregan disappeared into the crowd. She turned to you and emphatically demanded to know everything about your dance. You did not have much to tell other than that you had enjoyed it, neither you nor Cregan had spoken during the entirety of it, and though she seemed dissatisfied with the lack of detail, she simply scoffed and shook her head before smiling and squealing a little with joy.
You remained on the sidelines for the next two dances before rejoining for the third. There were more eyes on you than ever, but you were lost in your own joy. Though Cregan had disappeared again, he had danced with you, and only you. Another three dances later and you knew you would fall right in the middle if you did not take a step back and have a rest for a few moments. You wiggled your way through the crowd right to the edge of the hall and found a seat against one of the walls. You pressed your back to the cool stone and sighed happily, drinking from your cup and watching the dancing through the gaps between the bodies standing in front of you. Someone lightly tapped your shoulder and you turned to find a woman gesturing to the seat next to you.
“Oh, yes, of course,” you nodded enthusiastically, moving your skirts to ensure she had enough room to sit next to you.
The woman’s gown looked almost black in the dim light but upon closer inspection it was a very dark grey. It was of a simple fashion but the fabric was very fine, surely something expensive. Her hair was left mostly loose, a few strands pulled back to keep her face clear, and it was a beautiful brown just a few shades darker than mahogany. Her eyes were like pure honey in the candlelight but she seemed a little sickly, her pale skin reflecting the yellow light a little too well. She could not have been much older than you, perhaps closer in age to Cregan than yourself, but she seemed tired and aged around her eyes. She may have drank too much or danced too emphatically, you supposed, and you smiled genially at her. She returned it, but as you turned to face forward again, she kept her eyes on you. Perhaps she wished for a friend, you reasoned, and leaned back so you were against the wall once more and turned your head to face her.
“Are you enjoying the festivities?” You asked, and it seemed to make her pause. She smiled, though it was small and a little false, but not in a rude way, moreso in a way that belied sadness and insecurity on her part.
“They are very grand,” she responded. Her voice was quiet and you thanked the gods that the music and chatter was not as loud where the two of you were seeking refuge.
“Indeed,” you responded, nodding emphatically. You felt a little awkward, laughing shakily and glancing about the room as you tried to keep the conversation alive. “I do not know if I have ever had this much fun.” She smiled at that, a little more sincere, and nodded along with your words.
“Yes, young ladies perhaps do not get to experience such merriment often,” she added, and you smiled brightly, nodding emphatically.
“Yes! You are absolutely right! I expressed just such a sentiment in conversation only two days prior,” and then you smiled a little dazedly as you remembered sitting beside Cregan, your heart warming like a pot slowly heating on the fire.
“So, you are happy with Winterfell, then?” The woman asked. She seemed so serious, like the question held more weight than you could recognise, but you simply laughed and nodded, your brows a little furrowed but the confusion smoothing out quickly.
“It has come to hold a special place in my heart, I think,” you answered with a shrug, “I will surely be sad to part with it when the time comes, but so will many others I believe.” You turned to face her a little more fully, hands clasped in your lap, “are you happy with Winterfell?”
She seemed a little surprised when you asked, and her mouth moved as if forming words but none of them came out. She gazed off into the distance, as if seeing things you could not, but you patiently waited for her response.
“Yes,” she answered, but said nothing more.
You stared at her, trying not to be too overbearing with your eyes. A light sheen of sweat had appeared at the edges of her neck and her hands seemed to tremble where they rested on her lap. You gently reached out and clasped one of them, holding it gently like an injured bird in your own palm. She turned to look at you again, and you could almost see tears brimming in her eyes. You reached back and grasped your cup of ale from the bench before offering it to her.
“Would you like some? You seem a bit out of sorts,” your voice was as quiet as hers as you spoke, and she accepted the cup from you, unfurling her hand from yours and holding the cup with all her fingers wrapped around it. You felt almost motherly in that moment, smiling to yourself as she drank from the cup before returning it to you. She thanked you quietly and allowed herself to slump back a little against the wall. Whatever odd tension had settled over the two of you quickly dissipated like fog burning away in daylight. You joined her in slumping your back against the wall and laughed at how truly unladylike the two of you seemed.
You fell into an easy rhythm with her then, simply speaking as she listened. You made jokes that had her laughing uproariously, little observations that made her smile, or just comments that had her humming in agreement or thought. When the conversation came to a natural lull, she bid you a gentle goodbye.
“I wish you well, dear,” she said, a small yet comforting smile on her lips. “That was perhaps the first time I have enjoyed myself since the feasts have started,” and with that she bowed a little then turned on her heel and disappeared into the crowd. You watched after her for a moment before shaking yourself a little to rid the odd feeling that seemed to creep on your bones after her departure.
Then you stood and ventured into the crowd for more dancing, because you were determined to enjoy this night. Tomorrow Lord Stark would meet with the family of whichever maiden he had chosen, and at sunset, at the beginning of the feast, he would announce the name of his bride-to-be. And though you had arrived with no hopes nor expectations, you knew that they had grown regardless upon meeting him, and you knew that it would hurt like a spike to the chest if he chose someone else.
The day ends up being both tense and rather… boring. You spend much of it in your own room, taking both breakfast and lunch there at your small table. You flit between activities but nothing can keep you focused for very long so you spend long moments pacing back and forth and nattering to Dyanna as she sits there looking rather fearful and helpless. You interrogate her for information every time she ventures out of your rooms to fill your jugs or bring you food or water to wash with, but she always returns looking hapless and apologetic.
“I’m sorry, miss,” she sighed when you almost jumped on her as she returned through the door, already shaking her head as she walked further into the room and deposited the jug on the table. You sighed overdramatically, throwing yourself back onto the bed and staring at the canopy over your bed.
“Nothing at all, Dyanna? You did not bump into anyone? Did not happen upon someone whispering about the lucky maiden?” You stared at her with wide eyes, urging her to say something, but she smiled painfully and shook her head.
“Again, I’m sorry, miss, but nothing at all. No one has heard anything. No news, no whispers, not even an inkling of who it might be.”
“Ugh!” You groaned and shook your head, pressing your hands to your face before pulling yourself up from your bed and settling into the chair in front of your vanity table with a huff. At this point you did not even want to be chosen, you simply wanted to know who had been. You stared at the surface of the table and went quiet for a few minutes as Dyanna tidied and readied things for the evening. You were hit with a pang in your chest, like someone had hammered a gong deep inside you.
Surely, if it was taking this long for you to hear something, that meant it would not be you. If it had been you, there would have been some sign. Though it had been agreed that the lucky maiden would not find out until the feast along with everyone else, it was also customary for the groom to discuss the engagement and arrangements with the bride’s family. And surely if that was to be upheld, then whoever was the lucky maiden would have some sort of sense of what was going to happen. Surely… surely… surely…
But then you grumbled again and frowned at the vanity table as you became frustrated with yourself. Your thoughts had been going in circles all day, vicious spirals of wishing he would choose you, hoping he would choose you, despairing that he had not chosen you, that he would not choose you, that you were never in contention in the first place. You had cycled through so many emotions already that you felt wrung out, too tired to even bother attending the stupid feast anymore. You did not want to sit there and clap and be happy while some other maiden tittered and cried as she got to walk up to the dais and sit beside Cregan. All the while you were seething and upset and hating yourself for becoming so invested in something you could not have cared less about three days prior.
“Come now, miss,” Dyanna soothed from behind you, walking over and gently toying with your hair. “Let’s begin readying you for this evening, and perhaps we can get your mind off this. Hm?” And she smiled so warmly and sweetly that you could not help but nod and try to smile in return.
You were deviating from your usual theme of greys this evening, instead opting for a dress of beautiful blues. The fabrics differed slightly in shades and overlapped with each other in a way that reminded you of a river. Your hair was left mostly natural, flowing down your back with the front strands pulled back in a clip decorated with sapphires.
You felt rejuvenated as you stood in front of Dyanna, twirling in your dress and running your hands over the fabric. She had distracted you with random stories and stupid jokes as she did your hair and laced up your dress and you slowly began to feel at peace once more. Dyanna smiled at you like an older sister, gently touching your hair and your cheeks as tears pooled in her eyes.
“You look beautiful, miss,” she whispered and you hugged her tight to your chest. If you had Dyanna, you would be alright regardless of the outcome of the evening.
You walked to the great hall just behind your parents. They seemed happy, smiling at each other and chatting. You tried to decipher if this was anything new, if they seemed particularly jovial this evening, but you couldn’t tell. They had been smiling since you all arrived in Winterfell and it seemed no different this evening.
Just as you had done the previous night, you all made your way through the hall and to your seats. Upon your cursory glance of the head table, you found an extra chair had been added beside Cregan’s, waiting for whoever would take their place as his wife-to-be. You glanced in his direction as well, running your eyes over him as if it would be the last time you saw him. In a way it might be, the last time you would allow yourself to look at him with such softness and familiarity anyway. His head began to turn in your direction but you looked away before he could look at you, fixing your eyes on the wall in the distance.
Instead of Cregan himself making the announcement, an old man you had recognised as one of his chief advisors stood with his cup held aloft. Everyone turned to look at him as he smiled brightly and ran his eyes over the crowd.
“We have all gathered here for a special occasion,” he began sagely, “to offer the chance for our Lord to find an unmatched happiness many of us have already experienced.” You watched Cregan instead of the man, the way he almost seemed to grimace at the words. “To this end, our Lord has chosen on this fine day! The match has been agreed with the maiden’s family, and I am beyond pleased to announce the betrothal of Lord Cregan Stark and Lady Y/n L/n!”
Applause broke out in the great hall. Thunderous applause that echoed against the very ceiling. People were standing, holding their cups and goblets aloft, jostling with each other as they cheered and jeered. Your parents were standing beside you now, your friends clapping and squealing with joy. You were ushered up from your seat, hands gripping your arms and lifting you to standing before gently touching your back to urge you forward in the direction of the dais.
And through it all, the movement and the deafening echo, you still could not quite believe it was your name that had been called. You could see the man gesturing the goblet in your direction from his place on the dais, could see his lips moving around your name, could even hear it in your ears, but you could not quite believe it.
Your breath was light in your chest, as if you couldn’t pull enough in and it slipped from your nose before you could truly appreciate that you had taken a breath in the first place. Your entire body felt too light for that matter, as if your limbs weren’t quite your own, only borrowed. You gulped, though your lips did not stay quite closed as you moved. Your eyes were slightly dazed and unfocused but you managed to find your way to the dais, ushered gently to the chair and sat down before you could complete two blinks.
You turned and found Cregan smiling down at you, a small and gentle thing, but a smile nonetheless. He gently patted your hand where it had landed on the armrest and you gulped again. That simple touch seemed to settle you into your body a little, and you adjusted yourself so your posture was a little better. You nodded at him with a fluttery little smile, something that twitched at your lips and moved between too wide and too small.
“To our future bride and groom!” The same man held his cup aloft as everyone in the great hall followed suit, yelling ‘to our future bride and groom!’ Cregan handed you your cup and you both toasted as well, though your hands were a little shaky.
As you looked out over the great hall, elation seemed to slowly descend on you. You turned in your seat just slightly so you could see the side of Cregan’s face from the edge of your vision. Your heart seemed to sigh in your chest, as if it had been yelling for so long and it had finally been acknowledged. You felt peaceful, a little bashful, and a little chaotic with joy too. You had been hoping, quietly and only in the depths of your heart, that perhaps whatever warmth and budding something that had appeared in your chest after meeting him by the heart tree had not been solely in your own imagination. It felt so wonderful to believe that perhaps he had felt something grow between you as well.
The rest of the evening had passed in a blissful blur. There had been many speeches of congratulations and wishes of good health from the heads of the different houses; your father had given one on joy and love that had made your eyes tear up. Food and drink had flowed freely and though Cregan did not speak to you much other than to offer you more meat or wine, he had smiled at you like you had given him a gift he could never repay and it made your heart clench happily. He had even danced with you on three separate songs, swinging you around as you laughed and smiling even brighter as you did.
The feast had gone on long into the night and the two of you had only been released from your seats when the first of the drunkards were beginning to be led back to their rooms by their family members. Cregan had taken your hand and pressed a fleeting kiss to the back of it before you were led to your rooms. You had laughed and screamed giddily with Dyanna, yelling about how you could not believe that you had been chosen. You had allowed her to unlace your dress and help you wash but then you had taken her hands into yours and spun around the room until you were sick with dizziness.
Dyanna was ecstatic for you, amplifying your own joy. She squealed with you, giggled with you, tickled you until you were breathless. She brushed your hair and told you of the amazing life you would live at Winterfell. Then she tucked you into your bed and left with one final congratulations on your engagement.
You spent much of the night tossing and turning, laughing to yourself in ecstasy and imagining all sorts of scenarios of the wedding. The ravens would have already been sent out after your father had agreed to the betrothal and your brothers and sister would be on the way to Winterfell in the coming days. You could see the flowers, the dress, and Cregan. You could see Lord Stark standing in front of you at the heart tree, smiling down at you as he had done that evening. You could almost feel him kiss you, and you turned over to press your face into the pillow as you burned with a blush.
The next day dawned a little colder and with a cloud cover over Winterfell, but you did not let it deter your joy. You woke with an airiness to your limbs that had you floating through getting dressed and breakfast. In the hours before luncheon, a messenger came knocking on your door, requesting your presence in the afternoon for a stroll with your betrothed if you pleased. You beamed at the messenger, responding with an emphatic yes before closing the door on him and calling Dyanna to attention to ready you well for the afternoon.
You did not contain the patience required to sit in your rooms and wait for him to call on you, so you made your way outside to the courtyard early. Though Dyanna stayed close to you now as you strolled back and forth (you were not allowed to be without chaperone just yet), she had promised to keep at a distance when your Lord finally arrived. Cregan was prudent, if not a little early, and greeted both you and Dyanna before offering you his arm and beginning to lead you out of the courtyard.
“Your dress is very pretty,” he complimented as you walked under the arch, and you felt the burn of a blush under your cheeks.
“Thank you,” you responded politely, though the smile on your face was bright and clear. You glanced back and saw Dyanna already trailing out of earshot. She sent a smile your way and you beamed in return, nodding in thanks.
“I hope I have not disrupted your day by requesting this walk,” he began politely, but you simply shook your head in response, a chorus of ‘oh no, not at all,’ following. “Good,” he sighed, smiling a little, “for there are some things I wish to tell you.” You raised your eyebrows, eyes widening just slightly before smiling a little again.
“Do tell,” you responded simply. Your spine felt a little stiffer all of a sudden but you tried to ignore the odd sense of foreboding.
“Well, first and foremost, I wished to express to you how happy I am in choosing you,” and the odd feeling dissipated so quickly you could not remember having felt it in the first place. You huffed out a surprised little laugh, holding onto his arm a little tighter as you walked. Your shoulders loosened and your cheeks seemed to be permanently stuck in a smile. You were about to open your mouth to respond, but he continued. “And I wished to tell you something else.” He pressed his lips together for a moment and stared at the land ahead of you as you.
He had begun leading you around the perimeter of the castle, following the wall at a slight distance. You watched him instead of the path, trusting him to guide you and hold you steady. He seemed lost in thought, not exactly frowning but not completely without a furrow to his brow.
“Yes?” You prompted quietly, hushed, trying not to disturb whatever fragile thing now hung in the air between you.
“When Arra became pregnant with Rickon, we were… blindingly happy. She had struggled to get with child, and it had begun upsetting her. All she ever wanted was to be a mother. And when it finally happened, it was everything we could have wished for. The pregnancy was not without difficulties, sickness and tiredness, but the maesters said it was not unusual. Then… when Rickon arrived…” he paused, closing his eyes in a long blink before taking a deep breath in and continuing on. “When Rickon arrived, the cord keeping him to his mother was wrapped around his neck. In the chaos she began to bleed and the maesters rushed to tend to her as well. They could not revive Rickon, and he died almost as soon as he had been born.”
You held tighter to Cregan now as a lump began forming in your throat. Your eyes felt heavy with the sadness of his tale and you bowed your head to stare at your feet as you continued your slow pace.
“They were able to save Arra, staunch the bleeding and keep her from death’s door, but… the maesters declared her barren. Whatever had caused the bleeding had also left her unable to bear another child… it was devastating.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth as he blinked rapidly, eyes flitting this way and that. He breathed deeply but his voice still came out low when he continued. “I would not hear of anything until Arra awoke, and I stayed at her bedside until she was able to lift herself to sit up. Then my advisors descended upon me like vultures.” He huffed a sardonic laugh, glancing at you as if expecting you to respond with your own rye smile but you were staring off into the distance, spine perhaps a little more rigid than before but not noticeably so. “They all said something must be done, the line of succession needed to be secured. The first idea posed was an annulment. They said I could dissolve my marriage to Arra as she could not fulfil what was essential to our union but I would not hear of it. I would not even hear the idea entertained.”
Here he paused and turned to look at you earnestly. You met his eyes, but your hands trembled. A knot began forming in your stomach like the slow turning of a spindle. Your chest was heavy and each step took more effort than the last.
“I love Arra,” he breathed out, “I love her more than any other soul, and I could not even imagine being parted from her, let alone considering an annulment.”
Dread was slowly settling over you like thick molasses being poured from a jug. It did not drip or run, simply poured over your shoulders and head and began sinking into your skin and bones. Your eyes became unfocused, your breath shallow, and your hands trembled so much that you had to clench them to hide it.
“And so it was suggested that I take a second wife. I could keep my marriage to Arra undisturbed, but I would still be able to produce a legitimate heir. It felt wrong, like a betrayal of Arra. All she had ever wanted had already been taken from her, and to rip up our marriage in such a way so soon after… I consulted her, as I do with everything, and she accepted that the only way forward was for me to marry another. She said it would be alright, that she believed in my love for her, that this would not change that,” and the way he smiled made you feel sick to your stomach.
It was unlike anything he had ever shown you. It was soft and sweet and pulled at the corners of his lips. It was as if he could see the object of his happiness in his mind’s eye. You could feel the lump in your throat thicken, almost press against the back of your tongue. Your hands felt swollen and tingly, as if your pain now coursed through their very tendons.
“I agreed and the preparations were made, the people arrived, but I felt… hopeless. I could not imagine choosing any woman other than Arra. I looked out at this sea of maidens and saw no one I wished to marry. And perhaps I am weak but, I could not imagine condemning any young woman to something they would not understand. Condemning either of us to the company of the other when we would not be wholly in it. I could feel myself falling deeper into a pit of despair.” Then he paused and turned to you again, this time smiling with a light boyishness, almost teasing as if the continuation of the story was obvious.
“But then I met you, the answer to all my woes in your pretty dresses and carefree attitude. Though I worried about perhaps condemning you as well, you began speaking about how you only wished for merriment. How young ladies do not get to experience it much and how you came not to vie for me but to simply enjoy yourself. And I realised that I could offer you something in return.” He was so happy as he said it, an almost juvenile excitement. “If we were to marry, you would not be confined at all.” He paused, glancing away before leaning a little closer and lowering his voice. “Laying with one another, cannot be avoided,” he said, awkward and a little halting on the word ‘laying’, “but once a son was safely born then we would both be free. You would be free. You could travel or roam or take lovers if you wished, though perhaps that would be kept quieter for your own sake,” he lowered his voice again, smirking and laughing a little. “You would never have to see me again if you so wished, but,” he laughed a little again, his smile all innocent happiness once more, “I do hope that will not be the case. I have come to enjoy your company as a friend.” He took a deep breath in and sighed, long and slow, as if the weight of the world had finally been lifted from his shoulders. “You would not need to care for the babe either. Arra will raise him as a mother, and you will be truly, truly free.”
You could barely keep your eyes open. You could feel the hot press of tears just behind them but you could not allow yourself to cry, not yet. You gulped over and over but the lump in your throat did not dissipate. Your chest clenched so painfully that you could almost scream with it. You wanted to press your hands to your face and scream until your throat was ripped to shreds. How could a misunderstanding of words, a simple conversation in which you had not expressed yourself quite as you had wished, lead to the destruction of all your hopes and dreams? How could everything you had once imagined, love and a family, children of your own to care for, slip away so quickly because of some noble intention and misplaced words?
“I was wary for Arra when the festivities arrived,” he began again, face a little somber. “I did not want to cause her any more pain than what she had experienced, but when I told her of you, she seemed glad with the choice. She recommended it wholeheartedly,” and he smiled brightly, as if that was the highest compliment he could pay you but your brows furrowed quickly.
“What?” You breathed out, clinging to this little piece of confusion to pull you out of the black spiral in your head. You still could not look at him, could not bear to turn and face him, so you kept your eyes on the air ahead of you unseeing.
“She told me of meeting you at the feast the evening before last. You had given her the seat by your side, offered her ale from your cup and conversed with her for a while,” his face was so open, so joyful, that when you glanced at it you felt your chest clench all over again. “She said you made her laugh uproariously, that you had a good heart.”
You were stuck in a horrible wasteland. You were frozen, incapable of doing anything but listening, yet your body wished to rip itself from his side and be sick in the dirt. Your feet were blocks attached to the rigid wood of your legs, and if he had not kept moving, kept you in motion, then you likely would have collapsed right where you stood.
You had arrived back at the gates without realising, but you could not see anything around you. Your body was not your own but you were connected to it so fiercely. Your hands trembled, your stomach tensed, your spine was a piece of string pulled taught. You were not your own.
Cregan gently untangled his arm from your own and stood in front of you with a beaming smile.
“Thank you, my lady. Thank you for being the answer to all my woes,” he breathed out. Your head nodded for you, listening to him bid you goodbye but not returning it. He walked back into the courtyard, head held high, where one of his advisors waited patiently to guide him back to whatever business awaited him.
You were frozen to your spot, like winter had arrived in one gust of wind and left you stuck there. It felt as though there were a pair of hands deep in your chest, fingernails digging into your heart and slowly scratching at it, tearing cuts into it then digging their fingers into the cuts and ripping whole pieces of it away. Your eyes began to burn with the tears you had held back for so long and you swayed dangerously.
You could hear his words over and over, could hear him telling you he loved Arra, could hear him saying how you had been the answer he was looking for. All because you had not been clear when you said you wanted to enjoy the festivities. You could see the future you had always so craved, a husband who loved and cherished you, a house of your own to organise and run, a troupe of little children to call your own and raise, slipping away like ice into a river. All because he had misconstrued your words upon meeting you, because you had been kind and carefree, because you had not realised the identity of the woman you had met. A series of events created on pure chance and carelessness had led to you losing… everything.
You began looking around for Dyanna, your breath short and shallow as it punched out of your chest. She was quick to return to your side, grabbing your arm as you leaned all your weight onto her.
“Take me back to my rooms,” you whispered, eyes dazed and haunted.
When you had returned to your rooms, you had sent Dyanna away. She had tried to inquire why, had tried to suggest that she would simply help you with your laces, but you had shut the door in her face and secured the beam to lock it. You were dazed, walking into the room and standing by your mirror.
As the silence settled over you, only the sound of your own breath echoing back to you, you became a flurry of movement. You ripped at the laces on your back until they were undone and you could push the offending dress off your arms. You were heaving your breaths now, loud and painful like that of a plague victim. They bordered on sobs, crushing as they filled and left your chest. You were haphazard in your motions, stepping out of the dress and clambering onto your bed in your thin cotton shift, the sleeves bunching a little at your elbows.
You pressed your face to your pillow and began to cry like you had never cried before. Your sobs bordered on screams, your tears were like little rivers down your face, pouring without restraint. You had never felt pain like this, the kind that clawed at your throat and made you feel both limp and rigid. You curled around one of your pillows, another soaking up the tears that wet your cheeks. Your mind was too loud, yelling yet incoherent, and you could do nothing but feel it all.
You did not know how long you cried, only that eventually your sobs turned to blubbers and then huffed breaths. You teetered on the edge still, one reckless thought and you would dissolve into tears once more, but your eyes were finally blinking open. You moved your mouth from where it had pulled back as you cried and gently massaged your cheeks. You wiped your eyes on your pillow cover and sat up until you were pressed against the headboard, your knees pulled up to your chest. You pressed your face to your knees and allowed your hair to fall around you like a curtain, hands clenching tightly to your shins.
You could only think of the dread you had been destined to now, wrung out by the force of your crying. You could not break the engagement. It had already been announced to everyone, your father had already agreed. It would bring shame and ruin on the family to refuse it now, and you would not have any suitors in the future. Though you would be the one breaking it, everyone would wonder what had been wrong with you, what you had done to end a dream of an opportunity.
And even if you did tell your mother and father what Cregan had told you, what you had been doomed to, you knew they would tell you to stop being so childish. To marry for love was foolish, and to refuse the best of matches for such a notion was beyond stupidity. They would tell you to open your eyes and look at what a gift you had received. The Lord of the North had chosen you to be his bride. If nothing else, that counted for something. Though you may be only a broodmare, you would still carry the title of Lady of Winterfell. You would live a lavish life, one the other maidens who had attended could only dream of now. You were focusing too much on your pathetic heart and not on the blessings right in front of you.
You considered ending your own life. You could see a length of rope and a tree branch, or perhaps a dagger and slit wrists in the bath. But you could not do that to Dyanna, could not bring that shame on your family in your wake.
When Dyanna returned to ready you for the evening, you were slow to unfurl from the bed and allow her in. For a long moment you considered simply pulling the covers back over your head and pretending the world outside your chambers did not exist. Though you could not have been able to hide for long, you would not have had to face the world quite at that moment. Despite the war in your head, you had shuffled your way to the door and allowed her in.
Dyanna gasped at the state of you, touching your face gently as she guided you to sit at your vanity. She pressed soft fingertips to your cheeks and your puffy eyes, and when she cupped your face in her hands you began to cry once more.
“Oh darling,” she breathed out, pulling you close and caressing the top of your head.
You began blubbering out the story, telling her everything Cregan had told you. You could not keep it in, could not wallow in the sadness on your own any longer. She listened closely to what you told her then cradled your head to her chest. When your cries subsided once more she hushed you gently, wiping your tears with her sleeve and pulling away. She did not say anything in response to the tale you told her, simply wiped your face with a wet cloth and held a cold metal pitcher first to one eye then the other. She told you to hold it and keep it against your eyes and began readying your dress. She helped you step into it and laced it up before sitting you down and doing your hair.
You looked up at her in the mirror like a lost child, all wide eyes and trembling lower lip, but she simply smiled in sympathy and told you to keep straight or your braids would be crooked. You took deep breaths as she worked, closing your eyes and trying to steady yourself. You would need to face everyone now, would need to face Cregan. He was not aware of the turmoil within you, of the way he had cursed you without meaning to. You almost began to cry once more but shook your head to rid yourself of the thoughts (to a flurry of tuts from Dyanna). No, you could face this. And that was what you told yourself for the next week.
The week leading up to the wedding became a blur that you could not remember when you looked back on it. You seemed to float through it like a cloud in an otherwise clear sky. You smiled when necessary, and spoke as you had been taught to since childhood, but you couldn’t quite remember why you smiled or what you said. You gripped Cregan’s hand when necessary and laughed when needed, but you were not quite present.
During the day you stayed confined to your bed, curled around a pillow with the covers pulled up to your nose so only your eyes gazed out blankly to the wall. Dyanna tried to coax you out, to engage you with any little thing she could, but to her every inquiry you simply hummed and stayed in bed. You told her to handle everything, to make whatever choices needed to be made, and to leave you in your bed until the last possible moment.
When the servants and vendors arrived for the wedding, Dyanna met them at the door and told them you were not feeling your best and had taken to your bed for the day to try and curb any illness before the wedding. She tried to bring the choices to you, but you did not even bother raising your head to look at her. In the end she did make all the decisions, from the fabric and style of your wedding dress to the dessert that you wished to be served during the feast.
And every evening in the time leading up to the wedding you would rise like a ghost from the grave, allowing Dyanna to move you this way and that to prepare you for the feast before sending you out to the great hall. There your performance began and ended. It was good enough to convince, but fragile. If one looked too close, they would realise that your cups stayed full to the brim bar a few sips, your plates remained as full at the end of dinner as they had been at the start, one or two small bites gone, and your gaze, once bright and soulful, was now vacant.
Cregan seemed happy enough to leave you to your devices during the day, not a visit or a whisper to be heard of, though he seemed happy to see you upon your arrival to dinner each evening. Your parents worried over your withdrawn state but you forced Dyanna to ease their worries and ensure all dogs were put off the scent of your new demeanour. It was only when your brothers and sister arrived did you seem to gain some life back.
Dyanna forced you to leave your bed during the day to welcome their arrival, pulling you from its clutches despite your protests and dressing you in a pale pink gown, leaving your face clean-washed and natural. Every step you took to leave your room felt weighed down by tar but upon stepping out in the fresh air you felt slightly rejuvenated. A cold breeze blew through Winterfell and brought the earthy scent from the woods to its doorstep. You took deep slow breaths and filled your lungs desperately as you watched the carriages come to a stop. Even the whinnying of the horses felt new and soothing, and the sight of the sky made your eyes feel slightly more alive than they had done before.
You could feel Dyanna watching you carefully from your side, and you turned to offer her the barest hint of a smile, nothing more than a twitch of your lips, but it seemed to put her at ease, a little sigh of relief puffing from her lips. Her shoulders seemed to relax as she slumped a little where she stood and a pang of shame hit you in the chest for all the turmoil you had put her through.
Your brothers and sister piled out of their carriages and huddled around you in a tight hug, yelling their congratulations and well wishes. You allowed them to jostle you in their arms, press kisses to your hair and gaze at you with teary smiles like you were their first child and had grown rather fast. You could not bear to ruin their fun but their happiness seemed to dig into the wound in your heart and rip it open afresh, the painful blood pouring out into your veins once more. You smiled and allowed them to heap their joy onto you, but tears burned at your eyes and you were forced to pass them off as overwhelming joy.
You had not realised Cregan’s presence until your siblings were unwinding their arms from around you. You could see him watching you all with a soft, wistful, smile and it made your chest pulse with pain. Your siblings moved to greet him, clearing their throats and dimming their expressions a little to appear more dignified. He was sincere, proud in a polite manner as he shook hands and smiled warmly. You kept your distance, waiting with your back to the carriages and watching them all interact. A sudden wave of cool tiredness washed over you and without another word you disappeared into the castle, back into your bed and slipping under the covers.
You were a little more returned to life as the wedding drew nearer. Your sister was quick to invade your space, pulling you off to explore Winterfell or aid in the preparations. Though she had noted your now-muted personality, she did not pry and simply set to dragging you about with her.
The day of the wedding you were woken a little earlier than usual. Dyanna helped to feed you little bits of fruit until you felt sick on your new shrunken appetite before leading you to a steaming bath. She allowed you to soak for a long while, until the water was just shy of tepid, then began scrubbing you and rubbing different oils and lotions on you until you smelt like a fresh flower garden. As you began drying after your bath, she tried to feed you once more but you turned your head away at every attempt.
Though you had become quiet since your betrothal, you were particularly silent this morning, not even bothering to open your mouth for yeses and no’s. Your gaze was vacant as you stared at the wall and your breaths were so soft you almost seemed like a corpse walking. Dyanna worried over you, gently patting your cheeks and stroking your hair and trying to urge you to say something, anything, but you would simply blink up at her for a few moments before returning to your pondering. She prayed silently to all the gods, old and new, that you would reappear for the wedding ceremony.
Dyanna laced you into a beautiful gown of white and silver, making you look like a princess bathed in snow. It was long enough to touch the floor in front of you and had a short train. Your slippers matched and she adorned you with pearls where she could, dripping through your hair and hanging from your neck and ears. You looked ethereal, a creature of the snow that had appeared from the weirwood, a true spirit of the North.
“You will be a vision he cannot resist,” Dyanna whispered in your ear as you both gazed into the mirror. But all you did was nod and allow her to continue brushing a soft rouge on your lips and cheeks.
Though the sky was overcast, the clouds were not thick with rain and simply cast a grey light over the world. The procession was beautiful, a bouquet of snowdrops in your hands as you walked toward the heart tree. Your breaths were shallow in your chest little puffs that barely moved your body. You cast your eyes on the heart tree, where it all began, and you felt something twinge deep inside you.
You wanted to scream, to throw the bouquet from your hand and dig your nails into the tree bark and rip at the face that had been carved there. Why had the gods cursed you in such a way? Why had they instilled the desire for love and companionship in you, pointed your heart at Cregan Stark and dangled a future of perfection before your eyes before ripping everything away with his confession?
You looked at him, standing just under the cover of the tree and watching you walk to him with a small smile on his face. Hot tears slipped from your eyes and you could almost see every face in the crowd beginning to frown. You tried to school your expression, even to smile, but it was watery and unconvincing and almost made your sadness more apparent than the neutral face you had kept before. You heard murmurs of how you were most likely crying from happiness, or the sadness of leaving your home and family behind, and you hoped others would listen and excuse you.
You stopped in front of Cregan and took a long look at his face. He seemed at peace, and he was smiling at you as if he was truly happy to be attending this wedding. You stared at the easy set of his cheeks and lips, at the piercing quality of his blue eyes and the neat gathering of his hair off his face. You wanted to hit him. You wanted to pummel his chest and slap his face and scream and cry, ask why he would do this to you? Why you? But you also saw the warmth, the youth in his face and the innocent joy and it made you want him to wrap his arms around you, to press gentle kisses to your cheeks and lips and tell you that it was all a misunderstanding, that he loved you and only you.
But then the ceremony began and you could do nothing but repeat the words and bind yourself to him. You could do nothing but close your eyes and let the tears cascade freely as he gently pressed his lips to yours, a fleeting barely-there kiss that made your face heat up and your heart clench in your chest, all to the backing of loud cheers and whistles.
The wedding was particularly difficult to get through for you. It would have been easy if it was like all the other feasts, but this one required you to be aware, refused to allow you to unfocus your eyes and wander distant lands in your own mind.
Throughout dinner a parade of people came to the table to congratulate you and Cregan. It seemed the head of every family had lined up, and you had to treat each one with respect and felicity, smiling and nodding in thanks, asking after their wives and children and enduring each long-winding story they pulled out just to have said they spent a little longer in the company of the newly weds than others. You supposed this parade was good in a sense, you were not keen to eat much and it was a good excuse to have barely touched the food.
Then came the dancing, particular songs requested of the musicians and cheering and urging from the crowd for you two to join them. Cregan smiled and huffed out a bashful laugh before standing and offering you his hand. And you could not refuse lest everyone begin to question the sanity of the bride, so you let him guide you from the chair and onto the dance floor for a slow and gentle son that required he pull you close into his body.
His arms wrapped around you as you two swayed to the music but you kept your eyes clenched shut. You thought if you kept them closed you could ignore everything around you, transport yourself somewhere else, but all it did was highlight how close he was, how his breath felt brushing over your cheek and neck and the fresh clean smell of him, the warmth he emanated.
“You are quiet tonight,” he whispered by your ear, pulling back a little to run his gaze over your face. He looked almost concerned and it made your innards pang with pain. You didn’t reply at first, continuing to dance and cast your eyes over his shoulder rather than on him.
“Just… in thought, I suppose,” you whispered in return, shrugging your shoulders and relaxing a little into the motion of the dance. He nodded and his face opened as if something was dawning on him. He leaned closer again as he spoke.
“If you are worried about… later this evening, you need not be. I will be gentle, and perhaps… you may feel some pleasure,” the way the words caressed your ear made you shiver. If you closed your eyes you could almost pretend that he was an eager husband, one who loved you deeply and cared for you beyond belief, one who wished to make the bedding pleasurable for you. But your eyes were open and staring at a lit sconce on the wall, and dread poured over you like ice cold water.
Though bedding ceremonies were not much cared for in the North, you knew your purpose, and you knew he wished to fulfill it soon. Upon the completion of the dance you were both permitted to return to your seats for a little while longer. You were called away first by your maids, slipping out of the great hall to a chorus of cheers and jeering.
Dyanna led the charge, welcoming you to your new bedchambers before dismissing the others. She could see the heartbreak in your eyes, the apprehension and pain mingling like a dose of poison. She helped you change into a pretty white nightgown, rubbed scented oils on your wrists and behind your ears, then sat you down at your new vanity to brush your hair. Her hands were soft and soothing and you let yourself relax in the seat, closing your eyes and taking slow deep breaths.
“You will be alright darling,” she whispered, gathering your hair before fanning it over your back. “It will be done in a flash, nothing to remember or dwell on. You’ll close your eyes a moment, then it will all be gone. It will all be alright,” she muttered continuously, stroking and brushing your hair as tears dripped from her eyes.
You were still at the table with Dyanna when Cregan entered. You opened your eyes and she began hastily wiping at her cheeks as the door revealed him. He had abandoned his fur and jacket, dressed in a plain tunic as he strolled in. He smiled at you and Dyanna, gentle and kind.
“Do not rush on my account,” he told Dyanna, pressing a hand to his chest, and he settled himself on the edge of the bed, palms at his sides.
“We had just finished,” she responded, smiling at him before turning back to you. She bent to grab the brush from the table, and pressed a firm kiss to the back of your head. Your eyes met in the mirror and she smiled in encouragement before straightening and leaving.
You stayed in your seat for a moment, closing your eyes and stealing yourself before blinking them open and standing, turning to face him. He was watching you closely, eyes darting all over you as you came closer and closer. You stopped in front of him, an arm’s reach away.
“Are you alright?” He asked quietly, his eyes soft and concerned. You nodded, instinct, and waited for his next move. He reached out and gently grasped both your arms, bringing you closer until you were tucked neatly between his legs, your hands brushing the tops of his thighs and his face level with your neck, only a hair’s breadth away. You gulped, hands shaking, and his breaths brushed warmly over your neck, shivers trembling down your spine.
“It…” he whispered, voice calm and confident, lips almost brushing your neckline, “can still be pleasurable,” he breathed, “and I would not dare to put you through unnecessary pain.”
You nodded, eyes fluttering closed and throat moving as you swallowed the saliva pooling in your mouth. Your insides were wrought in chaos, desperate yet pained. It seemed regardless of anything your pleasure would always go hand in hand with your pain.
He ran his hands up your arms to your shoulders then down to your elbows before gripping your waist on either side and pulling you even closer until you were pressed right to his chest. His chin rested between your breasts, pulling your neckline down a little, and he began pressing soft kisses to the skin just above it. They were soft, a little damp as his lips opened a little, and he trailed them slowly up to your neck. You bent your head a little so he could kiss up to the spot just behind your ear, pure instinct in your veins. Your hands came up to rest on his shoulders, grasping tight to his shirt.
He wrapped his arms a little tighter around you, pulled you down a little so he could trail his kisses over your cheek. He paused by the corner of your mouth, watching your face for a moment before continuing on the other side, avoiding your lips entirely. You seemed to tremble in his hands like a leaf in a storm.
Cregan pulled back a little, allowing you to only stumble back a step. He watched you, eyes ablaze, as he gripped the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head, exposing his bare chest and stomach. You marveled at him, gulping at the sight. He was broad and thick with muscle, gentle ridges defining each one. You could see his chest move up and down with each breath and a little trail of hair led over his stomach and disappeared beneath the line of his trousers.
You reached out and gently placed your palm flat against his chest, feeling the warm skin and firm muscle, the rise and dip of his breath. Your own was shaky in comparison to his steady (though slightly hurried) pace, and you stepped a little closer once more.
Cregan reached down and began gathering the skirt of your nightgown in his hands, collecting it in his palms and slowly lifting. He kept his eyes on your face, waiting for any fear, any refusal, but you only gazed at him in return, pupils blown wide and lips parted. He stood with it, now looking down at you as you raised your arms and allowed him to lift it over your head. Your hair became a little ruffled, strands bent and sticking up in places, but he ran a gentle hand over your head, and smoothed it all down. You shook as the cold air touched your bare skin, bumps raising along your arms and your nipples pinching into tight peaks.
He finally trailed his gaze downward, raking over your breasts and stomach, your thighs and the shadowed place between them. You felt the intense desire to cover up, to step away and pull the nightgown back over you, but you were also frozen, in thrall. His gaze seemed to touch you with heat, raking fire along every inch of skin. You wanted him to devour you, to cover every inch of you with his own body until you became a part of him.
He reached up and cupped a breast in his hand, stroking the flesh reverently with his thumb. You shivered, putting all your effort into staying standing. His thumb grazed over your nipple, the natural roughness pulling it down a little. He did it again, then once more as you tingled deep in your core and your breaths came out a little shorter, a little punchier.
He pulled back and undid the laces on his trousers, not even bothering to gaze down at himself. His fingers pressed under the hems and he shoved them off his hips, dropping them and pushing them to the side with his foot. You let your gaze drop, trailing down from his stomach.
He had strong thighs and calves to match the rest of him, corded with muscle. His cock stood between his legs, red and thick, touching at his stomach. You swallowed the saliva coating your tongue and cheeks, swallowed the urge to reach out and touch him and learn what it felt like.
He moved to wrap his arms around you, one curling around your back and pressing you close to his bare torso while the other gripped you at the waist. His hair fell on your shoulders, tickling your chest. You gasped, the feeling of his warm skin against your own made you hot inside out. He turned and lay you out on the bed, pulling away just enough so you could shuffle back further until your head met the pillows and your feet no longer dangled over the edge. He loomed over you now, gaze hungry and a touch frantic.
You licked over your lips, chest heaving and head dizzy, and your hands curled into fists in the bedsheets. He dropped to press kisses over the tops of your breasts, his hand running down the side of your body and over your thighs. He separated them as he enveloped a nipple with his mouth, listening to your sharp gasp and soft whimper.
His fingers were gentle as they ran up your slit, collecting the little bit of slick that was already beginning to coat you. He pressed in at the top, rubbing a little portion of you that made you twitch and clench all over. He rolled it a little then carried down, gently probing until he managed to twist a single finger into you all the way to the hilt.
You were clinging to his shoulders now, running your hands over the smooth skin as you clenched your eyes shut and allowed yourself to simply feel everything. His hair, still tied back, fell over his shoulders and touched your chest. He pushed and pulled the finger inside of you, beginning a rhythm that made your legs tighten where they lay. He continued to lavish kisses over your breasts and neck, his breaths becoming heavier against your ears.
Then he brought two fingers together, hushing you gently as you moaned at the sting and stretch. Your hands clung a little harder to his shoulders but he simply mouthed at your cheeks, a little ‘sh, sh,’ against your skin. He returned to the same rhythm, the in that pressed as deep as he could go, the out that left the very edges of you brushing the tips of his fingers.
It was such an odd yet addicting feeling, the rub of him inside you, the texture of yourself finally being discovered. Something within you seemed to be lifting with each movement, cresting like the journey up a flight of stairs. Just when you felt it, the edge, a light airiness beginning to touch your limbs and your mouth trembling with noise, he pulled his hand away from your core.
“Sh, sh,” he mumbled again, soothing you after the surprised little ‘mph’ left your lips.
He braced the hand that had just been between your legs beside you, his face pressed to your cheek as he shifted his weight so he was almost laying over you. He reached down first with one hand to lift your thigh and sling it over his hip before doing the same with the other. You could feel him against you, the weight of him on your stomach, hot and firm. The warm skin over his ribs and hips was pleasant to your inner thighs and you wished he would lower himself a little more, rest his chest against your own, suffocate you with himself.
He pressed his elbow onto the bed as he manoeuvred a hand between your bodies, notching himself at your entrance. You grimaced a little at the feeling, at the way your core began to stretch around him as he pushed in. Your hand came up and clung to his bicep, your nails digging in a little. You huffed out a breath, eyes clenched shut.
You could feel his nose digging into your cheek, his lips moving softly on your jaw. You breathed out with a little sound, something between a whimper and an airy sigh, as he pushed fully inside you. His hand returned to the other side of your head and he grunted, pulling his face away as his shoulders curled in slightly. He was panting as you were, eyes fluttering as he clenched them shut, hips trembling and twitching.
He waited until your breath evened out a little before moving again, a slow pace of back and forth that made you clench and tremble, keen a little against his ear. He was grunting, thick sounds leaving his throat and muffling against your neck where he had dropped his head. Each thrust was a deep, rolling, thing that pressed his stomach to yours. Your skin, slick with sweat, rubbed against his, your nipples pressed to his chest.
He gripped your waist, moving a little faster now, a little harder, his mouth pressing to your neck, open and boiling hot. You twitched against him, around him, clenched your thighs tighter over his hips. Your moan lifted into the air like a cloud, settling above the two of you. His head drooped further until his lips pressed to your shoulder.
Everything was rushing now. His hands were on your thighs and he pressed them tight to his sides, digging his fingertips into their soft flesh. His grunts were sharper, occasionally melting into moans when you clenched around him. His skin was burning hot and it set yours on fire everywhere he touched you.
The feeling was back, the pressure deep in your core that made your mouth open a little wider, made the hot tingling become a frenzy. Your face contorted into a tight expression, your entire body seemed to tense up with it, to chase that crescendo that was fast approaching. You moaned a little louder, a little higher, and Cregan seemed to grunt in response, moving his hips even faster and harder.
And it hit you like a flower blooming with the speed of a horse, a little ball of hot pleasure in your core unfurling until its edges touched the very edges of you. You could see waves of light in the black oblivion behind your shut eyes, could feel your limbs tremble and shake without restraint.
And Cregan was groaning loudly, his hips stuttering. He pressed his teeth into your shoulder, not quite a bit but with enough pressure to leave little indents in your skin. His hair, long dark strands of mahogany brown, draped over your neck and chest, touching the bed under you. He heaved loudly, shaking and pressing himself harshly to you. His arms dropped and he rested the entire weight of his body on you. You could feel the warm gush inside you, the twitching of his cock and the new hot slide coating it.
You closed your eyes and let your limbs relax against the bed, arms spread out and legs tilting slightly away from his body. You felt wrung out, every muscle used like it had never been before. A warm glow seemed to surround you, a soft throb that touched your skin and mind and heart.
Everything felt… real. The bed under you was real and your own. The pleasure ebbing had been real and your own. The fatigue now dragging your limbs was real and your own. The man on top of you was real and… your own. You kept your eyes closed, let your hands rest flat on the planes of his back.
“My husband,” a whisper of a voice in the deepest recesses of your mind, soft and alluring, and you let it be.
The two of you stayed like that until the sweat was cooling on your skin and the stickiness between you became uncomfortable. He shifted, putting all his weight on one of his arms as he pulled himself from you. You made a little sound of discomfort, but it was short-lived and soon he was rolling onto his back beside you. He shuffled higher so he was half sitting up, and wrapped his arm around your shoulder as you turned onto your side and curled a little on yourself.
You kept your eyes closed, not wanting to look at him, not wanting to ruin the moment or rip yourself from your fantasy. He let out a breathy huff of a laugh, his body moving with it, but you didn’t let yourself be tempted to open your eyes.
“I cannot say that I did not enjoy this,” he breathed out, dipping his head down to look at your face, at the tousled mop of hair that lay on your cheek and pillow. You simply hummed.
You basked in it, in the tiredness and his presence. He moved to pull the covers over you, tucking them under your arm and up to your chin before settling once more. He was a warm and sturdy presence in front of you, and you felt lulled into peace. Though sleep did not touch you, something akin to it seemed to settle over you, stilling your arms and slowing your breath.
After many minutes had passed, you felt him begin to slip out from under the covers to the side of the bed. You did not move, keeping your eyes shut and feigning sleep. When you could hear his feet on the floor, you cracked your eyelids open just enough that your lashes still draped dark edges over your vision. You watched him pull his trousers on, lacing them up softly. His head began to turn in your direction and you shut your eyes once more, hoping your sudden stiffness was not obvious. When you heard the rustle of fabric once more, you cracked open your eyes and watched him pull his shirt over his head. He pulled his hair out from the collar, then he turned and headed for the door, opening it slowly and softly, then shutting it with just as much care behind him.
You stared at the door for a long time with your barely open eyes, at the patterns in the wood and how it did not open again. You felt the heaviness settle over you once more like a familiar blanket. You felt the cold seep into your bones. And you felt the despair and heartache curl around you like lovers.
As time passed, Dyanna watched you become a ghost. For the first fortnight you wandered awkwardly around the castle, now silent without all the guests, hoping you could find something to do. But at every turn it was announced that Lady Arra ran the household, that Lady Arra had everything under control. Each time you asked, everyone from the cook to the sweeper smiled brightly and told you that everything was being taken care of and you had no need to worry, that you could do whatever you wished. You simply did not know what you wished to do.
After so many buffeted attempts you took to your bed again, long hours spent sleeping or staring off into the distance like you could see lands far away. Dyanna despaired for you all over again, having half a mind to go yelling at everyone in the godforsaken castle to treat you better, to find something to make you feel useful, but she could only sit in your room with you, trying to convince you to leave your bed.
You did eventually get out of bed again at Dyanna’s urging, allowing her to dress you and take you for a walk in the fresh air. It did wonders as it had done before, though perhaps did not make you as enthusiastic as the first time, and became a habit thereafter. Long walks around the castle, in the courtyard, past the walls and into the weirwood, deep in the thicket past the heart tree became your norm, soon without Dyanna to accompany you.
Dyanna tried her best to busy your other free hours, handing you embroidery projects or stitching until your room was full of tapestries and new dresses and more socks and stockings than any woman could have need for. Dyanna even convinced as many people in the household staff to give her clothes for mending so she could keep you busy and within the castle, under her careful watch.
You did not seem to gain your life back, even after a month had passed. In fact, you seemed to sink further and further and further into your desire for solitude and rest despite Dyanna’s efforts. She could see the dark circles develop under your eyes despite the constant sleep, could see the how vacant your once glimmering eyes had become when you did deign to open them.
In all this time, Cregan continued to bed you once a week. The maesters had urged him to bed you as often as possible to ensure you would become pregnant as soon as possible, but he never came to your chambers more than once a week.
He continued to be gentle the first few times, asking if you were alright before he began pulling your clothes off and laying you on the bed. But eventually the way he bedded you depended on his mood. Sometimes he was a little more frenzied, throwing his clothes off and rushing you through it, pushing your legs higher, thrusting faster. If it had been a difficult day, or something had angered him, he sometimes set you on all fours in the middle of the bed and rutted into you from behind like a beast, pulling your hips against his own, almost ripping your nightgown as he hauled it off you. Other times he did not bother even removing your clothes, simpling unlacing his trousers, pulling your nightgown up to your waist, and bending you over the edge of the bed as he mouthed along your spine.
He sometimes lay with you afterward, caressing your arm and back, but as time wore on he left quicker and quicker after the act. Not once in all the nights did he kiss you on the mouth.
And you allowed yourself to enjoy it, to enjoy the pleasure and pretend for a moment that he was your husband, that he loved you or was desperate for you. It was your one return to life each week, your one salvation. But each time the moment ended and the black veil of despair that seemed to hang over your eyes slipped back down and returned you to its clutches.
Outside the bedroom, you rarely stumbled upon him. An occasional meeting in the halls occurred and he would smile and ask after you, but you would converse no longer than a minute or two and then he would be on his way again.
In the first month, him and Arra had invited you to dine with them one night, and Dyanna had urged you to attend. You had put on one of your prettier gowns, hoping to somehow enjoy yourself despite the cloying sadness in the air about you, but the moment you entered the room you knew it was not to be.
They had been seated already at your arrival, chairs pulled close together as they waited for you. You were sat down across from them, and the divide was clear. They were husband and wife, so deeply in love that they kept close even at the dinner table, and you were… an intruder.
It was obvious that all three of you were immensely awkward, smiling and greeting each other, but where you would have tried to make conversation in the past, now you simply stared down at the table with a rather vacant expression. Arra attempted to converse with you, bringing up topics that she thought might interest you, but you could barely nod let alone form a string of words to let slip from your mouth.
It sickened your heart to watch them interact, to watch them smile warmly at each other, touch each other’s hands, occasionally whisper in each other’s ears like you weren’t even there. You sat silently for a few moments and watched them, wondered what their motive had been in inviting you to supper. Was it guilt? Did they possess the awareness that you had been shunned from life itself? You could not begin to imagine their intentions. You were barely able to take a few sips of your broth, and within the hour you had stood abruptly from your chair claiming illness. You had not let them get in a word of concern, simply curtseying by the table then turning on your heel and rushing out. You had denied any and all attempts of friendship from then on.
And Cregan seemed content to allow you to withdraw. He posed naught a single question to you on your long disappearances, on your lack of a presence. He simply continued bedding you and leaving you to your own devices, and you had nothing to say to change that.
One afternoon, three months into your new life, you left your room for your daily walk. You had slept longer than you had wished to, and so were delayed on venturing out for your escape from the imposing walls of the castle. On your way through the winding halls you had stumbled upon a scene you wished to purge from your memory.
At the other end of the hallway, lit perfectly by the windows, Cregan and Arra stood embracing. He towered over her, arms curled around her waist as she gently pet his chest and smiled up at him like she contained a beam from the sun. He was returning it, a more bright and loving expression on his face than you had ever seen before, and he bent his neck to press a soft kiss to her mouth.
You turned on your heel and found another path out of the castle. You could only tell yourself to walk, urge yourself to take another step, put one foot in front of the other. You could not let your mind wander to anything else, not to the scene nor to the direction of emptiness that your life had taken. Your eyes seemed almost glazed over, a dazed expression making your face slightly slack as you continued on your path.
It was all familiar to you now, the path through the courtyard and out of the gates, around the castle wall and into the woods, now covered with a late summer snow. You did not see what was ahead of you, but your muscles knew, a higher lifted foot here, a step to the side there. You passed the clearing of the heart tree, the first mile of woods, and continued on. You simply put one foot in front of the other, simply kept walking, it was all you could do.
You did not know how long you walked, how far. You did not perceive that the sun was beginning its descent and the world was becoming colder around you. You did not understand that the darkness had set in and that blinking reflective eyes watched your path through the woods. You only stopped when you saw a fallen tree and felt the soft brush of snowflakes against your hair and eyelashes. You would sit on the tree for but a moment, just rest for a moment, only a moment…
You looked up and saw Cregan, astride his horse and holding a lit torch aloft. The woods were black in the dark around you. You blinked the snowflakes from your eyes and watched him jump hurriedly from the horse and rush to you. He held the torch aloft, turned and yelled something, but you couldn’t quite hear anything. He was kneeling in front of you now, face contorted in concern. His mouth moved, but you couldn’t quite hear anything. His brows furrowed further, his lips a little more frantic, but you couldn’t quite hear anything.
“Huh?” You breathed out, trying to decipher his words, “I was just resting…” Your lips didn’t seem to form properly around the words but you were sure you said them, if a little mumbled.
He continued staring at you, eyes wide and brows pulled close together. His lips turned severely down and his jaw was slack, but you simply continued staring.
He rushed back to his horse and pulled a large fur off its back, storming back over and draping it entirely on you. It engulfed you, black and soft as it covered from your head to your knees. He shoved the torch into the ground and used both hands to pull the fur around you, but you felt a little distant from it all. You could feel the jostling of it, the tight cocoon as it wrapped you up before he hefted you into his arms and set you on the front of the horse. He pulled himself up behind you and leant over you to grip the reigns and begin the journey back to Winterfell.
You couldn’t remember much else, not being taken off the horse nor being carried up to your bedroom where you were set directly in front of the fire and a cup of tea was pressed into your hands and brought to your lips by Dyanna as she sobbed.
All you knew was that two days later the maesters declared that you were with child.
The news that you carried the Stark heir spread like wildfire and caused celebrations anew. Everyone seemed so joyous, celebrating with wine and fine cuts of beef, but you were almost confined to your room.
After the chaos of your walk into the woods, Cregan had a guard assigned to you. The man stayed outside your room, followed you around the castle if you dared to venture out, and deterred you from ever leaving the grounds, even for a prayer at the heart tree. You were too precious to be lost now.
You truly became a ghost then. With the pregnancy, Cregan ceased to bed you, and the one minor pleasure you once received disappeared. You became a forlorn thing, rarely ever leaving your bed or your room. You allowed Dyanna to read to you, to feed you, but you did not engage in anything, not even in embroidery. You had nothing left.
As the nine months passed, you did not improve, but you did not worsen. As your belly grew, as the feeling of a baby growing inside you became real, you began speaking to it. Only late at night, when the moon was high in the sky and you could not sleep, did you open your mouth and began whispering to it. You told it about your life before, about your home and your childhood. You told it about your brothers and sisters, about their spouses and their houses and their children. You sang it hushed and cracked little lullabies that came out squeaky from your unused voice, and you told it you loved it more than anything in the world and beyond.
When you went into labour, a sudden gush of water down your dress as you sat by the fire listening to Dyanna read, she almost fainted from her panic. She ran to fetch the maesters and you stood in the middle of the room, eyes wide and… alive. The pain contorting through you was horrible and amazing. It was perhaps the first time you felt faced with the reality that you were with child. You were pregnant with your child.
The labour was long and full of pain. The babe did not want to leave you despite the struggle and you were leaning toward fainting from the exhaustion when he was finally pulled from you trembling and wailing. He. Your child was a son.
“I want to see him,” you whispered, shaky and hoarse, drenched in sweat and smeared with blood. Your limbs were shaky and tingling but they felt like your own for the first time since you became pregnant. Your hair was plastered to your face and forehead but you could not care less. You were blinking and panting, but you reached out hoping someone would show him to you, hand him over. “Please.”
The first maester cut the cord and wiped off his head and face before wrapping him in a blanket and placing him on your chest, while the other left to tell Cregan the news. You cradled the baby to your chest and looked down on him. The tears welled so quickly in your eyes that you could do nothing but let them stream down your face and begin hiccupping with sobs as his cries became little huffing noises.
He was small and impossibly soft, with tufts of dark hair that were the exact same shade as Cregan’s. His hands formed little fists that he tried to flail and his face was all scrunched lines and pink blotches. You lifted him higher and pressed your lips to the top of his head, clutching him tight to yourself.
You lay like that for a long time hugging your son and whispering sweet nothings against his skin. Each time the maesters came to try and pry the boy away you refused, holding him a little tighter. But eventually you were overcome with exhaustion and sleep slackened your arms. With silent movements they slipped him from your grip and left the room, instructing Dyanna to stay with you.
You slept for a long time. Each time you began to stir, a mix of warm milk and milk of the poppy was poured down your lips and you were sent straight back into the darkness. Dyanna gently washed your face and neck with a wet cloth and tied your hair into a braid to keep out of your away. She stayed vigilant at your bedside, even as Cregan came on the next day and kissed you gently on the forehead, whispering something by your ear before leaving once more.
On the third day you woke up with a start as the last of the milk of the poppy left you and the throbbing pains from the birth returned. You were frantic, ruffling your hands around the bedsheets before trying to get up and finding Dyanna’s wide eyes.
“Where is he? Where is my son?” You asked hurriedly, eyes running all over the room but not seeing anything. You were almost fully up and beginning to slide off the bed when she came over, grabbing you by the shoulders and stopping you from moving any farther.
“Sh, sh, hush now, darling,” she began softly, “he’s alright, he’s perfectly alright, you just need to rest.” You allowed her to help you sit up in bed and tuck the sheets around your waist but you still tried to look over her shoulder as if he was hiding just behind her.
“Where is he?” You asked again, running your hands over the sheets. Dyanna paused for a second before continuing to pour you water from a pitcher and bringing the cup up to your lips. She stayed silent as you gulped down the entire thing before filling it again.
“They’ve named him Edrick,” she told you with a small smile, a nervous thing that tried so hard to be comforting but looked so fearful. “After the king of old.”
“They?” You heaved out as you pulled the cup from your mouth, water dripping from your lips down to your chin.
“Lord Cregan and Lady Arra,” she told you quietly, gazing at you from under her lashes. She busied herself refilling the cup as you sunk into the bed, your mind whirling. You stared at the door across the room, frozen as if dipped in ice. “He has been brought to his new nursery and…” she paused again, gulping as a sheen of sweat appeared upon her brow, “they have said you need not worry about him now.”
You were filled with an anguish that would never end. Suddenly you wished for the days back before you became pregnant, the days when you were lost in your own mind, feeling nothing and knowing nothing of how your situation could become so much worse. You were empty on the inside out, as if the line connecting you to your child had been forcibly severed and you were left to bleed without end.
You cried endlessly, sobbing and wailing in your bed until Dyanna was forced to pour milk of the poppy down your throat to subdue you. You begged and pleaded with Dyanna, clasping your hands together and bending in half on the bed as you called for your baby, wanting but a moment with him. But each time your only response was that he was alright, he was exactly where he was meant to be. How could you believe that when you knew it was not true? When you knew that his rightful place was with you?
You were confined to bedrest for a handful of weeks to ensure you healed properly from the birth. The maesters came to check on you often and each time they watched you with wide and worried eyes. You transitioned from loud wailing sobs to silent rivers of tears to eventually becoming a stony rock once more, your jaw and eyes set more harshly than even the jagged peaks of the mountainous Vale. Dyanna tried to tempt you with reading and embroidery once more but you simply shook your head, crossing your arms and contenting yourself with staring at the door as if you could make it open with the will of your mind.
You replayed the moments of Edrick’s birth in your mind over and over, never letting the sight of his little face stray from your mind’s eye. You wondered how he looked now, how much he had changed in the long time he had been stolen from you. And as you healed, slowly beginning to walk the length of your room, first with Dyanna’s assistance and then on your own, you settled on that thought. He had been stolen from you. They had stolen your son from you.
Eventually you were allowed out of your chambers and you took to roaming the castle on your own. The guards became familiar with your figure at all hours of the day and night, watching you stroll through the halls in your nightgown or robes like a spectre. You explored every corner of the place, every nook and cranny, every store room and bedroom, every window and ledge. You did it without fail every single day, and eventually the household staff had a running story about the spectre of Winterfell.
Sometimes you would stumble on Arra or Cregan, arms lifted to cradle a little bundle. You could never see into the blankets from afar, could not see his face or his eyes, but you felt such an immense pang of pain that it took everything within you not to run to them. If you were lucky, you might glimpse his arm sticking out of the fabric, or a stray foot wiggling in the air, but most of the time you watched from a distance as his father smiled down at him, as some woman posing as his mother rocked and sung to him before kissing his forehead.
Despite how it looked, the roaming was not aimless. You took carefully crafted routes, never the same one twice, to always end up at the nursery in the late evenings when even the wet nurses had gone to their beds. Sometimes you sat outside the door, back pressed to the stone wall, knees pulled up to your chest as you rocked back and forth, overcome with grief and something tinged with madness. Other times you carefully opened the door and tiptoed in, standing by his cot and hurriedly wiping your tears before they could drip onto his cheeks.
He was the perfect child. He was yours. He had soft round cheeks and his hair was like silk. Sometimes, when he would blink his eyes open and stare up at you, they were bright and blue and you were overcome. He rarely cried in your presence, and if he began to fuss, you would quickly lift him from the cot and hold him close to your chest, whispering the stories you had once told him as he rested in your womb and kissing his downy little head.
And each night when you set him back down and returned to your own bed, you clenched your jaw and mumbled to yourself that you would not let them take him. They had taken your happiness, your joy, your very soul, over and over until your insides were carved out and there was nothing left. But you would not let them take him.
Slowly the plan came into action. All your walks yielded everything important for it. Your presence was never noted, you became familiar with the changes of the guard and the guards themselves. You knew which ones were rather lax in their attention, which ones were drowsy and half-asleep against the wall, and which ones left their watch at the door to play a quick game with their compatriots in darkest hours of the night.
You began gathering provisions, saving bread and cheeses from your sparse dinners in little cloth bundles in a sack under your bed. You found a length of rope and wrapped it all in a fur before securing the rope around it. And then you waited.
You waited for the night when the moon was gone under a heavy cloud cover. You tied the pack onto your back and made your way through the empty halls and into the nursery. You gathered Edrick to your chest and held him close as you took servant’s ways and hidden passages to a back door that led you straight to the edge of the courtyard. You watched the guard leave his post and kept pressed close to the wall as you edged out and began following the wall until you were at the back of the fortress.
You took a moment to breathe, to try and ease the stiffness in all your limbs and calm the loud panting breaths that were leaving you. You looked down at your baby, at the peaceful close of his eyes, his long lashes fanning his cheeks and his little mouth pouting. He already looked so much like his father. You pressed a kiss to his face and began jogging for the woods, not slowing until you hit the cover of the trees.
You had planned everything. You had listened carefully to the stories Dyanna had read to you, of the towns even more northerly than Winterfell and the places where one could slip beyond the wall and find wildlings. You had decided to go north through the woods in search of a village before getting to the wall and beyond. You prayed at your hearth that whatever people you may find beyond it would take pity on you and your son, that the wildlings, though savage they may be, would find some kindness in their hearts for you, a naive hope or not.
You stopped again just past the first line of trees and looked back at Winterfell. The clouds shifted for a moment and the fortress was a black silhouette in the moonlight. You remembered your last dinner with Dyanna, how happy she had been that you spoke to her like your old self, how tightly she had hugged you and smiled with teary eyes, how gravely yet gently she had said goodbye. You knew that by the time the first rays of the sun broke the horizon the disappearance of Edrick would be discovered. You knew that they would find you gone as well, and riders would be sent out in every direction, told not to return until they found you. And you knew that it was most likely that you would not succeed, that if they did not find you first then you would succumb to some type of death. But you turned your back on Winterfell and prepared to walk endlessly through the night. Because here was the point of no return, and you would die trying.
EDIT: An amazing comment left by @ewanartistofeywa is exactly what I would imagine as a part 2 for this, so anyone who wants one, or wants some inspiration for their own imagination, I highly recommend reading their comment!
fix-it: Baelor survives the tournament but suffers a neurological injury that temporarily affects his fine motor control, making it difficult for him to use his hands normally, Maekar takes care of him during his recovery
Racism in fandom spaces is actually insanely bad and if you ever try to downplay or avoid conversations about it because "fandom is supposed to be fun" then I'm not sorry to say this: You're adding on to the problem.
I passed a flower shop next to a tattoo shop and at first I laughed because I thought it was ironic and then i freaked because IMAGINE YOUR OTP IN A FLORIST/TATTOO ARTIST AU
summary: aegon realizes, somewhere between his betrothal feast and a moonlit garden, that the only person who has ever truly known him is the one he never saw
pairing: aegon ii targaryen x reader
warnings: no use of y/n, afab reader, friends to lovers, mutual pining, idiots in love, yearning, alcoholism, angst but happy ending, fluff, arranged marriage discussions, possessive thoughts if you squint, aegon being emotionally unwell, alicent and aegon having an actual conversation we love to see it, heal that family trauma king, let me know if i missed anything!
word count: 11.4k
a/n: combined two requests for aegon x childhood friends to lovers and aegon insisting on marrying his childhood playmate! i hope i did your reqs justice, friends 🖤
🐦⬛ masterlist
Aegon decides, somewhere between the sermon and the sea wind, that funerals are for everyone except the dead.
Laena cannot hear the droning prayers, or feel the salt spray dampening the dark cloth of everyone’s sleeves, or see the way her daughters stand hollow-eyed beside Daemon. She can’t know that half the court has come all the way to Driftmark only to stare at one another from beneath lowered lashes.
But Aegon can.
He can hear all of it, see all of it, feel all of it pressing in on him with the weight of his mother’s hand at the back of his neck, even though she hasn’t so much as brushed past him in well over an hour.
Seven Hells, he can hear her voice echoing in the back of his head.
“Stand straight, don’t slouch.”
“Do not fidget, it’s impolite.”
“Do not drink so much, you should set a better example for your cousins.”
“Do not laugh, we’re at a funeral.”
“Do not shame me.”
She hadn’t said any of it aloud but she doesn’t need to. He’s heard it all enough times to know the words by the set of her mouth or the glare in her gaze.
So he stands where he has been told to stand, a little apart from the worst of the mourning but not far enough away to be accused of wandering. The sea crashes darkly against the rocks below, throwing up bursts of white foam that disappear almost as soon as they come. The sky above Driftmark is heavy and grey, seeming to drain the color from everything.
Since when had the world decided that grief had to be so damned quiet?
Aegon hates it—everything about it.
He hates the way the collar of his overcoat scratches at his neck. Hates the cold bite of the wind against his cheeks. Hates the way every adult keeps arranging their face into some solemn, pinched expression, as though sorrow is another bit of court dress to be worn properly.
He hates most of all that he is expected to understand it. Not death, he understands that well enough. Things die. People die all the time—mothers, wives, children, babes.
Even dragons die.
But this—all of this standing and staring and murmuring, all this careful sadness made public, made nice and polished for other people to witness—he does not understand. He doesn’t know what anyone wants from him, of all people, except stillness and stillness has never been something he knows how to keep for very long.
Aemond stands beside him, still as a damn statue. Of course.
His hands are folded behind his back, chin lifted, his mouth pressed into a thin, polite line. He looks like a boy trying very hard to appear older than he is and, what’s worse, is that he’s somehow succeeding.
Irritating little git.
Aegon rocks back on his heels, then forward again, blowing a deep lungful of air out from between his lips. “Fucking hell,” he curses when the wind blows his hair into his face again.
“Stop cursing.”
“We’re not even in earshot of anyone that matters.”
“It’s impolite, it’s a funeral.” Gods, it’s as if his mouth opens yet their mother’s voice comes out.
Aegon gives him a sidelong glance, swallowing down another mouthful of wine from the goblet clutched in his hand. “Have you been counting the words like some septa?”
“I don’t need to count to know you have the manners of a dog.”
He huffs under his breath, too quiet for anyone to overhear: “A formidable dog, at least?”
Aemond doesn’t so much as smile at that and somehow, that makes it even funnier. Aegon quickly lowers his gaze before the laugh bubbling in his chest can become something louder and earn him one more of Alicent’s cold looks. He drags the toe of his boot once through the pale grit beneath them instead, making a short, ugly line in the ground.
Aemond watches him do it. “You’ll get dust on your boots.”
“A great tragedy.”
“Mother will scold you.”
“You say that as if she wouldn’t find a reason to anyway.”
Aegon turns his head just enough to look at him fully, the bitter taste of wine on his tongue. “You’re in a foul mood.”
“We’re at a funeral.”
“Yes, and somehow you still manage to bring the mood down.”
Aemond’s mouth tightens, but his gaze moves away first, back toward the gathered mourners and the line of noble families arranged in neat clusters near the cliffside.
Aegon looks too, because there’s nothing better to do, because someone long ago decided that funerals must be unfathomably dull. Velaryons in sea-dark colors. His own family in some unsettling mix of reds and blacks and greens, as if no one can quite make up their mind.
Everyone is where they’re meant to be, he supposes, wearing exactly the faces they’re meant to wear.
His grandsire speaks quietly with Lord Corlys. His mother stands beside his decrepit father, her hands folded and her jaw tight. Helaena lingers near them, fussing over something small moving between the stones at her feet, doubtlessly some many-legged thing that makes his skin crawl. Their cousins are near Rhaenyra, looking decidedly strong.
The corner of his mouth twitches at that thought and he has to try very hard not to laugh, as if it’s his fault he’s the only one with humor in this wretched family.
Then, his eyes land on you.
You’re not beside him now, though you had been earlier, close enough to mutter that everyone looked like they had swallowed spoiled milk. The comment had nearly made wine come up his nose as he tried not to choke on his own laugh.
Of course, you’re too far away now to save him from boredom or from Aemond’s scolding.
You’re standing with your family near the edge of the gathering, the little cluster of Wyldes looking slightly out of place among so much silver hair and sea-born pride. Your cloak is black, what one would expect from a funeral, though yours keeps slipping down one shoulder no matter how often your mother reaches to correct it. Your hair has been pinned back too tightly, he can tell because you keep flexing your hands as you try to resist touching it.
Your mother leans down and whispers something in your ear, probably to straighten your shoulders or to stop frowning, perhaps something about how that’s unbecoming for a lady.
Aegon watches your mouth press into a dutiful line for all of three seconds before you glance up, catch his eye across the distance, and roll yours.
He bites the inside of his cheek. Aemond notices, of course he does.
His eyes flick from Aegon to you and then back again, sharp in that annoying way of his, as if he’s constantly collecting little things about people and storing them away for later.
Aegon takes another drink before Aemond can say something unbearable. Unfortunately, that only seems to encourage him.
“I overheard Lord Wylde speaking with grandsire earlier.”
Aegon hums absently into the rim of his cup. “Condolences.”
Aemond ignores him. “They mean to begin seeking possible matches for her soon.”
That catches Aegon’s attention, if only because it is infinitely more interesting than listening to old men mumble about the Stranger and the sea.
His gaze drifts back toward you automatically. You’re not listening to your mother at all. Instead, you’ve bent slightly at the waist to whisper something to one of Laena’s daughters—Baela, he thinks—who promptly snorts hard enough that she has to disguise it as a cough when Rhaenyra glances over.
Aegon grins despite himself.
“Wonder who the poor bastard’ll be,” he says.
Aemond turns to look at him, pale brows furrowing slightly. “You’re close with her.”
“Mm,” he swallows another mouthful of wine, “she follows me about. That’s not the same thing.”
It’s a lie, or at least not quite the truth. You don’t follow him about, you have a knack for simply… finding him—you always have.
You find him when he slips away from lessons halfway through the afternoon, sprawled lazily beneath some tree with a stolen bottle in hand. You find him when he’s hiding from Alicent after spending the night in some dank corner of the city. You find him during feasts when the endless droning on becomes too much and he disappears onto balconies no one else bothers with.
You find him when he’s angry.
Worse still, you know what to do once you have.
Sometimes you make him laugh, other times you sit beside him in silence until whatever foul mood he’s in finally passes. Once, after Alicent had slapped him hard enough to split the inside of his lip for making some smartassed remark about his father, you’d snuck to his door with a wedge of lemon cake wrapped in cloth and announced, quite seriously, that he looked so miserable he may die from it.
Aegon had laughed then, despite the way it made the cut on his lip sting.
Aemond, ever determined to ruin perfectly good moments, says, “You write to her when she returns to the Stormlands.”
He scoffs. “Because she writes first.”
Another half-lie.
The truth is that your letters arrive first because you’re far more patient than he is. Aegon rarely lasts more than a fortnight before boredom overtakes him and he sends one anyway, usually written carelessly and blotched with wine stains because he can never be bothered to wait until he’s sober.
Sometimes they contain nothing of importance at all.
Helaena has acquired another horrid insect, she tried to get me to hold it.
Mother has threatened to skin me alive this morning and we’ve only just broken fast.
The cook made those little honeycakes you like again.
Once, he’d received a reply informing him that he was perhaps the most dramatic person in all of the kingdoms. He still has that letter somewhere.
Aemond watches him, his expression narrowing just slightly. “You could marry her.”
Aegon lets out a startled bark of laughter loud enough that a few nearby heads turn before he quickly lowers it into a cough. “Her?” he repeats incredulously. “Gods, no.”
Aemond’s face remains a mask of perfect seriousness, causing Aegon to roll his eyes as if the reason why he objects so is terribly obvious.
“I’ve known her since we were small,” he explains, pausing to down another sip of wine. “It would be like marrying you.”
“That sounds dreadful for the both of us.”
“There, you see? You understand.”
Aemond doesn’t rise to it. “She doesn’t look at anyone else the way she looks at you. I’d have thought you’d noticed.”
Aegon snorts, brows furrowing before he schools his face back to placid boredom. “You sound like some old woman gossiping over a needlepoint.”
“And you sound oblivious.”
“Well, one of us must remain charming.”
That finally earns him the faintest twitch at the corner of Aemond’s mouth, gone almost as soon as it appears. His brother remains quiet for a moment, staring off in your direction while Aegon nurses the drink in his hand, halfway wondering where that servant with the tray of goblets has gone off to.
Then Aemond says, quieter this time, “You will likely be made to wed Helaena anyway, I suppose.”
Ah, there it is. The shadow hanging over every facet of his being like a stormcloud.
Aegon groans dramatically and tips his head back at the grey sky overhead. “Then the matter is settled,” he breathes, heaving out a sigh. “Helaena is strange, Wylde is impossible, and I am doomed either way.”
“She’s not impossible.”
“She absolutely is,” Aegon gestures vaguely toward you with his cup. “Last moon she threatened to stab a guard in the hand with a dinner knife because he called her sweet.”
Aemond considers this. “Did he deserve it?”
“Yes,” Aegon says immediately. “But that is hardly the point.”
The years march on regardless of what he wants.
That is perhaps the cruelest thing about time, Aegon thinks later—that it moves on whether you’re happy or sad or adored or ignored and it doesn’t care either way.
Driftmark fades into memory. Aemond loses an eye. Rhaenyra leaves King’s Landing. Alicent grows sharper where Viserys grows softer, the rot in his body worsening with every turn of the moon. Helaena grows somehow stranger, murmuring things beneath her breath that make the maids glance at one another uneasily.
And Aegon grows older.
Unfortunately.
And drinks.
Fortunately. For him, at any rate.
There are new expectations that come with age. More lectures from Otto, more cold looks from Alicent, more muttered conversations that stop the moment he enters a room. He stays in his cups more, sleeps less, and learns very quickly that people forgive a prince for nearly anything so long as he smiles when doing it.
None of it makes him particularly happy.
Tonight least of all.
The Great Hall of the Red Keep glows gold with candlelight and roaring hearths, music swelling through the air loud enough to rattle against Aegon’s skull. Lords and ladies crowd feast tables in jewel tones and velvets, wine spilling freely while servants weave carefully between bodies carrying platters with roasted meats and sugared fruits.
Somewhere near the center of it all sits Aegon himself, polished and dressed and displayed like a prized fucking pony.
His betrothal feast.
Gods.
He takes another drink.
Beside him, Helaena carefully nudges a little beetle across the table with one slender finger, entirely uninterested in the musicians or the noble guests watching them with poorly concealed fascination.
“It doesn’t like the heat,” she murmurs softly, mostly to herself. “Its legs curl when it’s frightened.”
Aegon glances down at the tiny thing crawling near her untouched supper and hums distractedly. “Mm.”
She peers at it with genuine concern. “I think it misses the garden.”
“You should let it inherit my place at the table. It would likely enjoy itself more.”
That earns him the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth. Despite her weirdness, Aegon thinks she’s always had a better sense of humor than Aemond. Not that that’s a difficult competition to win.
Across from them, Otto looks deeply pleased with himself. He hates that more than the feast.
His grandsire sits straight-backed and composed as ever, hands folded neatly before him while lord after lord offers congratulations as if this entire miserable affair had been his cleverest political victory yet.
Like it hadn’t been expected for damn years by now.
Alicent watches him from further down the table with the same expression she’s worn all evening: wary, tense, waiting for humiliation the way other mothers would perhaps wait for music to begin.
Every time he lifts his cup, her eyes sharpen.
Each time he laughs too loudly, her jaw tightens.
Aegon considers getting properly drunk simply out of spite.
Viserys, meanwhile, looks almost sentimental about the whole thing. Sickly and half-decayed though he is, there’s something horribly hopeful in his face tonight, like he truly believes this feast means something good, something whole.
A family united, a son settled, a future secured.
Aegon nearly laughs into his wine. As if binding two miserable people together before half the realm could somehow make either of them less miserable.
He glances sidelong at Helaena again. She’s still watching the beetle. Not unhappy, exactly. Not frightened. Just… elsewhere, as she so often is.
For some reason, that thought makes his chest tighten.
Neither of them got much of a say in this, did they?
The musicians swell into another song and somewhere nearby, a lord already deep in his cups bellows loud enough to startle half the servants carrying trays through the hall. Aegon automatically reaches for another goblet of wine before realizing his is still-half full.
He drinks it down before grabbing a new one anyway.
Pathetic.
And then—
A flash of dark teal silk near the entrance catches his attention. At first, he doesn’t think much of it—just another noble family arriving late, and no doubt bringing with them another round of tedious congratulations and bows.
Then the figure turns slightly beneath the candlelight and he stills.
It’s you.
For a moment, he can only stare.
He knows the shape of your laugh before it leaves your mouth, knows exactly how your brows pull together when annoyed, knows the particular look you get in your eyes whenever you’re about to say something that’ll either make him laugh or get the both of you scolded.
He knows you, which is perhaps why the sight of you now unsettles him so badly.
You pause near the entrance while one of the guards announces House Wylde far louder than necessary, your father already stepping forward to greet some old lord from the Reach while your mother smooths an unnecessary hand over the skirts of her gown.
But he barely notices any of them.
Instead, his attention catches on strange little things all at once. The familiar curve of your mouth, the same eyes that used to roll whenever he complained about something stupid, the stubborn tilt of your chin that always appeared whenever someone attempted to tell you what to do.
Then, he notices… other things, too. Unfamiliar things.
Your hair has been pinned carefully away from your face, woven with delicate gold that catches in the candlelight whenever you move. Your gown fits differently than the dresses you wore as a girl, dark teal silk clinging softly at the waist before spilling toward the floor in heavy folds. A necklace rests against the bare skin of your throat and Aegon finds his eyes lingering there for a beat too long before jerking away.
Seven Hells, since when had you started looking like that?
No—that isn’t right. You’d always looked like that, perhaps.
And perhaps, he’d simply been too much of an idiot to notice.
Aegon takes a long swallow of wine that does absolutely nothing to help.
You move further into the hall alongside your parents, smiling politely whenever someone stops to speak with you. Not your real smile, he notices immediately. No, simply those careful little court smiles that everyone must learn eventually.
Pleasant. Measured. Appropriate.
Some lordling—Celtigar maybe, or one of the Lannisters, he truly doesn’t care enough to determine which—leans too close while speaking to you.
Much too close.
His fingers tighten hard around the stem of his goblet before he even realizes they’ve moved and then, the lord says something that makes you laugh politely and his lips pull into a tight frown as anger floods through him so quickly, he can feel his cheeks flush with it.
Ridiculous.
It’s only because he knows the sort of men that flock around ladies during feasts like this—smug little pricks drunk on their own importance and whatever inheritance awaits them. He’s seen enough of them to know that they’re all uniquely tiresome.
Besides, you’re his friend.
That’s all.
Which is precisely why he’s always hated foolish men around you, of course.
The lord moves closer, leaning in to whisper something directly in your ear and before he even realizes he’s raising his cup, he’s downed half of it in one go.
Then, as if somehow sensing him, your eyes find him across the hall and you smile. Not that strained, practiced one, not the carefully demure one you use at court meant for lords and ladies and strangers.
No, this one is easy and immediate—wholly yours. It’s the exact same smile you’d give him when you were children sneaking out of lessons together or passing gossipy notes beneath the table during feasts or mocking half of the court from secluded balconies high above the city.
Somehow, that makes it worse. Something unpleasant twists low in Aegon’s stomach.
Before he has time to make any sense of it, you’re already excusing yourself from the conversation and weaving through the crowded hall toward him. The musicians swell louder around you, candlelight flickering gold across your face as guests part instinctively to let you pass.
He straightens unconsciously.
“Prince Aegon,” you greet as you finally stop beside him, your lips curving with unmistakable amusement. “I hear congratulations are in order.”
He snorts into his cup before he can help it. “Are they?”
“That is usually what one says at a betrothal feast, yes.”
“Mm, then you may direct them toward my grandsire,” he mumbles, gesturing vaguely further down the table where Otto is still carrying on some conversation that is doubtlessly boring enough to make a Septon beg for mercy. “He seems the happiest of anyone present.”
Your laugh comes soft beneath the music and Gods, he knows that sound—has known it for years.
You glance briefly toward Helaena, who had apparently gotten up without his noticing and had gone to sit by Alicent. “She looks lovely tonight.”
Aegon follows your gaze automatically, watching as his sister—his bride, Seven Hells—absentmindedly twirls a lock of hair through her fingers, entirely detached from the festivities unfolding around her.
“She looks trapped,” he says before he can stop himself.
Apparently, the words land heavier than he intended as your eyes immediately flick back to his. For once, there’s no trace of mischief in you, only understanding—and somehow that’s worse.
You’ve always been able to look at him too directly when he lets something a bit too honest slip loose.
“And you?” you ask quietly after a moment, your voice nearly drowned beneath the music. “How do you suppose you look tonight?”
He huffs softly through his nose, dragging the rim of his cup against his lower lip. “Drunk, I imagine.”
One of your brows lifts. “You look unhappy.”
You don’t say it accusingly, not like anyone else would, not like Alicent or Otto or Aemond. There’s no irritation in it, no judgment, or disappointment—not even pity.
Just recognition, just enough to make his stomach twist into knots.
Aegon suddenly becomes painfully aware of the noise around him again—the music, the laughter, the scrape of goblets against tables, a hundred conversations unfolding at once while crowds of people weave through one another.
Too many eyes.
And yet, somehow, being with you again makes him feel strangely separated from it all, like you’re tucked into some quiet little corner of the world no matter how crowded the hall becomes.
He takes another drink, mostly to give himself something to do with his hands.
“Well,” he drawls after a moment, forcing some crooked bit of humor back into his voice, “it would be terribly rude of me to appear joyful at my own wake.”
That earns him a soft snort. He swallows thickly at the way his heart flutters.
“There you are,” you murmur.
“Was I gone?”
“Briefly,” your gaze flicks meaningfully toward the wine in his hand. “Drowning, perhaps.”
“I prefer floating,” he quips too quickly for his own good. “Sounds much less tragic.”
Your fingers brush against the sleeve of his doublet as you shift closer so a passing servant can squeeze by you with a tray of steaming dishes. The touch lasts no more than a second, but he feels as if he’s been branded by it.
Gods, he’s no better than a fucking blushing maiden.
He’s touched you a thousand times before over the years. Hands tugging at sleeves, shoving shoulders, fingers hooked around wrists while dragging each other through corridors or down hidden staircases tucked away in the Keep.
But this—
This feels different somehow.
Perhaps he feels different.
Your hair smells faintly of something floral when you lean nearer to be heard over the musicians, just sweet enough that it catches annoyingly in his head. Your posture is straighter than it used to be too, the restless roughness of girlhood sanded softer by time and court expectations.
And yet not entirely.
There’s still something sharp in you beneath all the silk and gold. Something that had once threatened guards with dinner knives and climbed castle walls in embroidered slippers simply because Aegon said you couldn’t.
Shit.
He suddenly, fiercely, does not want you to leave his side. The realization unsettles him enough that he drains the rest of his wine again before quickly motioning for a nearby attendant to fill his cup once more.
You notice, of course.
“You’ll make yourself ill.”
“I’m making myself tolerable.”
“You’ve never managed that a day in your life.”
“There she is,” Aegon says quietly.
Your expression softens at that in a way that makes something twist beneath his ribs, something warm and dangerous.
The conversation lulls briefly as another cluster of nobles approaches the dais to offer their congratulations to Viserys, though he hardly hears a word of it.
You glance toward your parents across the hall, watching your father deep in conversation with Lord Fossoway and another older man Aegon vaguely recognizes from the Stormlands.
Then you sigh, barely noticeable to anyone except him.
“What?”
Your lips purse slightly and you shake your head. “Nothing.”
“Liar.”
You huff a quiet laugh at that, gaze dropping briefly to your hands before lifting back to his. “I managed to fend him off for some time but,” another sigh, “my father has become terribly interested in marriage prospects lately.”
The words hit him strangely and his grip tightens around his goblet again. “Oh?”
“He seems to think that if we put it off any longer, I’ll be some old hag—no longer suitable for a decent match. I believe he’s narrowing things down, one way or another.”
Narrowing things down. Something coils low in Aegon’s stomach at those words before he fully understands why.
Still, he forces a crooked grin onto his face anyway. “Anyone I would know?”
“Mm, a few.”
He means it as a joke when he says, “Well, then, Gods help you.”
But you laugh softly and begin counting them off on your fingers anyway. “There’s a Blackwood heir somewhere. A Baratheon cousin, I think. Someone from House Rowan that my mother seems particularly determined about—”
“Don’t,” the words leave him too quickly, pouring out like cider from an overturned carafe. “Don’t marry any of them.”
Your lips press closed and for the first time since approaching him, you go utterly still.
Aegon realizes, distantly, that he’s set his cup down hard enough for wine to slosh over the rim and onto the tablecloth.
You blink at him once before a laugh escapes you, soft and disbelieving. “And why not?”
“Because,” he says fast—far too fast, “they’re all cunts.”
You stare at him for a beat longer this time, amusement slowly fading into something more careful, more searching. “Aegon,” you begin slowly.
“Ah! There you are!” The interruption cuts cleanly through whatever you might’ve said next.
He turns sharply toward the approaching voice, annoyance flashing hot and immediate through him at the sight of some aging lord already smiling too broadly as he approaches the dais.
You step back slightly at once, court manners settling over you like armor being hastily fastened. It feels wrong.
Aegon presses his hate for it down somewhere deep as the moment slips away before either of you can catch hold of it again. You offer him one last look—strange and thoughtful and far too perceptive—before dipping into a graceful curtsey.
“Enjoy the rest of the feast, Your Grace.”
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He blinks, watching as you disappear back into the crowd of lords and ladies, dark teal silk vanishing slowly between music notes and the flicker of candles. It’s only once you’re gone that he realizes something quietly horrifying:
For the last several minutes, he hasn’t thought once about Helaena.
Or duty.
Or his mother.
Or the countless expectations that weigh so heavily on his shoulders.
Only you.
Only the curve of your lips and your hand against his sleeve and the thought of some Blackwood or Rowan or Baratheon lord touching what he has somehow always believed belonged beside him.
Only now does he seem to realize that he’d spent half his life searching for you in every room.
Several nights later, Aegon still cannot fucking sleep.
This is, admittedly, not terribly unusual. He’s never slept particularly well sober and only somewhat better drunk, but lately even wine has stopped dulling the endless noise in his head. Thoughts keep circling one another like vultures, sharp and restless and impossible to escape.
You. Always you.
He sprawls across the mess of blankets tangled at the foot of his bed, staring up at the dark canopy overhead while a half-empty bottle of Arbor red hangs loose from his fingers. Firelight from the hearth skitters low across his chambers, throwing long shadows against stone walls littered with abandoned jackets and books he’s never even bothered to open.
He doesn’t even like this wine, but he drinks anyway.
Because the alternative is thinking too clearly and Seven Hells, he’s had enough of that these past few days to last him a lifetime.
He thinks about your letters, which is probably the most humiliating part of all this.
Not your mouth or your lovely neck or the way your hand had felt against his sleeve, not even the low cut of your gown, though those thoughts plague him too. No, what truly ruins him are the bloody letters—little scraps of you scattered across moons and years.
He remembers one arriving after he’d fallen and nearly broken his wrist after Sunfyre’s saddle had gotten tangled around his boot. You’d written nearly an entire page mocking him for nearly being defeated by a cord of leather and his own pride.
Another had included an awful little sketch of Otto that looked more goat than man. He remembers laughing so hard at it that he’d had tears rolling down his cheeks.
Gods.
Aegon drags a hand down his face as more memories surface whether he wants them to or not.
You stealing figs from the kitchens and stuffing them into his pockets because he’d refused to go to supper after arguing with Alicent.
You sitting cross-legged beside him on some balcony overlooking Blackwater Bay while he complained endlessly about lessons and duty and being a prince.
You asleep against his shoulder in a carriage years ago, mouth parted slightly, your hair in complete disarray while rain hammered against the windows outside.
And then the feast.
The look on your face when he’d told you not to marry any of those damned lords.
The silence that lingered afterwards.
The way you’d said his name.
Aegon groans softly and tips his head back harder against the mattress.
“Fuck.”
Because there’s another thought beneath all the others too, ugly and unavoidable.
Helaena.
His betrothal.
The fact that in a matter of weeks he is expected to stand before the realm and vow himself to his sister while all he can think about is the possibility of some Baratheon prick putting his hands on you.
It all feels rotten somehow. Cruel. Not only to him, but the both of you.
Aegon drains the last of the wine from the bottle and sits up abruptly before he can think himself into another spiral. The room tilts faintly as he rises to his feet.
Good, he thinks. Maybe I can calm myself down properly after all.
He snatches another bottle from the table near the hearth, shrugs a loose coat over his shoulders without bothering to fasten it properly, and slips from his chambers into the quiet halls of the Red Keep.
Most of the castle is asleep at this hour and the corridors are dark save for scattered torchlight burning low in iron brackets along the walls. Somewhere distant, he hears the muffled sound of guards changing posts and the soft crash of waves far below the cliffs.
He walks without much direction at first, or at least he tells himself that as he stumbles down twisting corridors, across narrow staircases, and past silent courtyards silvered by moonlight until he finds himself outside in the sprawling gardens.
The night air is cooler outside, damp with the scent of grass and blooming flowers. Pale light from the moon spills across winding stone paths and marble fountains, turning the gardens soft and dreamlike beneath the dark sky overhead.
Aegon takes another long drink straight from the bottle as he wanders deeper among the hedges.
He should go back upstairs, or perhaps go into the city and get properly drunk or fall into the arms of some Silk Street whore.
He should stop thinking about you long enough to survive one miserable night in peace.
Instead, he rounds the corner of a flowering hedge and stops dead.
You’re there. Alone.
For one stupid, stuttering heartbeat, Aegon can only stare.
You sit perched along the edge of a fountain, one hand trailing lazily through the water while the other gathers the skirts of your nightrobe closer against the chill. Your hair is no longer pinned into those careful court arrangements he’s become accustomed to seeing these past weeks. It hangs loose down your back instead, slightly tangled from sleep or wind or both.
It’s… intimate, somehow. Too intimate.
His breath catches.
He’s seen you muddy and furious after falling from horses. Laughing so hard you snorted wine on your fourteenth nameday. Windswept atop castle walls. Tearful after your grandmother died. Half-asleep during lessons with ink smudged across your cheek.
He’s seen you a hundred different ways and somehow never like this. A painful knot tightens in his chest.
As if sensing him, your head lifts. Your eyes find him instantly, standing half-hidden beneath an ivy-covered archway.
For a beat, neither of you speaks or so much as moves.
Then your mouth curves slightly, into another of those easy, genuine grins. “You’re awake.”
“So are you,” Aegon answers automatically.
“Brilliantly observed, Your Grace.”
There it is, he thinks. That easy rhythm between you, old as childhood and just as instinctive as it slips back into place so naturally that, for a moment, something inside him unclenches.
He steps fully out from beneath the archway at last, boots crunching softly against the gravel path as the bottle in his grasp hangs loose from his fingers, catching your attention immediately.
“Ah,” you murmur, “and here I thought you’d lost your touch.”
He huffs a quiet laugh through his nose despite himself. “You wound me.”
“Do I?” You tilt your head slightly. “You’ve been rather difficult to find these past few days.”
You have a way of wringing the truth from him like no one else can. Gods, you see through him like he’s made of glass.
Ever since the feast, he’s been doing something deeply pathetic, even for him: seeking you out in every room while simultaneously avoiding being alone with you long enough to think too hard about why. He skipped suppers, vanished into the city, drank himself stupid more than once, and spent an entire evening hiding from his own family in the Dragonpit like a sulking child.
Anything to avoid this—to avoid you.
Aegon lifts the bottle to his lips mostly for something to do before realizing he’s already more than half-drunk and any more will only make him sloppier. And—godsdammit—he finds himself suddenly caring quite a bit about not being sloppy around you.
“I’ve been terribly busy being celebrated,” he says instead, once again concealing anything genuine with dry humor.
You stare at him for a long few seconds before snorting softly. “Aegon,” Seven Hells, the way you say his name nearly undoes him all over again. “You have never once allowed ceremony to keep you from being a nuisance.”
That manages to draw a wry smile from him. “Fair enough.”
Silence settles after that. He’d be uncomfortable were it anyone else, but with you it’s just easy silence. The fountain trickles softly behind you while the Sept tolls the late hour in the distance. Moonlight catches silver against the water trailing from your fingertips and Aegon becomes abruptly, painfully aware that he’s staring.
Of course, you notice too, stilling your hand against the water’s surface. “What is it?”
He opens his mouth, silently pleading with his mind to come up with something—anything—sensible. But nothing comes.
“I—I don’t know,” he admits finally, voice rougher than intended. His throat bobs as he swallows thickly, suddenly looking anywhere but at you.
Your expression shifts slightly, amusement fading into something more cautious and quiet. “You’ve been strange ever since the feast, you know.”
“Well, that’s nothing new, is it?”
“Aegon.”
Shit.
He scrubs a hand through his hair and starts pacing before he can think better of it, boots carrying him along the curve of the fountain. The wine bottle knocks lightly against his thigh with every step.
“I’ve been thinking,” he finally mutters, earning a startled blink from you before your expression softens into a slight smile.
“That sounds dangerous.”
He laughs once under his breath, chest tightening. “About you,” the words fall between you both like a stone dropped into still water.
Your smile disappears and Aegon immediately regrets having a mouth at all.
“Not,” he says quickly, “not in some strange way. Or perhaps it is strange. I don’t know. That—that’s why it’s fucked, isn’t it?”
You stare at him now, as still as one of the stone statues stationed among the flowers. The night suddenly feels too warm, the hedges too close.
“Aegon,” you say slowly, carefully, “what are you trying to say?”
He wishes very badly for a bottle of something stronger than wine. Or perhaps for death. Either would suffice.
Instead, he exhales sharply through his nose and drags a hand over his jaw, buying himself another useless second. “I thought—I thought I understood what you were to me.”
“And what was that?”
The answer comes more easily than he expects, falling from his lips as easy as any curse or crude joke ever has: “Safety.” He hears the way your breath catches in your throat and your lips part, but he keeps going, forcing himself to before he loses his nerve entirely. “You were the only person I never had to perform for,” his voice lowers slightly. “I didn’t have to be a prince with you, or a son, or—or a disappointment.”
“Aeg—”
“And now,” he says, looking at you fully for perhaps the first time in his entire miserable life, “now I look at you and I cannot fucking breathe.”
Silence.
The fountain trickles endlessly between you and you stare at him like he’s cracked the world wide open with his bare hands.
He laughs once then, low and self-pitying. “See? Strange, as I said.”
“No,” you say softly, voice so quiet he wonders for a second if it was merely the wind.
“No?”
“No,” your fingers tighten slightly in the folds of your robe gathered in your lap. “Just late.”
Those words hit like a blow, stopping him in his tracks. His mouth parts slightly, though no words come out. He feels gutted—carved open from the inside and splayed out uselessly.
Suddenly, horribly, he understands. Despite everything, despite every single small thing he’s ever been through, every moment he made himself look like an utter fool, he’s never felt more hopelessly moronic than he does now.
All those looks everyone but him noticed.
All those letters.
All the times you found him without needing to ask where he’d gone.
All those years.
In one quick instant, you’ve somehow managed to make him feel both like a god and like little more than a flea all at once.
“Do you know how long I waited for you to notice?” you ask softly, head tilted just slightly.
Shame burns hot beneath his skin. His cheeks sting as blood rushes to his head.
“Why—why did you never say something?”
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh and your next words come out as little more than a sigh: “You called me your brother once.”
Oh, shit. Aegon physically winces, jaw clenching.
“That was,” he says weakly, licking his lips as he slowly shakes his head, “incredibly unfortunate wording on my part.”
“Yes.”
“I was—fuck, I was an idiot.”
“Yes.”
“Cruel?”
That softens you slightly, just enough to pull a quiet laugh from you.
“No, you’re not that bad,” you murmur after a moment. “Just blind.”
He steps closer before he can stop himself, dizzy at the thought that you’re not angry, not truly, though he feels you should be. He wouldn’t blame you if you were, if you were vengeful enough to make him bleed for it the way he suddenly feels he deserves.
Moonlight spills across your face as you look up at him from the fountain’s edge, your hair loose around your shoulders, lips parted ever so slightly.
Gods.
“You have always been mine in the only way that mattered,” he says quietly, the words scraping painfully from somewhere deep in his chest. “Now I want more,” he whispers, heart skipping at the way your breath catches, “even though I have no right to it.”
For a second, neither of you say anything. Then you slide slowly from the fountain’s edge to stand before him—close, far too close. He can smell the faint sweet scent of you again, can feel the warmth radiating from your skin despite the cool night air while you look at him for a long, unbearable moment.
“I tried very hard not to want you,” you whisper, each word warm on his lips.
“That’s not an answer.”
A tiny, sad smile pulls briefly at your mouth, shoulder shrugging. “It’s the only one I have.”
And then you kiss him.
Your hand rises to his cheek as your lips meet his and—fuck—may the Mother save him. Aegon’s been kissed before, plenty of times. He’s been touched and wanted and indulged since he was far too young to understand any of it properly, and yet—
None of it had prepared him for this—for the ruin of your hand against his face, for the way your mouth softens against his like something precious being handled too roughly.
He makes a quiet sound low in his throat before he can stop it and suddenly, he’s kissing you back hard enough to make you stumble a half-step into him. The wine bottle slips forgotten from his hand, thunking into the grass below as his fingers find your waist instinctively, pulling you closer while your hands slide up into his hair.
It feels like drowning and dying and being saved all at once—like finally getting a proper lungful of air after years spent choking.
The kiss deepens almost despite him, desperate in that terrible way starved things often are. Aegon tastes honey and wine and you, and he thinks vaguely that he could become addicted to this frighteningly fast and just as he brushes the tip of his tongue along your bottom lip…
Your hand presses lightly to his chest and reality returns all at once, ugly and unwelcome as you pull back just enough to breathe, your forehead pressing briefly against his.
“Aegon,” you whisper shakily, fingers grabbing at his coat.
He’s still dizzy enough to chase after you before stopping himself at the last second, blinking like he’s waking from a dream.
“You’re promised to Helaena,” you continue, the words cutting into him like a knife—that same damned blade at the center of everything.
He closes his eyes, nodding, though his hands tighten at your waist. “I—I know.”
“Then what are we doing?”
A careless laugh spills from his lips then, rough and breathy. “Something horribly foolish.”
He hates the way your expression twists as he stops to look at you—properly look at you, standing there beneath the moon with swollen lips and tangled hair and hope flickering dangerously in your eyes—and suddenly, the answer he’s been hopelessly seeking for days now becomes frighteningly clear.
“No, I—I don’t think this is foolish at all, really,” he says quietly, stronger this time as his gaze sharpens and he pulls you closer. “This is the most honest thing I’ve done in a long fucking time.”
He sees the question in your gaze but doesn’t move to answer it—not yet. For the first time in what feels like forever, he doesn’t simply want to endure what comes next.
Not this time.
Not if there is even the slightest chance of keeping you.
Dawn creeps slowly through the Red Keep, yellowed and pale beneath a sky still bruised by the last remnants of night.
Aegon still hasn’t slept. He’d tried, briefly, returning to his chambers with your taste still lingering maddeningly on his tongue and stared at the ceiling until the darkness began to feel suffocating. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you standing beneath the moonlight with your hands tangled in his hair and hope glinting across your face so fragilely it frightened him.
Something honest.
The words had lodged themselves somewhere deep in his chest and refused to leave, so he’d done the impossible instead—he’d stopped drinking.
Well—not entirely. He’d still had enough wine to keep the shaking at bay, but hours had passed since the gardens and the fog in his head had thinned enough now that he could no longer pretend this was some drunken impulse destined to sour by morning.
If anything, sobriety has only made it worse.
Which is how he finds himself standing outside his mother’s chambers just before sunrise looking deeply haunted while two exhausted Kingsguard stare at him with, frankly, understandable suspicion.
He ignores them, this is nothing new.
One of the guards pushes open the door after a moment’s hesitation and warmth spills out immediately, heavy with incense and the faint scent of lavender oil.
Alicent’s chambers are quiet at this hour with no court ladies bustling about, no maids rushing to prepare gowns or fetch correspondence—just the low crackle of the hearth and soft morning light filtering through the windows overlooking the city below.
His mother sits near the fire with embroidery gathered loosely in her lap, though from the way her needle has stilled halfway through a stitch, she’d clearly lost focus long before he entered.
She looks tired, he notices. No longer the sharp, composed mask of placidity she wears before court, emotions hidden away beneath rigid posture and jewels and carefully arranged hair.
For a brief instant, guilt twists unpleasantly in his stomach and he nearly leaves. But before he can, she looks up, blinking and brows furrowing at the sight of him.
“Aegon?” There’s immediate surprise in her voice. Wariness too—maybe because of the odd hour or because he’s sober enough to stand straight. Or perhaps because sons like him rarely come seeking their mothers at all unless something has gone terribly wrong.
He steps closer before he can lose the meager amount of confidence he’d been able to build in himself. “I need to speak with you.”
One of her brows raises and she glances to the window before looking back at him. “At this hour?”
“Yes.”
The doors finally shut behind him and for a few breaths, neither of them speaks. Alicent studies him carefully and he can practically see it when she realizes he isn’t drunk—isn’t slurring his words or swaying or mumbling some crude nonsensical remark. Certainly not drunk enough to explain away whatever this is.
That seems to unsettle her more than anything else he’s done.
Slowly, she sets the embroidery aside and smooths the skirt of her nightgown out before looking at him again. “What’s happened this ti—”
“It’s about Helaena.”
Everything in the room stills. Alicent goes rigid instantly, shoulders tightening beneath her chemise while something guarded and exhausted settles over her face.
Suddenly, Aegon feels twelve years old again.
“I cannot marry her,” his voice comes out shakier than he wishes and the words land hard and ugly between them.
His mother’s expression hardens immediately. “You will.”
There it is—something familiar. Duty. Finality. The thing that has always existed between them more comfortably than affection ever has.
“Mother—”
“You will not humiliate your sister because you have grown bored of loyalty before it has even begun.”
The sharpness of it cuts deeper than he expects, perhaps because some part of him had hoped—stupidly, pathetically—that she might somehow already understand.
He flinches before he can help it, face twitching to the side as if he’d been slapped.
She notices that too.
Ordinarily, this might be the point where he would laugh cruelly or make some cutting remark before storming off to drown himself in wine and whores for the remainder of the day. Instead, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, he stays.
“I’m—I’m not trying to humiliate her,” he says quietly, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t.”
“Then what is it you’re trying to do?”
“Spare her,” he whispers, swallowing thickly.
Alicent blinks once. The anger doesn’t disappear from her face but something beneath it flickers faintly—confusion maybe, or surprise.
“She’s done nothing wrong,” she says carefully.
“No,” he agrees immediately, the answer coming too fast to be anything but sincere, “she hasn’t.”
“So why punish her?”
“That is what I’m trying not to do.”
She stares at him then like she no longer recognizes the shape of him—like he’s sprouted a second head or vowed to become a maester.
Aegon laughs once under his breath, low and uneven. “You know what I am,” he mutters, beginning to pace because suddenly standing still feels impossible. “I drink too much, I disappear for days, I—I make a spectacle of myself whenever anyone expects otherwise. I know that.”
“Aegon—”
“No, let me finish,” he drags a hand through his hair sharply enough to tug at the roots. “Helaena deserves someone gentler than me. Someone who will not resent her for being tied to him. Someone who will not turn duty into—fuck—into cruelty simply because he was miserable first.”
His mother watches him carefully now, not with anger anymore but something worse—attentiveness.
“She’s your sister,” she says softly after a moment.
“I know.”
“You care for her.”
“I do,” his voice cracks unexpectedly on the last word and he hates himself for the way the backs of his eyes sting, the way his throat tightens. “That is the fucking problem.”
The fire snaps softly between them, logs settling as smoke trails up the flue. Alicent’s gaze narrows slightly then, something thoughtful moving behind her eyes.
“There’s someone else,” she says—not a question. Aegon goes still, not having expected her to figure it out, and when he doesn’t answer quickly enough, that alone tells her everything. She closes her eyes briefly and then nods to herself. “Lord Wylde’s daughter.”
Again, not a question.
All he can do is look away toward the window, jaw clenching tight enough to ache.
“You would endanger a royal match for a girl you played with as a child?” Alicent exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“No,” his answer comes automatically, making his mother look up in surprise. The movement draws his gaze back toward her and there’s something worryingly raw in his face now, stripped bare in a way she hasn’t ever seen from him before. “I would end it,” he says quietly, carefully picking each word, “for the woman who knows me better than anyone in this world.”
His mother’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, her anger faltering around the edges as if she no longer quite knows where to place it. Then she blinks and seems to come back to herself a bit and suddenly, the ever-present hardness he’s used to is back in her gaze.
“You are young enough to mistake… lust for love.”
He nearly laughs at that, though there’s nothing humorous in the sound that escapes him—something between a scoff and a wheeze. “If this were only lust, life would be considerably easier.”
“Aegon—”
“She has never been some—some passing fancy,” he cuts in roughly, pacing again now because merely standing under the weight of Alicent’s gaze feels suffocating. “Gods, she’s—”
He stops abruptly, chest heaving as he presses a hand hard against his mouth before dragging it down over his jaw. His brows are furrowed, eyes boring holes into some random corner of the room as he wracks his brain for the right words.
How in the world is he meant to explain you to someone else? How does he explain that you’ve become so woven through the fabric of his life—of his very being—that he no longer knows where you end and he begins?
“She has never been an escape,” he says finally, speaking through a sigh. His throat tightens painfully and his vision swims with sudden tears, though he doesn’t bother to hide them. “She is where I go when I cannot bear escaping anymore.”
His words aren’t polished, they come out ragged and uneven and frightfully earnest in a way he usually avoids at all costs.
But he means them entirely.
For the first time in a very long time, perhaps since that horrible night Aemond lost an eye, Alicent looks genuinely shaken. The room falls silent for a long moment, their only company the crackling of the fire and the distant sounds of the Keep finally waking around them.
“Does she… does she return your feelings?” she finally asks, her voice softer than Aegon has heard in a long time.
Blinking hard, he looks down at his hands briefly before answering. “I—I think,” he says carefully, “she loved me long before I deserved it.”
His mother stares at him for a very long time after that and slowly, impossibly, some of the fight begins slowly draining from her, like someone lowering a sword they’re no longer entirely certain they should be holding.
The silence stretches long enough that he starts to feel raw beneath it, skinned open and bleeding. He shifts uncomfortably where he stands, fingers twitching once at his side before curling tight against his palm.
“Love,” she says finally, sighing as she leans back in her seat and stares off at some point in the distance, “does not make a marriage simple.”
“No,” he agrees, laughing once under his breath. His eyes drift briefly toward the dying fire before lifting back to her. “But maybe it makes it less cruel.”
Something flits over her face then—not anger or disappointment, but something softer, sadder. For a moment, she looks terribly young to him. No longer like a queen draped in green silk and finery, not the rigid, sharp-tongued mother forever waiting for disaster from her eldest son.
Just Alicent.
Just a woman who had been married off to a grieving king while scarcely older than the girl sitting beside the fountains with moonlight tangled in her hair.
The realization settles uneasily in his chest, forcing him to look away once more.
“You’ve never asked me to be happy,” the words slip from his lips before he can stop them, leaving guilt to settle quietly in his chest.
“That’s not fair,” she snaps, recoiling as if struck.
“No, I suppose it’s not,” he says quietly, “but it is true.”
Her jaw tightens hard enough that he sees the muscle feather beneath her skin. For a heartbeat, he thinks she may lash out again, may sharpen herself back into something colder and safer.
But she only looks tired—terribly tired.
He swallows thickly, suddenly ashamed of the bitterness lingering at the edges of his voice. He scratches at the back of his neck, shifts his weight from foot to foot, and finally exhales—long and low.
“I—I know why,” he mutters after a moment. “M’not stupid. I know what’s expected of us, I know what we are.” His gaze flicks toward the window where dawn continues bleeding pale gold across the city. “I know sons like me aren’t given the luxury of… wanting things.”
“My love—”
“But I am asking now,” he murmurs, finally looking back at her—looking properly—and whatever she sees in his face seems to still her completely. “Please,” he says quietly.
Seven Hells.
He’s never been like this toward his mother, not since he was very young. Earnest and pleading and… small, almost. He can’t remember the last time they had a conversation that didn’t end in mocking or snapped demands or drunken babble.
“And if I say no?” Alicent finally asks, her voice low enough that he has to strain to hear the words.
For an instant, something foul twists through him, pricking at his insides like the thorny rose bushes in the gardens below. The old instinct to laugh, to shrug, to pretend this had all been some meaningless whim before she could reject it outright rears its ugly head, but he forces himself to still beneath her gaze.
“Then I will obey you,” he says carefully, the words seeming to hollow out the room.
They both know what obedience from him would truly mean.
Not peace—never that.
It would mean rot settling slowly into the cracks already splitting through him. More wine. More disappearing acts. More bitterness curdling inside him while Helaena spent the rest of her life shackled beside a man who resented the cage around both of them.
It would leave him like his father—like her—a fact neither of them dares to admit aloud.
And you—
You would marry elsewhere and smile politely beside some lordling while Aegon drank himself to death pretending not to think about it.
All for the sake of propriety.
He watches what little fight remains in his mother leave in slow increments, in small, fragile degrees, leaving only recognition behind—or grief.
Alicent rises suddenly then, crossing toward the window with measured steps while pale dawn light spills across the floor around her. She folds her arms tightly across herself as she stares out over King’s Landing below, quiet for so long that Aegon’s pulse begins hammering painfully against his ribs.
Please, he thinks silently, hoping the Gods somehow let her hear it, I have never wanted anything else.
When she does finally speak again, her voice has gone practical, careful in the way she uses when speaking to Viserys or Otto about political matters.
“If this were to happen,” she says lowly, “your grandsire would be furious.”
He blinks once as a tiny, dangerous spark of hope flickers alive somewhere in his chest. He doesn’t quite know what to do with himself—he hadn’t really thought he’d get this far.
“Your father already approved the match between you and Helaena,” his mother continues before he can speak. “Undoing it would create gossip throughout the realm,” her jaw tightens again, only for a second, “and Lord Wylde would need convincing, of course.”
She hasn’t said no. He hardly dares to breathe.
“Helaena’s future would need reconsideration,” she murmurs, mostly to herself now. “The court would talk. Father would call it weakness—recklessness,” a bitter scoff escapes her as she shakes her head, auburn waves flowing about her shoulders, “and he would likely blame me somehow.”
“That does sound like him,” Aegon mutters, the corner of his lips twitching faintly.
She shoots him a look over her shoulder, though it lacks her usual sharpness. The silence that follows feels oddly delicate, like one wrong move may shatter it entirely.
“But,” he says finally, his voice small, “you will try?”
She turns from the window at last, the first true rays of morning light catching against her face, illuminating the exhaustion there, the uncertainty, the grief of a woman who has spent most of her life sacrificing pieces of herself for duty and is now being asked to spare her son from doing the same.
For a long moment, she simply looks at him. Her gaze is softer now, sweeter than he can remember her ever looking at him.
“I will try,” she says, a small, tired smile pulling at the corners of her lips.
Aegon can only stare at her for an instant, violet eyes going wide. He had come here expecting anger and shouting, to add another disappointment to the growing mountain of them already piled between them.
He had not expected this—not expected mercy.
The hope blooming painfully inside his chest feels almost unbearable and knocks the wind from his lungs.
“Why?” he asks, unable to keep himself from doing so.
She ducks her head from him at that, sighing as she clasps her hands behind her back and purses her lips, staring at the stone floor as though it may provide an answer.
“Because,” she finally murmurs, “for once, I believe you.”
Something tight and aching lodges suddenly at his throat and before he can think better of it, before pride or embarrassment can stop him, Aegon crosses the room in a few quick strides and pulls his mother into an embrace.
He feels her stiffen against him for a heartbeat before she wraps her arms around him, squeezing him almost tentatively, as though neither of them quite remembers how to do this.
Maybe they never did.
Even so, he rests his forehead on her shoulder, gladly letting her hair tickle at his nose.
“Do not make me regret this,” she says quietly.
He swallows hard against the thickness at the back of his throat and closes his eyes tightly, letting a tear slip free from the corner of one. “I won’t,” he whispers, voice wavering.
She leans back just enough to look at him properly then and despite everything, despite the softness finally creeping into her face, there’s still some knowing glimmer in her gaze.
“Do not swear things you cannot understand,” she says, though her expression gentles, “but try.”
He leaves Alicent’s chambers before she can change her mind or before he can wake from this strange, fragile dream and find himself once again trapped inside the same miserable life he’d resigned himself to years ago.
The corridors of the Keep blur around him as he walks. Servants bow as he passes. Guards step aside. Somewhere in the distance, the bells of the Sept toll to announce the beginning of morning prayers, but Aegon hardly hears any of it over the thunder of his own pulse.
She said she would try. Even now, the words feel impossible.
By the time he reaches your chambers, the morning light has grown to a vibrant orange, spilling through the narrow castle windows and softening the stone walls into something warm.
He barely waits after knocking before swinging the door open.
You’re already up, hastily rising from a seat by the window. You’re not dressed yet, still in that same robe from hours before. Your hair still hangs loose around your shoulders, still sleep-touseled, and there are dark crescents under your eyes like you hadn’t managed to sleep much either.
Neither of you speaks for a moment as you simply stare at him—wide-eyed and worried and searching, hopeful in that careful way people become when they’re afraid to want too much.
And Aegon—
Fuck, he can only look at you.
Because now he’s here and now that this is real, he suddenly understands with awful clarity just how badly this could’ve gone—how easily he could’ve lost you before ever truly having you at all.
“Well?” you finally ask, brows pulling together faintly beneath the weight of his silence.
His throat tightens unexpectedly and he feels nearly lightheaded as he steps more fully into your chambers, glancing over his shoulder to ensure the door is closed.
“I—she,” he starts, the words sticking in his throat before he barks out a breathy laugh, “mother says she’ll try.”
All at once, your shoulders sag with relief so sharp it looks nearly painful, your knees buckling in a way that has him striding closer before you right yourself.
You’d been scared, he realizes, heart squeezing painfully in his chest.
“It—it isn’t done,” he says quickly—almost apologetically—as he steps closer once more, instinct carrying him. “She only said she would speak to Viserys and try to sway him.”
“I understand,” you whisper, still smiling faintly despite the tears threatening to leak from the corners of your eyes.
“Otto may have me killed.”
“That does seem likely, yes,” you breathe through a quiet laugh, startled by his words.
There you are, he thinks, chest loosening at the sound of it—that familiar rhythm settling between you again as naturally as breathing. Gods, he thinks he could survive almost anything so long as you continue looking at him like that.
You move closer then, until hardly any space remains between you at all.
Aegon looks at you for a long moment before laughing under his breath, the sound of it almost disbelieving. “I truly thought she might throw something at my head,” he murmurs.
“She still might.”
“Mm,” he hums, a wry smile on his lips, “perhaps later.”
Another quiet laugh escapes you again, gentler this time, before silence settles. He brings a hand up and cups your cheek, gliding a calloused thumb over your skin.
“But I asked,” he says, the whispered words seeming to fill the room as a small part of himself marvels at the awe of that alone. Not whether Alicent said yes or no. Not Otto or Viserys or court gossip or political alliances—but at the fact that he asked at all.
He’s spent most of his life laughing before anyone else could laugh at him first and yielding before disappointment could ever truly settle. He drank and whored and joked his way around every genuine thing ever placed before him and even still—
He asked for you. He chose something for himself.
You understand it immediately, of course you do—he sees it land across your face all at once as your expression softens so much that it nearly undoes him, nearly makes him weak in the knees like a naive fucking princess from one of those fairytale books girls all seem to fawn over.
Slowly, you raise a hand and rest it on his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the linen of his shirt. Your touch is so gentle that it makes him ache.
“I’m so proud of you,” you whisper, nearly beaming.
His breath catches enough to hurt and his hair stands on end as a shiver shoots down his spine like a lightning bolt, nearly striking him dumb. His mind reels—he cannot remember if anyone has ever said that to him, at least not honestly, not without expectation buried beneath it, not as surprise or out of pure obligation.
For one upending instant, he thinks he may fall to pieces and cry like some pathetic fool right here in your arms. So, naturally, he does the only thing he knows how to do when emotions become too large to carry properly—he grins crookedly.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice thick despite his best efforts, “I may become unbearable after hearing things like that.”
“You already are,” you say without missing a beat, brushing a thumb beneath one of his eyes to catch the dampness there before it can fall.
He laughs—quiet and helpless and more relieved than he thinks he’s ever been in his life before pulling you tightly against him and pressing his lips to yours at last.
This kiss is different than the one from earlier. That one had been desperate and frantic, starved and full of worry. This one feels almost reverent. Slow and lingering and warm with the joyous understanding that everything has shifted now, that you’ve both stepped into something neither of you can pull back from, not that you’d ever wish to.
Your arms slide around his neck while his hands settle carefully at your waist, drawing you flush against him, and for once, Aegon doesn’t feel trapped by the future stretching out before him.
When he finally pulls back, your forehead rests against his and he closes his eyes, breathing you in like you’re something sacred, something to be savored.
Ever since he can remember, he had mistaken emptiness for protection. He’d thought that if he kept enough distance between himself and everyone else, kept enough of himself walled away—buried beneath wine and cruelty and laughter sharp enough to slice through flesh—then nothing could ever truly reach him.
He’d gladly let his heart become shielded, armored like a knight—something hard enough to survive.
You’d split straight through it without ever meaning to.
A smile across crowded halls. A hand against his sleeve. Letters and years. A girl who kept finding him no matter how often he disappeared.
And, Gods fucking help him, standing here with you in his arms, Aegon can’t help but be glad for the wound.
Summary: Years ago, Maekar chose another woman and you both went your separate ways, your brief love story ending before it ever really had the chance to begin. You hadn’t seen him in years and hadn’t thought much about him since, but when he sees you again, he starts to wonder if he made the right choice after all.
Pairing: Regretful! Maekar x Unavailable! Stark! reader
WC: 8.0k
Warnings: 18+, non-canon, dragons are still alive (maekar rides vermithor and baelor rides meleys), reader has a direwolf and so do her siblings, council drama, smut, betrayal, maekar is questionable, dyanna is still alive and so is jena, arguments, mentions of violence, talks of depression, hurt, angsty, unresolved feelings, manipulation, fade to black at the end, mentions of white walkers, descriptions of grief, slightly proofread.
part5/?| part one part two part three part four
“Dyanna is dead.”
Those words from Lyonel hung in the air and made your ears ring.
What were you supposed to say? What were you supposed to think? Things couldn’t have been worse than they were in that moment.
Before you could form a thought or even say anything, Lyonel grabbed your hand and whisked you away.
You glanced back at Maekar, whose eyes met yours instead of looking at Baelor.
Lyonel brought you back to your room, shutting the door behind the two of you.
You walked towards the edge of your bed, leaning against the footboard— your heart in your throat.
“Did Maekar kill her?—“
“Did he kill his own wife?” You asked, your voice coming out small.
Lyonel stood near the chairs and table, shaking his head as he poured himself some wine.
“Not that I know of. He apparently said that he’d come to check on her again after her being ill and she was cold to the touch.”
“Perhaps he should’ve killed her, after her outburst yesterday.” He mumbled.
You closed your eyes, a deep sigh leaving your lips— your fingers twisting the pendant on your necklace.
“May the old gods watch over her, may she never be forgotten.” You whispered.
Lyonel hovered over the table near him, the goblet still in his hand and a scowl on his face.
“You pray for her?—“
“The woman that threatened to take your child from you in her last day of life.”
“I pray for her children, especially the young ones that are now without a mother. I pray that her death does not break them, that Maekar can guide them.” You replied.
You walked to your window, tears falling down your cheek.
Your tears weren’t of sadness or for you, but for him— for how he’d feel at the end of all of this.
Lyonel sipped wine from his goblet and laughed in the midst of doing so.
Your eyes flickered over your shoulder towards him.
“They ruin everything that they touch, even ruining the simple life that we had planned. You pray for them as if they deserve it, it’s nonsense.”
You wiped your face, staring back out the window at the snow and ice covering the ground.
“I may be many things, but I’m not cruel. It never hurts to be sympathetic to their loss.”
He put down his goblet, wiping his lips.
“I have no sympathy left for any of them, especially after that stunt that she pulled. She threatened our—“
His words were interrupted by a knock at the door, the door opening with Baelor standing there.
“Lady Stark, I’d like to speak with you.”
You turned to face Baelor, your mouth opening and closing as your words failed you.
You nodded, leaving the room with Baelor and the two kingsguard that he had present.
You walked down the hall with Baelor, your eyes watching as servants walked with purpose. Your home felt unrecognizable for many reasons outside of the obvious.
It was a mess and too quiet, like everyone had forgotten how to breathe after the news broke.
Baelor walked you to the council meeting room, guiding you in as the kingsguard posted outside of the door.
You didn’t know what to expect, not really.
Inside the room Queen Myriah sat in one of the chairs, waiting on the two of you.
The door shut with a loud thud behind you, your palms beginning to sweat.
Baelor took a seat, gesturing for you to sit as well.
“Lady Stark, I am sure that you have heard the news of Dyanna’s passing.” He spoke.
“Yes, I have and I’d like to offer my deepest sympathies to your family.” You replied, your voice shaky.
Queen Myriah stared at you, her eyes bloodshot as if she’d spent hours crying.
“I just want to say that what happened at that meeting should not have happened. No one wanted to take Rhaenyra from you..but there was a tabled discussion on how to handle the situation.” Baelor informed you.
You stared at him, your tongue pressed against your teeth.
“This whole ordeal was supposed to be a simple thing. We were to discuss and handle the matters that pertained to the realm, have a few grand feasts, resolve the issues, and return home—“
“I’ve instead been disappointed by my son and by you.” Queen Myriah admitted, staring at you.
Her words of disappointment made your stomach turn into a knot. It was like you were hearing the words from your own mothers mouth. You never intended to disappoint anyone, it was never supposed to happen this way.
Baelor tapped his fingers against the table, his focus on you.
“My brother's wife has died and we’re only a few days into our stay.”
You shrugged, wiping the tears before they fell from your eyes.
“Yes, that is unfortunate— but it has nothing to do with me. I am unsure of the need to summon me over this.” You responded, your voice coming out in a higher pitch.
“You are not summoned about the death of Dyanna.” Queen Myriah commented.
“You are here because we need to discuss Rhaenyra.” Baelor added.
You bit your tongue, your head hung in defeat— a laugh escaping your mouth before you could stop.
All anyone cared about and wanted to talk about was Rhaenyra, like it was the only word anyone knew. She was yours, why couldn’t they just let well enough be?
“I never intended for any of you to find out about her in truth, I didn’t mean to cause any harm or concern. I wanted us to be fine here and left alone..”
“We knew peace before the arrival of the royal family, let us get back to that.” You boldly admitted.
Queen Myriah’s eyes widened, her shoulders pulled back.
Baelor’s lips twitched, his fingers no longer tapping against the table.
“One doesn’t have to intend harm to do it, Lady Stark. You should not have indulged my brother by lying with him.”
You scoffed, pinching the bridge of your nose.
“I have had plenty of nights to sit with my reckless decision, to understand the life that I have given my daughter. I do not need your judgment, Baelor.”
“We are not here to cast judgment as no one in this room is perfect—“
“Given the fragility of the situation, we have to ask something of you. I am unsure how you’ll respond to this request, but we ask you to consider it nonetheless.” Queen Myriah interjected.
“With the untimely passing of Dyanna and the revelation of Rhaenyra, there has now been a constant tension. Rhaenyra is blood of the dragon, bore from a woman of a great house.” Baelor continued.
“We want you to marry Maekar.”
Your eyes felt like they could bulge from your skull as you stared at him.
“What?—“
“Is this a jape?” You frowned.
“No, far from. The stability of our house is fragile and this request does not come lightly.” Myriah responded.
You stood from your chair, your brows furrowed.
“This is an ugly, vile request and I will not consider it! I am to marry Lyonel.”
Baelor chuckled, low and deep in his throat— shaking his head in disbelief.
“Lyonel Baratheon? This stay is getting more interesting as the hours pass.”
“It is only a request at this time, Lady Stark. However, Rhaenyra shall be connected to her family. I doubt the king will have it any other way, it is only his abundance of care that this is a request to begin with—“
“It might not be one for long though.” Myriah confessed.
You pulled your shoulders back.
“He would demand it?”
She shrugged her shoulders, wiping her eyes as they watered.
“If he felt it necessary, considering the two of you cannot stay away from one another. He does not want to though.”
“I’d like to be excused.” You asked, your heart racing.
She nodded.
You left the room, your heart feeling like it was in your throat. The walk to your chambers was hazy, everything felt off and wrong— you felt off. When you reached your room, you were thankful that it was empty.
You slammed the door behind you, startling the servants.
The room felt like it was closing in on you and your veins burned with rage.
You knocked everything off of your desk, glass shattering as it hit the stone.
“Fuck!” You yelled, your tears flowing from your eyes.
This situation had spiraled beyond your reach, far beyond what you could control and understand. Dyanna was barely cold and they were already preparing for you to marry Maekar.
Maekar sat in Dyanna’s chambers, her cold body only being taken away a few moments prior.
She was here one moment and gone like a whisper in the wind the next.
There were no true words to describe his feelings, none that could explain how weird it was for him. Weird to now be without the woman that he’d been married to for years, but relief because he was now free.
He was at a loss, no idea how to begin getting his children through this loss.
What was his life supposed to be like now? What was he supposed to say in response to people’s sympathies?
For the first time in his life, he was lost— lost navigating something that he’d never been prepared for.
He sat there in the seat near the bed, staring at the stone as if it would change into something else.
Even in the time alone in that room, you crossed his mind. His wife had just died, yet he thought of you and your child. It was disgusting and he was ashamed, it was a special kind of torment.
Winterfell was now in mourning, your home felt colder than it usually did. All meetings and realm dealings were to be paused until after the funeral. Your home hadn’t felt this way since your own mother had died years prior.
Rhaenyra sat on your bed, playing with the small wooden toys that Lyonel had made for her.
You knelt beside your desk, placing the things that you had knocked off back onto it. Your hands shook as you picked up the big shards of glass that were scattered across the floor.
The glass being broken into small pieces is how you felt, you felt like something broken— something that was broken beyond repair. Your life would never be what you wanted, not anymore.
Your life was a complete mess, the entire thing. It was never perfect before, but it was yours. It was your small, quiet, and ordinary life. It may not have been normal or fitting for a lady to others, but you loved it— every part of it.
Once you picked up the glass, you grabbed the broom and began to sweep the smaller pieces.
Your mind went back to the conversation with Queen Myriah and Baelor, what they asked of you. Their solution to the problem that you had dumped in their lap.
You wanted to blame them, be angry that they’d suggest it— but this was all on you. Your selfishness, your lack of restraint, and respect for yourself.
How were you going to tell Lyonel? Gods, you couldn’t even figure out where he belonged in your life at that moment. What the two of you had before was perfect, it was simple and now it was chaos. You didn’t want to ruin it or ruin him.
Rhaenyra babbled on the bed, trying to chew on one of her toys. She was completely unaware of everything that had happened, she was happy and smiling.
You emptied the glass into the waste bin beside your desk, the door to your room opened— small footsteps against the stone.
“Lady Stark..”
“I wanted to meet my sister.” A small voice spoke, his words coming out small and unsure.
It was Aegon with Rhae right beside him, both of them standing in front of you with only one thing on their mind. They stood in front of you, their faces puffy and eyes red— looking at you like they couldn’t bear you telling them no.
Your expression softened staring at them.
“Does your father know that either of you are here?”
Egg looked at Rhae and they shook their heads.
You walked over to the bed, picking Rhaenyra up— holding her in your arms.
Egg and Rhae mustered smiles as you knelt in front of them with Rhaenyra.
“She looks like me, Egg.” Rhae spoke with a giggle.
Rhaenyra walked to the center of the carpet and sat down, grabbing more of her toys from the basket.
You smiled at the sight of her, but your smile faded at the sound of sniffling. Egg stood in front of you, tears streaming down his pale cheeks and onto his neck.
“Oh, Egg.” You mumbled, walking over to him and giving him a hug.
Rhae sat on the carpet by Rhaenyra pulling out toys for her and Egg tightly wrapped his arms around your waist, clinging to you as he sobbed— his tears wetting your gown.
Your heart broke for them, the loss of a parent was unlike any other kind. You rubbed his head, trying to comfort him as you held back tears yourself.
“I am so sorry about you losing your mother.” You muttered, trying to overcome the tears that wet your waterline.
Hearing his sobs shook you in a way that you hadn’t expected. He was such a joyous boy and now he clung to you, his world falling apart.
He pulled away from you, wiping his face. You knelt again, staring into his violet eyes.
“Do you need me to get your father?”
He shook his head, taking a deep breath— trying to calm down.
“I just want to spend time with you and my sister, if that is okay.”
You nodded with a teary eyed smile.
The servants brought food to your chambers at your request, you hoped to keep the children occupied and to provide any comfort that you could.
“Will father be okay?” Egg asked.
You looked up from the scroll that was on your desk, staring blankly.
“Only time will tell, but he is strong— as are you and your siblings. I think that with time all of you will be okay.”
Egg didn’t smile or anything, he just stared at you— his mind clearly at war with his feelings.
After a bit of playing and plenty of laughs from them as they were amused with Rhaenyra, Rhae gave you one of the books that you had. It was the book that you often read to Rhaenyra before bed.
“Can you read this to us?”
You were a bit shocked, but willing to if they genuinely wanted it.
“Do you really want me to read this?”
Rhae nodded, “please.”
You, Rhae, Egg, and Rhaenyra laid in your bed as you picked a chapter from the book to read. They wanted to hear the chapter that talked about the conquerors, which you obliged.
You read it to them, your voice animated— taking your time while they looked at the drawings on the pages.
That chapter had come to an end and all the children were asleep, you even found your eyelids feeling heavy. You fell asleep after fighting it for a few minutes.
The day was just barely in the afternoon and all of you were tired, completely worn thin.
You slept peacefully, completely losing track of time— but your door swung open.
“Have you seen—“
Maekar stopped in his tracks at the sight of you. You laid there in the bed, a book propped against your chest and the children sleep around you.
He had begun to panic when he was told that no one could locate them, but it was clear that they went where they thought best.
Maekar didn’t want to disturb you, so he sat on the window seat — watching as all of you slept. The sight of you and his children finding comfort in each other made him feel a small amount of ease, not because he’d depend on you— but because at least they weren’t entirely alone.
In some world this was the life for the two of you— multiple kids, no scandals, no grief, just the kids and bliss.
When you awoke, Rhae and Egg were gone. It didn’t worry you much as you figured that the servants had come to get them or they left on their own.
You slept good for the first time in a while, you slept and didn’t cry yourself to sleep beforehand.
Rhaenyra pulled your cheeks, “mama.”
You chuckled softly, a smile coming onto your face at the sight of her. Your precious daughter that mattered more than anything else in that world.
After a few minutes of laying in the bed, you prepared your chambers for the night and had dinner brought to your room for both of you.
The night had come quicker than you had expected, but even then the day still felt never ending.
You sat with Rhaenyra in one of your chairs, Greywind walking in your room behind a servant as they placed supper on the table.
The room was quiet with the exception of the fireplace and Rhaenyra humming as she ate her potatoes. It didn’t take long before she got fussy and didn’t want the rest, so you fed it to Greywind.
You took Rhaenyra to her own room and helped prepare her for bed. She kissed your cheek when you tried to lay her down in her bed, giggling when you kissed her cheek. She held your finger and fidgeted around in her bed— trying to fight her sleep, but you watched as her blinks lasted longer with each one. Within a few minutes she was sound asleep.
She looked so beautiful as she slept, her silver hair all over the place. In some lights, she looked exactly like Maekar and nothing like you.
While you sat there, you had a bath prepared for you in your chambers.
You thought about what Queen Myriah said, you thought about your own feelings, and Rhaenyra’s life.
Would you be cruel to keep Rhaenyra from them? Would she resent you or Lyonel? Would they resent you for it?
There was no perfect answer and that was what drove you mad, what made you feel hopeless— because no one knew what the outcome would be.
When you returned to your chambers, you were ready to relax in the bath and maybe have a nice cry alone.
Lyonel stood in your room, waiting for you.
You shut the door, a huff of air leaving your mouth.
“I did not expect you to be in here, I figured you would have run off after earlier.” You mumbled, walking towards your bed.
Lyonel looked down at his feet and back towards you.
“I must admit that was not my finest moment earlier. I am sorry.”
You pulled your boots off, listening to him while he spoke.
“It’s fine, Lyonel.”
He rubbed his beard, trying to find the right words.
“My love, I shouldn’t have been so crass earlier and I am truly sorry—“
“I should’ve been sympathetic.”
You walked towards him, placing your hands into his and staring into his eyes.
“I forgive you, my love.” You whispered, stepping even closer to him.
He loved when you called him that, but the way that you went about it was what turned him on most. How you stood in front of him, staring at him through your lashes — your voice laced with need.
Lyonel stepped closer, his body pressed against yours.
“Hmm.” He hummed.
His hand cupped your face, both of you lost in the moment and nothing else mattering.
“You look so beautiful, so fucking beautiful.”
You couldn’t help but smile, glancing away from him.
“You’re just saying that, hoping that you’ll get your cock wet.” You teased.
He chuckled, his lips brushing against yours— his breath warming your skin.
“Even without fucking you, I am the luckiest man in the seven kingdoms. You are the love of my life, the woman I’d go to the ends of this world for.”
You pressed your lips against his, your fingers gripping his doublet.
He kissed you back, his arm wrapping around your waist.
You felt so good with him, yet your heart was conflicted— torn between two men.
“Can I share the bath with you?” He asked, pulling his lips away from yours.
You nodded.
The water steamed around the two of you as you sat down in the tub, you sat in between Lyonel’s legs with your back pressed against his chest.
“I dream of many nights like this with you.” Lyonel confessed.
You smiled, rubbing your finger against his thigh.
“You do?”
“How could I not? What man wouldn’t want to end his night with a fierce wife beside him.” He added.
Lyonel helped wash your back— telling you a story about how he’d met some large knight, who wasn’t really a knight a few moons back. A man named Ser Dunk, which sounded incredibly silly to you.
He cupped water onto your hair, a smile on his face.
“You laugh, but I’m serious. His name was Dunk and he was..”
“Something.” Lyonel trailed off.
“I imagine that he was, especially if he called himself Dunk.” You laughed again, the kind of laugh where tears welled in your eyes. The story sounded ridiculous, but Lyonel was serious.
After your bit of laughter that went on for what seemed forever, you rested your head against his chest.
You realized that you still hadn’t told him about what the king had requested of you.
“Lyonel.” You spoke.
He rubbed his hand against yours. “Yes, darling.”
You took a deep breath, trying to find the right words and hoping that you wouldn't upset him.
“When Baelor asked to speak with me earlier, he brought me to the council room where Queen Myriah was also waiting.”
“The queen summoned you?” He asked.
“Something like that..”
“She and Baelor needed to speak with me about Rhaenyra.”
His hand stilled against yours, “what about her?”
“They want me to marry Maekar.” You hesitantly answered.
“Oh—“
“I see.” He muttered. You could hear the way that your words instantly affected him, how he seemed heartbroken already.
There was a silence, a silence that felt like the two of you were frozen for a beat. He didn’t say anything or move and neither did you.
“What did you say to that?” He questioned.
You turned in the tub, water splashing onto the stone. You faced Lyonel, staring into his eyes.
“I told them that I am to marry you.”
He nodded, his fingers resting on the edge of the tub.
“I take it that they did not like that revelation?”
You looked down at the water, looking at your reflection— your eyes watering again.
“What if they make me marry him? Force my hand?”
He stared at you, his own eyes watering.
“What is a man to do when he loses the love of his life to someone who is unworthy?”
You tilted your head slightly, a frown on your face.
“Lyonel..”
“Is what I speak not the truth?” He questioned.
You couldn’t bring your eyes to face him, it was like they were unable to in that moment— like you felt guilty to agree with him.
“You are.. magnificent in every way, that is the truth. You give me hope that there is more for me out there, that I can take a wife that I’m proud to have—“
“I know that you are torn and I’d be a fool to pretend that this isn’t the case, but I cannot compete with him.. not when you keep your heart closed to me.” He continued, the words leaving his mouth slowly as he knew that he might regret them.
Your eyes met his instantly.
“You don’t think that my heart is open to you? That I don’t love you?”
He sighed, trying to grab your hand.
“That is not what I meant.”
You pulled away, standing in the tub— the water falling from your body. Your bare skin exposed to Lyonel, disrupting any thoughts that he had only a moment ago.
The water splashed across the stone as you stepped out, grabbing your robe.
“I only meant that—“
“Save it, Lyonel.”
Lyonel stood in the tub, following you— completely bare while you prepared the bed.
“I did not mean to offend you, but it is obvious that you still care so deeply for him.”
You stopped what you were doing, facing Lyonel and keeping your eyes on his face.
“I am to marry you, Lyonel. I figured that it was clear that you were who I chose? That you were who I wanted?”
“Am I what you want? or do I simply provide you a means to run away and prevent the evident temptation that brews between the two of you?” He pried.
Your mouth fell open slightly, your eyes widening with disbelief.
“I.. cannot believe that you just said that, that you’d even think that of me— that you think I’m merely only using you.”
The regret on his face was instantaneous.
“I should not have said that, I did not.. I didn’t mean it.”
You bit your tongue and kept from expressing the true thoughts that came across your mind.
“It is a shame that you think so lowly of me, Lyonel. I welcomed you into my life, my daughter's life, and talked to you about a future. Maekar returning wasn’t even on our minds, it has always been real with you.”
His mouth opened and closed, his heart racing fast.
“But he did.. he did return. He returned and you still can’t admit that you’re done with him, can you?—“
“Were to be wed, but the thought of him still sends shivers down your spine! You also fucked him since he’s been back!” His voice raised.
You gasped, being completely taken by surprise at him saying that.
“My Love.. I am not upset over that—“ he stammered, wiping his face.
“You clearly have drunk too much.” You scoffed.
Your ears felt warm to the touch as Lyonel continued to speak, your heart in your throat. You stared at him blankly, stumped on what to say.
“I shall bid you goodnight. I am quite tired.” You mumbled, pulling the cover back on your bed.
“I don’t want to end our night on a sour note.” He replied.
You scoffed, “you should’ve thought about that.”
Lyonel put his clothes on and exited your chambers, a lingering silence in the air. A distance between the two of you that didn’t exist beforehand now consumed the room.
Your relationship with Lyonel was quite simple and different in some ways, but that’s what made it work so well. He accepted you and you accepted him.
The two of you never argued or yelled at one another, not really— but that night you did. Something in your relationship snapped, something that you had no control over. You just knew that maybe he needed space and maybe you did too, from both of them.
The passing of Dyanna had everyone feeling off, it changed everything. Even in the days after, you had still avoided Maekar. There was nothing you could say to make anything easier and it’d probably only continue to get complicated. He needed plenty of things, but condolences on his wife from you was not one of them.
Maekar looked for you, but he found it painfully clear that you were avoiding him and did not wish to speak.
It was finally the day of Dyanna’s funeral.
You stood outside in your black gown, holding Rhaenyra— amongst the royal family, your family, Lyonel, and other noblemen. All of you gathered outside to join the royal family in their mourning.
Vermithor stood near the pyre where she laid, a loud roar leaving him as he moved closer.
Maekar stood close to the pyre, looking like a man that had been cut in half— a man that was lost at sea. You doubted that it was just grief that troubled him, maybe it was everything all at once.
Lyonel stared at you from afar, an apology on his mind and lips— but paralyzed with guilt.
You adjusted Rhaenyra on your hip, watching as Vermithor burned Dyanna on the pyre in front of him— the sounds of the fire cackling and the smell of burning flesh seared into your mind.
After the funeral, you handed Rhaenyra off for a nap and retreated into your chambers. You took off your boots and began to unlace your gown when there was a faint knock at the door.
“Come in.”
Maekar opened the door and walked inside, shutting it behind him.
“You’ve been avoiding me.” He spoke, not completely accusing you— but leaving no room for you to say otherwise.
Your fingers stilled against your laces.
“I decided to let you be.”
“Who told you that I wanted that?”
You turned your head at an angle, the crack of light just barely catching his scarred face.
“No one told me, it is what I know. Dyanna just died and it would be improper for me to come to you.”
His eyebrows raised with a scoff, “improper is it?”
You rolled your eyes, untying the rest of the laces to your gown as he walked towards the window.
“Don’t start, please.”
“No one ever tells you what to expect when a wife dies.. how you might feel or how you might move on later—“
“They tell you nothing about it, even when it’s a common occurrence.” He trailed off.
You pulled off your gown, standing in your shift and gently folding it.
“You are strong, you will recover and so will your children.”
He pushed the shutter open further, glancing out.
“My children..” he started and then stopped.
You placed your folded gown on your desk and took a seat in the chair, your shift just barely hiding your figure— not that it mattered much.
“What about them?” You followed up.
He hesitated, like he was afraid to finish his sentence.
“Nothing.” He grumbled.
“I saw that my youngest son and daughter came to visit you.”
You sat back in your seat, pulling the pins from your hair. “Aye, they did.”
He turned from the window, his focus and saddened eyes fully on you.
“Why did they come to you? Were they okay?”
You glanced at him and placed one of the pins on the desk.
“They were fine.. they wanted to meet Rhaenyra.”
“And how did that go?” He questioned.
You pulled out the last pin, running your fingers along your scalp to ease the tension that you had felt all morning.
“Unlike most adults, children are not inherently cruel. They were just excited to have a sister and to take their minds from their mothers passing.”
He nodded, his eyes lingering at his feet.
“That’s.. good.”
He walked over to the desk, standing in front of it and you. He had that look on his face, the look that you knew all too well.
“Do you still intend to marry Lyonel?”
You chuckled as if a joke had been told, maybe one had— one that not even he could understand.
“I do. I intend to marry Lyonel and get away from this place, away from your family.. away from you.” You finally admitted.
He looked like you had struck him with an arrow, like you had torn a string that was within his heart— like you truly meant those words.
When you saw his reaction, your face dropped— not in horror or fear, but sadness. As harsh as your words may have been, they were true— you wanted to be away from it all.
“Don’t turn your back on me.” He muttered.
“I should’ve saved myself the heartache and did exactly that moons ago.” You argued.
“Queen Myriah and Baelor asked me to marry you.. for the goodness of the realm I suppose.” You confessed.
His brows furrowed, the scars of his face deepening.
“They did what?”
“They said that it was necessary for you, for Rhaenyra—“
“They didn’t tell you?” You asked.
“No, I was not informed that my mother and brother asked you to marry me immediately after Dyanna died.”
You didn’t respond, because in this instance you didn’t know how to.
“Please, do not marry Lyonel.” He pleaded, his eyes looking at the desk in front of him.
“I will.” You replied plainly.
He looked at you as if you had betrayed him, his eyes glassy.
“Why?—“
“I am right here.. asking you not to.”
You stood from your chair, your footsteps slow and methodical as you walked over to him.
“You are here now, but there were many nights where you weren’t.. where I was alone.”
“But, you’re not alone now.” He added.
“It’s too late.”
He grabbed your hand, bringing it to his chest — his glassy eyes staring into yours. His gaze felt as if you were being sucked into his tide again, unable to escape the way that the water would feel against your skin— the way that you wanted to welcome it.
“I cannot fix the past, but I can promise that I’d never leave your side again—“
“Only in death and then I’d still wait for you, if the gods let me.”
You pulled away, a tear streaming down your cheek— your lip beginning to quiver.
“It is far too late, Maekar!—“
“I chose you the first time around and you didn’t choose me. You could’ve been a selfish prince and chose me, but you didn’t.”
He wiped the tears that fell down his own reddened cheeks.
“I thought of you everyday, regretted my choice everyday.”
“Regretted it so much that you fucked six children into her?” You swore.
He began to frown, biting his lip to keep from getting angry at your words.
“That’s not fair..”
“What’s not fair is loving someone so much that you wanted to die when they broke your heart. What’s not fair is having to watch them get the life that the two of you romanticized.”
“What’s not fair is that despite everything, I wasn’t enough for you to choose me first.” You sputtered.
His hardened facial expression softened, his expression reminding you of how he looked at you years ago.
“I cannot—“
“You are correct, you cannot! I do not wish to do this with you anymore, Maekar.”
“I am asking for us to do it right this time.” He corrected you.
You began to sob, turning away from him— your hand covering your mouth to muffle it. Maekar stood and watched, knowing that there were no words that could undo that damage he caused.
You grabbed your gown and swiftly put it back on.
“We were so close.. so fucking close, Maekar.” You mumbled, wiping your nose with the back of your hand.
“I know.” He replied.
You turned back around. “I choose Lyonel this time, I choose him because I have a choice—“
“Because he chose me and Rhaenyra first.”
Maekar stepped closer to you, his chest pressed against yours.
“Tell me that you do not love me anymore.”
Your brows furrowed, head tilting.
“It was never about me not loving you, it was the fact that I do love you— that was the problem.”
He pressed his lips against yours and you slightly kissed him back, but you pulled away.
“I have spent far too much time dwelling on the past with you, I won’t continue this—“
“Don’t you see it? See that everything around us and our relationship is a tragedy?”
He winced at your words and their finality, watching as you slowly stepped away from him and made your way to the door— opening it and leaving him standing there.
He had lost you and he’d lose the daughter that the two of you shared, a loss that would make him crumble.
You left Maekar standing in your chambers, but when you left you didn’t feel happy or even content. It felt like there was a weight on your chest, a pressure that no herb could heal.
He was the relentless and unstoppable pain that coursed your body, the wound that was etched onto your heart.
Despite the history between the two of you, you wanted to choose something special— a person that made you want to dance, a person that made you laugh, a person that loved even the ugliest parts of you.
You walked the hall, nodding with still wet eyelashes as the staff spoke to you.
You took your time walking, trying to gather your thoughts and hopefully put everything properly into words. You stopped in front of the heavy double doors, giving a gentle knock.
“Enter.”
When you entered the room, your father and brother were in the middle of a conversation.
“Oh, I did not realize that you were in the middle of something. I can come back .”
“No, I’m glad that you are here. I must speak with you.” You father mentioned.
Your brother stared at you, an unpleasant stare like he’s cross with you.
“What is the matter?”
“I have been told that you refused the request of the royal family.” He replied.
Your brows raised and then furrowed.
“The request to marry Maekar?—“
“Yes, I did.”
“May I ask why?”
“I do not want to, I want to marry Lyonel.” You mumbled, your fingers clasped in front of you.
“Are you fucking serious?—“
“This is downright embarrassing for the family. You get to finally marry the man that you’ve been whoring with and you say no?” Your brother snapped.
“Excuse me?” You fumed, your shoulders pulled back.
“Son, walk that back. You apologize to your sister this instant, I will not have this.” Your father demanded.
Your brother sighed.
“You are spoiled and the only thing that saves you from a harsher fate is because King Daeron does not wish to have you suffer! You parade around your—“
“My what?—“
“Say it brother.” You challenged.
“You parade around your bastard and everyone turns a blind eye to it, everyone has to act like this is normal—“
You walk over in two strides and slapped him across the face with all your might.
“She is your niece! My child!—“
“and I may not be perfect, but she will not be talked about like that by you.”
“Enough!” Your father spat, slapping his hand on his desk.
“This family doesn’t treat each other this way and I won’t tolerate it.”
Your brother's face was red like a tomato, his hand rubbing against his cheek.
“Father, I—“
“A request from your king is not something that should ever be taken lightly. He has good reason to want you to marry Maekar.” He interrupted.
You shook your head, twisting your fingers.
“I understand and I know what I am asking of you, father. I just ask that you support my decision.. my decision to marry for love.”
Your father and brother shared a look.
“This is—“
“Please, I do not want to lose him.” You begged, your eyes watering.
Your father looked at you, the look that he always gave you when he felt as if he couldn’t deny you.
“What of my granddaughter? What of her not being around her family?”
“We are her family, Lyonel is her family—“
“He loves her like she is his own, she loves him. He has never looked at her differently or made comments about her parentage, do you think that family will be the same?”
“Aerion knew of her for only a few hours and was already making comments.. and he’s her brother.”
Your brother's eyes flickered over to you, noticing your eyes— how you genuinely seemed fearful that he wouldn’t support you.
“I will talk to King Daeron. Perhaps, we can have it arranged to be sooner rather than later— putting this entire matter to rest. I will support your decision to marry Lord Baratheon, only because I know that you love him.”
There was a sigh of relief that escaped your chest, you walked over to your father— wrapping your hands around him to give you a hug.
“Thank you so much, father. I truly cannot thank you enough.”
He gave your arm a quick pat.
“Anything for you.”
You quickly left the room and walked with a purpose to Lyonel’s chambers.
When you reached Lyonel’s chambers you barely knocked before entering, surprising him as he paced around the room.
“My love?”
You shut the door behind you with a loud thud, walking to where Lyonel stood.
You grabbed his hands, holding them in yours.
“I don’t want to fight with you.”
He looked at you with some confusion, he couldn’t tell if you were upset or if something had happened.
“I don’t want to fight with you either. I take no pleasure in it.”
“Is something wrong, darling?” He questioned.
You shook your head with a small laugh. “No.”
“I told Maekar.. I told him that I choose you.”
The look on Lyonel’s face was different from any of the other expressions that you see, it was as if multiple emotions were hitting him at once.
“You did?” He asked, his brow raised.
“Aye.” You smiled, your eyes filled with tears.
“I just.. I cannot lose you. I want to be selfish with you, I want Rhaenyra to grow up with you as a father.. I want to live a life with you.” You confessed.
Lyonel grabbed your cheeks and pulled you into a passionate kiss.
“Loving the two of you is the best choice that I’ve ever made.”
You pulled away, breaking the moment of passion.
“I want you to be sure about this, my father said he’d talk to the king—“
“You will never have to ask if I’m sure about this, what could be better than living in Storm's End with my girls?”
You stared at him for a moment, your chest rising and falling fast— his eyes never leaving yours.
“I’m sorry about before, I shouldn’t have been rude.” He admitted.
You shook your head.
“I don’t want to worry about what happened before. It’s just me and you. I forgive you.”
You pressed your lips back into his, your tongue pushing past his teeth.
“Hmm.” He groaned.
“Fuck me, Lyonel—“
“Right now.” You breathed, already reaching for your laces.
Lyonel wrapped his arm around your waist, lifting you off your feet and carrying you to his bed.
“No need to pull all of that off.” He smiled, laying you down gently on the bed.
You pulled up your gown as he unlaced his trousers with complete precision.
The cool air pressed against your exposed skin while you watched Lyonel’s cock spring free, the veins lining it prominent in the light.
Lyonel came between your legs, his lips meeting yours as he teased your entrance— making you whine.
“Please.” You rasped.
He chuckled, “please what?”
You rolled your eyes, a gasp suddenly leaving your mouth as he thrusted inside you.
“Hmm, you feel so good.” He whispered.
He pushed your legs up further, pushing them back as far as they go— watching his cock slide in and out of you.
“Fuck—“
“You’re so deep.” You whimpered.
“Yeah?—“
“I’m so deep inside that pretty cunt of yours, darling. It’s so tight and wet, just for me.” He grunted, his rings pressed into your thigh.
Watching his cock snap in and out of you almost made him finish quicker than he intended.
He kissed you fiercely, his tongue gliding against yours as he claimed your mouth.
“I love you.. I love you so much.” You moaned.
He kissed the side of your face, his warm breath mingling against your skin.
“Love is not a strong enough word for how I feel about you.”
“Gods, I am not going to last long this time.” He moaned.
Your mouth widened, your toes curled as you unexpectedly reached your peak— your cunt gripping his cock intensely.
“Already?—“
“So needy.” He teased.
His grip on your legs tightened, his thrusts got messier and faster— his breaths ragged.
“Gods.”
“I want you to finish inside me.” You begged, staring at him through your lashes.
He glanced at you, his words caught in his mouth— unable to think past the feeling of fucking you.
“How can I say no to you when you’re looking at me like that? Hmm?”
He thrusted into you three more times, a deep groan escaping his throat as his seed spilled inside you.
Once he came, he fucked his seed deep inside you— riding out the high.
You kissed him like you couldn’t get enough, his hands finally leaving your legs— an indent from his rings on them.
“I love you, darling.” He grinned.
You smirked, “I love you too.”
Once he pulled out, the two of you laid on his bed for a bit— laughing and enjoying the moment between the two of you.
“I will talk to my father, but once the wedding happens I want to leave for Storms End. I don’t think me not being present will be an issue.”
He pushed a stray hair from your face, looking at you like you were a perfect statue.
“You’re ready to leave?”
You nodded, rubbing your fingers against his.
“More than ready.”
“I’m going to freshen up, would you like to join me on a walk outside here shortly?”
His tongue swiped his bottom lip, “of course.”
You went to your chambers and freshened up, the smile on your face unable to leave.
At first you were worried about things between you and Lyonel, worried about Maekar— worried about everything but what you truly wanted. You’d allowed yourself to be blinded, but realizing that Dyanna died and just understanding how precious moments are— you didn’t want to waste any more time.
You met Lyonel outside, the two of you holding hands— your boots crunching against the snow.
“I can’t believe I’m going to leave this.”‘ You mentioned.
He glanced around at all the snow and ice coating everything, then back at you— his eyes fixated on the small snowflakes in your hair.
“Take it in, Storm’s End is nowhere as pretty as this.”
You chuckled, “I might grow to love it.”
“Doubtful.” He argued.
“I cannot wait to make you mine, shout to everyone about my lovely wife..” He added.
Your heart jumped in your chest listening to him talk about you in that manner, the way that he loves you so deeply and effortlessly— a love that you never thought you’d experience.
The snow continued to come down, a bit heavier than you had anticipated— but nothing that would deter your walk with Lyonel.
The words that you wanted to say were hung in your mouth when you heard commotion and the horn.
You looked at Lyonel, listening to the noise— but confused.
The horn blew once, then twice, then a third time.
People in the area began to run in various directions, “Three times is for… wildlings.”
All of sudden you winced and felt a sharp sting against your body, heat radiating through you.
You let go of Lyonel’s hand, touching your body— only to see blood on the glove when you pulled it back.
“Wildlings!” A man yelled.
It was as if everything was in a haze, figures moved through the snow and you could hear swords clashing.
Your eyes slowly looked at Lyonel who stood in front of you, “My love.” He mumbled.
Two arrows sticking out of him as he collapsed into the snow.
You tried to take a step, but your legs wobbled— feeling like sand.
You fell into the snow beside Lyonel, hearing dragons roar in the distance and everything fading away.
