Idk if it’s cause I’m tired or it’s the redbull. This blog WILL likely contain dark content. Be a decent human being. 25 years old and sad about it, she/her/maybe they but I’m not gonna worry about that rn
Cregan Stark, who is planning to propose to the woman he's been courting, stands in front of her father and the two hash out the details of the wedding.
The woman in question has no idea that they're even courting.
Cregan never asked to court her, per se-- he's a man of action, not words-- and he just assumes she understood that they were together. The many gifts, the quality time spent together, the attention to little details others wouldn't notice; all showcased what Cregan believed was a large declaration of love.
One of her handmaidens overhears the conversation between Cregan and her father and brings it up while helping her dress. "What color will your dress be?" is what she opens with.
By the fourth complaint of the townspeople, Cregan could no longer push them aside.
The whispers in the corridors of Winterfell always found their way to his ears. But when the complaints came out into the light during meetings and petitions, he finally decided he'd had enough of them.
He silenced the man and finally stood before his people with his palms out to calm them. "I will handle this witch myself. As Warden, I am the only one with the power given by the old gods to dispense justice. And I shall. Tomorrow. Now, out."
He watches them leave one by one before slumping into his chair, exhausted.
"My Lord," his guard bowed. "Perhaps I should have the servants draw a bath-"
"Tell me about the witch."
"My Lord?"
"The witch. Tell me about her." He slumps a bit more in his chair. "I know how the castle talks."
The man sighs. "Well, I've heard that she casts spells on men. Evil, immoral ones."
His curiosity is peaked at that. "And what do these spells do?"
"They make you sin, my Lord."
"What kind of sin?"
"Lustful kinds."
He hummed, taking in the information. It was strange. Stark had never truly believed in religious things like this. Especially not the kind that force one to do unspeakable things.
And the idea that this woman could cast a spell like that felt far too unlikely to the Warden.
"What does she look like?" He decides to ask next.
"I've heard many things. But she's horribly marred and ugly. An old hag of sorts, my Lord."
He finally sits up. "Find out where I can find her. You are dismissed."
…
The next day, Cregan had the location of where this hideous witch resided. It was far from any towns, rather reclusive altogether. His longsword, Ice, weighed heavily at his side as he dismounted his horse.
It was a rather poor cottage. The wooden walls were old, one bad storm from having a wall cave in. There was a moment he considered turning around. This felt almost cruel.
But he pushed forward.
He had two guards that he ordered to remain on their horses at the road. He would have rather gone alone, but he knew his counsel would panic at that.
He stepped through the wooden archway in the yard. He noted the vines that wrapped around it tightly.
He had to push through a few evergreen plants and branches to get to the door of the house. But finally, he saw the wood door and knocked.
There was no answer.
He pulled out his sword, ready as if an ambush would overthrow him the moment he walked in.
But as the door creaked and light illuminated the room, he saw that it too was empty.
The floors were dirt. And the house itself was rather simple. But he could tell it was clearly well lived in.
One thing stood out amongst the rest. It was cold.
He wasn't sure how a woman could live in a home without proper heating like this.
He quickly journeyed out of the back door and finally, he caught a glimpse of movement.
He took slow and silent steps towards the firelight he saw flickering through the canopy of trees behind the cottage.
He hid behind a rock, crouched down uncomfortably to see what was happening around the side.
A large cauldron bubbled over a fire. Cregan had only heard of such things, never getting to truly see something like this in person.
But the witch was nowhere to be found and it worried him. Surely she wouldn't move far from the pot.
So, with careful steps, he decided to journey further into the woods.
His steps crunched, causing Cregan to cringe with each one. He may be a warrior, but it didn't mean he was entirely stealthy about it. Most of the time, he didn't have to be. Brute force can hardly be tamed whether it's a surprise or not.
When it came to unearthly powers he was facing, he didn't wish to take chances.
Finally, he caught sight of her.
A cloak covered her, a hood hiding her face from him. She was bent at the knee, hands picking at leaves. She muttered under her breath.
Still with the element of surprise, he stood, readying his sword in his hand. He didn't have time to decide the morality. He had to do what was best for his people.
A few feet away, he lifted his sword, saying a final prayer for her soul.
Her hood slipped as she stretched out to reach a plant.
Her hair was not gray or wild like he'd believed.
His breath caught.
She froze, slowly turning to look over her shoulder.
His eyes widened as he look in the sight of her.
Lies.
All of it.
They all lied to him.
She was beautiful.
She was young and beautiful.
Just a maiden.
And she looked up at him with fearful eyes, hand outstretched as if to stop the sword from meeting her body.
Cregan stepped back, horrified. His arm fell to his side, sword dropping to the ground. "Miss…" he breathed. "Forgive me… please."
Her eyes watered as she scampered out from under him. Once at a safe distance, she stood as if ready to run.
"Please," he tries again, holding his hands out. "I didn't know." He found his voice again. "I was told a witch lived here…"
"A witch?" She whispered.
Gods, her voice was enchanting.
He takes a daring step. "Forgive me. Please."
"You… you're the Warden, aren't you?"
"Yes."
A tear fell, but she brushed it onto her cloak. "What have I done wrong?"
His mind was fighting with him. Either he was fed false information, or she already had a spell on him. But he was persistent to find out which.
"I've wronged you. How could I…" He dared not to finish the sentence. "Tell me, do you live in that house back there?"
She nods.
"Alone?"
She's hesitant to answer but she does. "Yes."
"And… what are you doing out here?"
"I…" only then does she remember the leaves she'd abandoned at his feet. "I was… collecting herbs, milord."
"Collecting herbs?" He presses, "For what?" When she doesn't answer, he steps the toe of his boot into her pile of leaves.
"No-" she gasps. "I'm making a healing salve. Please!"
He hums, pulling his foot off in satisfaction. He reaches down, picking up the pile and his sword. "Finish here. Then take me back to that fire of yours."
…
He hadn't said anything for the past hour, only watching her intently as she stood over her brew. Her eyes flickered over to him occasionally, only briefly before his stare became too much.
"The… the brew…" she stutters, "It's for a woman… in the town… she's ill."
It takes a while before he answers. "And what will it do?"
She sighs, wiping the sweat from her forehead. "It's a rather awful rash she has. But something with chamomile or jewelweed can combat the itching and pain at least. Until her body fights off the inner infection."
His head tilts, eyes studying. "They say you cast spells."
The air chilled. She avoids eye contact.
"Suddenly so quiet?"
She kneels down at the fire, eyes set on the flames. "I never cast a spell on anyone," she whispers.
He leans in, elbows resting on his knees. "Then why do they say that?"
"I don't know."
"Oh? I've heard you cast lustful spells on men."
"What?" She looks up horrified. "Who says such a vial thing?"
He repeats the name of the first man who brought this witch to his attention. He watches closely as her face falls and floods with recognition.
"You know," he notes.
She says nothing, opting to stare at the fire again.
"You're supposed to be pleading for your life here, miss. And you're rather quiet instead. This is your chance to prove your innocence."
"Would you even believe me?" She challenged suddenly.
He sits up, lips pulling up. Impressed by her strength. He holds his hands out. "I swear it. By the gods, I'd believe you."
She finally looks up, eyes darting between his in contemplation. Then back down. "That man came to me three moons ago. He broke into my home when he found out I live alone. He wished to... court me..."
Cregan watched the light flicker in her eyes.
"And when I rejected him again and again, he began to spread lies about me. Of what I do in this house."
"And what do you do?"
"I… I only help others. I learned from my mother. She was quite gifted with plants. Taught me as a girl before she died in childbirth. A part of me… a part of me wished I had learned more. Perhaps I could have saved her."
And with that, Cregan had his heart set on her.
He spared her, promising to begin to clear her of any charges.
…
But as the days when by and the storms continued in the North, his guilt rose. He couldn't imagine leaving her in the house now that he knew she was there.
Perhaps she was shivering while he was in Winterfell with his warm baths.
It made his stomach twist in an ugly manner.
He was fighting with himself day in and out.
But this. This is what forced him into action.
His guard came to him in a rush, interrupting his studying in his solar. "My Lord!" He panted. "A mob in the town! There's been a fire!"
His blood turned red hot. "Where?"
The guard only gave him a pitied look before the Northerner rushed past him.
…
Cregan could see the fire from a few miles out. An entire wall was in flames, the ceiling beginning to catch. The canopy of trees above it began to catch the ashes and smoke that flowed through the air.
Around it, the mob surrounded with angry shouts and screams.
Cregan dismounted before the horse came to a complete stop. He began pushing through people to get to the front.
Her plants were trampled and dying under their feet.
He grabbed one of the men by the collar. "Where is she?" He growled.
The man's angry facade broke through into fear at the Warden's pure rage. His eyes darted back to the house.
The door was bolted shut from the outside.
Cregan's eyes widened.
He dropped the man, taking in the house's structure. Every window was boarded. Every door screwed shut.
He rounded to the back door, one of the safest walls. And he pounded on the door, hoping for a response.
And that's when he heard her pleas.
She screamed, asking for help. For mercy. For anything that would get her out.
And he began to pound on the door harder with a frustrated yell.
He banged until his fists hurt.
Finally, his eyes darted to the window next to it. The wood panels that were meant to keep the sunlight out were now the damning pieces keeping her inside.
He rushed to it, noting the screws.
He braced himself, pulling the panels off their hinges, bolts and all.
"Where are you?" He screamed over the sound.
She was in her kitchen, book clutched to her chest, body knelt on the ground to avoid the smoke. She was fighting consciousness.
As soon as his eyes caught on her body, he climbed in the window.
He ignored the yells of panic that came from outside at his actions.
He crossed the house, kneeling at her side and cupping her face. At her glassy eyes, he cursed. He picked up her and carried her back to the window.
It was a struggle to get them both out as the smoke forced its way into his lungs.
But he managed, pulling them just far enough away so when the ceiling crashed, they were relatively safe.
Some of them cheered at the falling of the home, finding joy at the ending of the "evil" in this world.
But as they began to notice their Lord holding the witch's body to him, they began to question their reaction.
One of the townspeople stepped to him, "Milord-"
"Enough," he growled.
"She's put a spell on him!" Someone yelled. "She's entranced our Lord!"
A new tension spread through the crowd like wildfire. A new reason to riot was all they needed.
Yells and screams ran through the crowd again as they closed in on Cregan.
He kept her close to him, brushing her cheek fervently to get her to rouse enough to stay conscious.
She coughed, blinking until everything came into focus.
And the townspeople watched as she clung to Cregan tightly.
He calmly walked to his horse as his guards finally caught up to the scene. He mounted his horse with her in his arms. "Find out who started this. Kill him."
He felt her clutch as his cloak a bit tighter.
"No. Bring them to me," he changes.
…
Cregan checks on her constantly in every way but going to see her in her room. He asks handmaidens and servants, guards and everyone that has set eyes on her in the castle, asking about her condition.
And finally, at dinner the next day, he sees her.
She's cleaned up well, with a pretty dress. She's a bit thinner than he'd like, clearly distraught not only from the events of the last two days but her lack of proper housing and food from before.
She sits awkwardly at the table. "Lord Stark."
He smiles. "Good evening, little witch." His smile falls. "Something the matter? Are you warm enough?"
"Why did you do this for me?"
He leans back in his chair, asking himself the question as well. "Felt wrong to just… leave you to that fate."
"You risked too much. What if the people find you guilty of-"
"I am Warden," he warns. "I am guilty of nothing but protecting my people. As I swore to do."
"But you're housing a… a w-"
"A woman. You're only a woman, guilty of the company around you. Nothing more."
She picks at her food. "I will leave within the fortnight. I refuse to put you in danger of your position."
He takes a bite. "And where would you go?"
"I… I don't know. I'll find a way to make money until I can built a proper home again."
"And how do you plan to do that?"
There's a distant look in her eye, and Cregan can read exactly what she's thinking.
"You're staying in Winterfell until I've had enough of your company."
She frowns. "And when will that be?"
He smiles. "Never. Now, tell me about the salve you were making again? Perhaps the maester here could use some."
Cregan Stark, who is planning to propose to the woman he's been courting, stands in front of her father and the two hash out the details of the wedding.
The woman in question has no idea that they're even courting.
Cregan never asked to court her, per se-- he's a man of action, not words-- and he just assumes she understood that they were together. The many gifts, the quality time spent together, the attention to little details others wouldn't notice; all showcased what Cregan believed was a large declaration of love.
One of her handmaidens overhears the conversation between Cregan and her father and brings it up while helping her dress. "What color will your dress be?" is what she opens with.
Summary; requested::You are the daughter of Lord Boremund Baratheon, Brother to Borros Baratheon, sent North to secure an alliance with House Stark after the tensions of succession begin pulling the realm apart.
AN: this is kinda fast paced, they fall in love quickly. This is a long one; I haven’t posted in a minute so (Teacher Life), I made it extra long. I have a requested Daemon and Jace imagine next. But, I want to do this Joel Imagine first.
Warnings: smut, mentions of male receiving and females, explicit content of p in v. Violence.
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The stag’s hooves pounded against the frozen earth, steady and sure. The wind bit sharp at your cheeks as you rode, but you didn’t falter — you leaned into it, hair loose and streaming behind you like a banner. Your father’s eyes flicked toward you now and then, sharp and measuring, though he said nothing until the gallop slowed. Your brother reined his horse in beside yours, his gaze darting between you and Lord Boremund as the escort began to fall into formation.
The gates of Winterfell loomed in the distance, stark and imposing against the pale sky. The walls rose high, their stones rimmed with snow and frost, shadows of men stationed at the battlements.
“You need to be…” your father began, voice low, the words carried on a cloud of breath in the cold.
“Soft,” your brother finished for him. “Smile, curtsy. Pliant. Soothing. Not…”
“Yourself,” Lord Boremund hissed, the reins tightening in his gloved hands.
You stared ahead, lips pressed to a thin line.
“Lord Cregan Stark already courts another,” your father went on, the words laced with irritation. “Your uncle Borros will choose whichever side benefits him most. Do not think you are irreplaceable, girl. Do not think your wildness is charming.”
“Stark was loyal to Viserys,” your brother added quickly, glancing at your father as though to curry favor by echoing him. “And he chose Rhaenyra as heir. The Starks are stubborn. They honor their oaths. You must make him believe you are a worthy prize — not a risk.”
Your hands tightened on the reins until the leather creaked. The stag tossed its head as if sensing your tension. You lowered your voice, steady, unyielding. “I can only be what you raised me to be, Father.”
Boremund let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Aye. Wild as the storm. Dangerous as the sea. Quick to anger, quicker to strike.” His gaze sharpened as the gates of Winterfell grew near. “Lord Stark’s courted lady, Skylar Trant, is beautiful. Poised. Soft-spoken. Everything a true Lady of Winterfell is meant to be.”
You drew your cloak tighter around your shoulders as your brother added, almost lightly, “And you are beautiful, but wild. Daring. Dangerous. Always ready for battle, never ready to bend. Never understanding.”
Their words should have weighed heavy. Instead, you shrugged them off like falling snow, chin tilting higher as the carved wooden direwolves flanking the gates came into full view.
Winterfell loomed before you now — vast, ancient, and cold. The portcullis was already rising. You could see movement beyond the archway, banners of grey and white stirring in the wind.
The North was watching.
And so, with the stag stamping impatiently beneath you, you lifted your chin, smoothed your windswept hair with one gloved hand, and prepared to meet the Wolf of Winterfell.
The words of your father clung to you like the winter air, echoing in your skull with every breath. Soft. Smile. Pliant. Soothing.
Never.
You had never been soft. Not once. You were Baratheon born, storm-blood running thick in your veins, raised by men who valued thunder and strength over courtesy and curtseys. Your father’s sons were forged in iron, and you, the youngest, had been raised alongside them. You had no chance of being dainty. No chance of being the flower your father longed to parade before the North.
The stag shifted beneath you as the gates yawned open, the shadow of Winterfell’s towers stretching across the snow. Your chin tilted higher, the sound of hooves clattering against stone as you rode through. The Northerners stood lined, their eyes cool and assessing. The wind tugged at your hair, and you let it — better the truth of the storm than the mask your father demanded.
It was then a rider peeled from the gathered Stark men, his horse moving with easy control until he drew alongside you. Younger than the others, leaner but no less wolfish, his smile quick and unguarded.
“My Lady,” Benjen Stark greeted, bowing his head just enough.
Your eyes flicked sidelong, lips curving in a smile sharp as a blade. “Does it look like I need help, little wolf?”
His brows rose, but his grin only widened. “Maybe… maybe not, my lady. The North has yet to see.”
“I don’t,” you replied swiftly, pride sparking in your voice. “I’ve ridden a stag since before I could walk.”
With deliberate defiance, you swung your leg over and dismounted in one fluid movement. Not like a delicate lady guided down by her lord — but like a soldier hitting the earth, steady, sure, and proud. Snow crunched beneath your boots as you landed, cloak sweeping. The stag tossed its head as if to echo your defiance.
Benjen barked a laugh, delighted rather than chastising. “Storm and steel. I should have guessed.”
Your father tensed in his saddle, jaw tight. Your brother smirked, watching with both pride and mischief.
And then — the crowd shifted. A presence stepped forward, and the mood shifted with it. Cregan Stark moved into view, taller, broader, his cloak of direwolf fur draped heavy across his shoulders. His dark hair caught in the cold wind, gray eyes fixed on you with a weight that pinned you where you stood.
He bowed, low and formal. “Lady Baratheon. Winterfell welcomes you.”
You didn’t bow. You weren’t going to. Instead, you tipped your head, eyes gleaming, a smile tugging your lips as you answered with the same tone you used on your brothers when you meant to needle them.
“Little Wolf,” you said softly, with deliberate audacity.
Gasps stirred among the Northern men, your father’s hand twitched on the reins, and your brother nearly choked on his laughter.
But Cregan Stark did not flinch. He straightened slowly, studying you with a gaze that neither warmed nor froze — but measured. A long silence stretched, the kind that could topple kingdoms. And then, the faintest flicker of a smile ghosted across his lips, quick as lightning before it vanished.
“Little wolf?” Cregan’s voice cut through the hush, deep and steady, though there was a faint curve at the corner of his mouth. “Do I appear little to you?”
The men around him stiffened, waiting for your apology. Your father’s jaw clenched like stone.
You only shrugged, pulling your cloak tighter against the cold. “Do I appear as a lady to you?” Your smile broke sly and daring, a spark of mischief dancing in your eyes.
For a heartbeat, he studied you — and then he chuckled. Not stiff or forced, but quick, warm, startling in its honesty. “Yes,” he said simply.
Your smile softened into something warmer, genuine. “Well, then, Little Lord of Winterfell—you have your answer.”
The ripple of disapproval among the bannermen was sharp enough to feel. You hadn’t bowed. You weren’t going to. Their silence pressed like the weight of snow-laden branches. But Cregan’s eyes stayed on yours, unyielding, steady.
“You’ve come a long way,” he said at last, his tone more observation than pleasantry.
“I’ve traveled longer,” you replied, voice light, though there was steel beneath it. “The North has a way of making one lose a sense of time. Endless snow, endless forest, and…” Your gaze flickered deliberately past him, where a few young wolves lingered. “…wolves.”
Benjen grinned outright, eyes bright with amusement. Sara Snow lingered near him, pale as the frost, her expression curious and kind. Both watched you with interest rather than suspicion.
And you, with careful poise, stepped past Cregan himself — drawing a sharp breath from your father. Instead of offering the courtesy due to the Lord of Winterfell, you lowered yourself in a graceful bow before Sara Snow.
“My Lady,” you said warmly, a soft smile tugging at your lips as your eyes flicked up to meet hers. Beautiful. Poised. Deliberate.
Sara blinked, startled, then returned the bow with a softness all her own. “Lady Baratheon,” she said, her voice lilting with something almost shy.
The air seemed to shift around you. The bannermen exchanged glances, uncertain if they’d just witnessed insult or strategy. Benjen gave a low laugh, unable to help himself.
And Cregan? He hadn’t moved. His gray eyes lingered on you, unreadable, though the faintest trace of amusement ghosted across his face — like a wolf humoring a storm for daring to roar in his woods.
“It’s a pleasure!” you said, voice lilting with warmth.
Sara’s lips curved, a laugh breaking free as she reached up to squeeze your shoulder. “A bold stag, then!”
“Never known a stag who wasn’t,” you teased back, eyes glittering. You leaned in just a touch, lowering your voice for effect. “We don’t include my illiterate uncle, Lord Borros.”
The bannermen erupted in chuckles, even Benjen smothering a grin. A few glanced nervously toward your father, but the humor was too sharp to deny.
“You suggest your father is more honorable?” Sara asked, tilting her head, her smile edged with curiosity.
“I suggest nothing,” you said with an easy shrug, though your words carried weight. “I merely am here to subside the growing tensions between the Stormlands and Winterfell.”
Your father stiffened, but Sara leaned in, eyes bright. “An incredible job for just a lady, wouldn’t you say?”
Your smile widened, all teeth and storm. “Nothing is too big for me to handle. I’m storm-born Baratheon. Like a wolf, I only allow myself to be tamed when it’s beneficial.”
A ripple of amusement passed through the crowd — some smirking, others murmuring uneasily.
Sara’s laugh chimed, genuine. “Dangerous words for one meant to play peacekeeper.”
“Peace is easier kept when no one underestimates you,” you countered, a subtle spark in your eyes.
For the first time, Sara’s gaze flickered past you — to Cregan, who hadn’t spoken since his first welcome. You followed her glance. He stood as steady as the keep behind him, gray eyes trained on you with a look that was not cold, nor amused, but… intent. As though every word you’d spoken, every shrug, every flash of defiance, was a thing he weighed and measured.
You held his gaze for the barest moment, heat curling low in your chest, before turning smoothly back to Sara.
“Your North is vast,” you said softly. “I think I might enjoy it here.”
“Or it might enjoy you,” Sara returned, voice warm with something like admiration.
The great hall opened before you, stone walls hung with banners of gray and white, the air thick with smoke from the torches. The Northerners shifted aside as Cregan Stark stepped to your side, his presence solid as the keep itself. His hand hovered at the small of your back — not touching, but guiding you forward with a wordless command.
You leaned closer, your voice a soft, teasing whisper only he could hear. “Little Lord, I’m honored.” Your chuckle was low and daring, a spark meant to test the wolf.
“The pleasure is mine,” he replied quietly, gray eyes flicking to you, the corner of his lips twitching as though he fought the rise of a smile. Then, in a tone even, but edged with steel, he added, “Bold is an understatement. Foolish is the better word for your playful tongue.”
You stopped in the middle of the hall, boots firm against the stone. The crowd rippled with confusion at your sudden halt. Tilting your head, your smile widened, bright as lightning before a storm. “Would it serve you better, my Little Lord, if you were to have it?”
Before anyone could guess your meaning, you stuck out your tongue slowly, deliberately, your eyes locking on his. “Yours for the taking, Little Lord?”
A stunned silence fell. The bannermen stiffened, some gasping in disbelief, others biting back laughter. Eyes darted to the side where Lady Skylar Trant sat, her soft face paling, confusion clear.
Cregan moved in an instant, faster than a man of his size had any right to. His hand caught your tongue, his dagger flashing free with a hiss of steel. The hall held its breath.
Your father’s men shifted, hands on hilts, but Boremund lifted a single hand, stilling them. Robert, your brother stiffening, ready to strike Cregan down if needed.
Cregan’s knife glinted in the torchlight, his hand steady as the steel hovered near your mouth. His gaze bore into yours, sharp as winter air. “Are you not afraid?” His voice was low, gravel deep, meant only for you.
You did not flinch. Not a twitch, not a blink. Slowly, you shook your head, storm in your eyes.
The silence stretched until it threatened to snap. Then, at last, he released you. The dagger slid back into its sheath in one smooth motion.
You laughed — bright, reckless, unbowed. “What use would you have for my tongue, Lord Stark?”
A murmur went through the crowd, but Cregan did not look away. “Do you wish to plead your case, Lady Baratheon?”
You gave a half-shrug, smile wicked as you tipped your chin higher. “A lot of uses, unfortunately… most too vulgar to name in front of your bannermen.”
The hall erupted with laughter this time, warm and shocked, the men exchanging knowing looks. Even Benjen barked a laugh, clapping a friend on the shoulder. Cregan’s jaw twitched — a sign of suppressed amusement or frustration, you could not tell. His gray eyes lingered on you, dark with something unspoken, something the soft-spoken Skylar could never conjure. And for the first time since stepping into Winterfell, you knew you had the wolf’s full attention.
Skylar Trant sat still as stone at Cregan Stark’s side, but her eyes betrayed her. Jealousy flickered there, sharp and uneasy, a fire she tried to smother beneath her gentle smiles. For years, she had been assured she had no real competition. Women had come and gone, each one overlooked by the Lord of Winterfell. None had caught his eye. Not truly.
Neither had she.
Cregan courted Skylar because her father pressed the matter, because alliances were neat and trade agreements cleaner. She had her father’s ambitions to thank for her seat beside the wolf, not her own charms. Cregan listened when she spoke of grain, of trade routes, of southern comforts that might ease the North through long winters. He always listened — steady, courteous, polite. But never once had he leaned close to steal a kiss. Never once had he looked at her with the heat, the weight, that now colored his glances at you.
Her chest tightened painfully. She forced her eyes down to her cup.
Your father saw it — the shadow of envy in Skylar’s gaze, the tension in her shoulders. And for the first time since leaving Storm’s End, hope flickered across his face. Perhaps your wild, reckless ways would win you a wolf after all.
When the feast began, you did not take the place expected of you, high at the dais beside your father. No — you slipped down among the long tables, planting yourself between Stark bannermen as though you had belonged there all your life. The Northmen glanced in surprise, but soon laughter rose from the table as you leaned close to hear their jokes, chuckled at their coarse tales, and volleyed back your own sharp wit. A bold stag in the den of wolves.
You lifted your cup and laughed brightly at some jest, head thrown back, your hair catching firelight as though the storm followed you indoors.
From the dais, Cregan’s gaze flickered — quick, steady, and always back to you. His expression gave nothing away to the untrained eye, but Skylar saw. Every time. His gray eyes finding you in the crowd, lingering too long, before he forced them back to his food, his brother, his bannermen.
But it was never unnoticeable. Not to Skylar.
Her fingers tightened around the stem of her cup until her knuckles whitened. The hall roared with laughter around her, yet all she could hear was silence, the hollow realization ringing in her chest. He had never once looked at her that way.
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It had been only a handful of moons since your arrival, and yet Winterfell bore your mark in ways no one had predicted. You rose with the guards at first light, laughing at their rough tales, carrying steaming cups of tea to ward off the chill. You lingered with the kitchen maids, listening to their gossip as though you were one of them, adding your own sharp remarks that made them giggle behind their hands. You did not hold yourself apart, nor above. You sat among them easily, storm-born and unafraid, as if the cold walls were not meant to contain you but to echo with your voice.
And though you did not seek him, though you rarely spoke more than necessity demanded, Cregan Stark’s eyes found you. Always. He watched from the edges of hall and yard, gray gaze steady, unreadable, but constant.
This morning, your feet carried you further than you’d meant — into the woods, into silence.
The trees rose ancient and solemn around you, their branches heavy with snow. Your fingers brushed the rough bark of one, and then you froze. The heart tree stood before you, vast and pale, its face carved long ago, its red eyes bleeding sap like tears. The sight seized something deep within you. You stumbled back, breath catching, your skin prickling as though unseen eyes crawled across your body.
“Wow,” was all you managed, your voice thin in the hush.
You did not hear him approach. Not until you felt him.
Cregan’s presence was quiet but unshakable, his voice low as the snow falling through the branches. “You stand before the heart of Winterfell,” he said. “This tree has watched over us for thousands of years. We believe the Old Gods see through these faces. They hear every word spoken beneath their branches.”
You swallowed hard, eyes flicking back to the bleeding face. For the first time since stepping into this frozen keep, you had no jest. No barb. No stormy quip. Only silence, heavy in your chest, stirred by something older than you, older than your line, older than storms or wolves.
“No outsider has dared walk this deep,” he added, softer now.
Your lips parted. “Do your gods answer you?” you whispered, the words carried by the stillness.
“They listen.” His reply was certain, unshaken.
Your breath clouded in the air. The wind lifted suddenly, tossing your cloak, pulling your hair across your face. The snow stilled around you, as though the gods themselves leaned closer.
“Then let’s hope they listen well enough…” Your voice dropped, barely a breath, though it rang sharp in the frozen quiet. Your eyes shifted from the weeping tree to the man at your side. “…when I say Lady Trant is not the one for you. Not in the eyes of the Old Gods. Nor in the eyes of the Seven.”
The words hung between you, bold as lightning splitting the sky.
Cregan’s gaze lingered on you, longer than it should, his jaw tightening though his expression betrayed nothing. For once, he did not answer quickly. He only looked — at you, at the storm in your eyes, at the way you stood unflinching before gods not your own. And for the first time, his silence was not dismissal. It was consideration.
Cregan finally closed the distance. Snow crunched under his boots as he stepped into your space, his height casting a shadow across you, his breath mingling with yours in the frozen air. His gray eyes held yours unflinchingly, sharp and storm-dark.
“You’ve barely spoken two words to me since your arrival,” he murmured, voice low enough to disappear in the stillness of the godswood. “And this is what you choose to say? In the heart of my woods?”
You only shrugged, though the closeness pressed against your ribs like a weight. “I just feel like you deserve more than an alliance,” you whispered. “Something that makes you feel safe. Seen.”
His eyes flickered, narrowing slightly, as if your words unsettled him. You lifted a hand, fingers brushing the rough bark of the heart tree. “This… is being seen. Coming here, feeling the weight of your ancestors, standing where they stood. Seeing your men, your people, in their eyes.”
Cregan tilted his head, his face lowering until his lips were a breath from yours, his voice no more than a hush: “Is that your truth?”
You let out the faintest laugh, not mocking, but dangerous in its softness. “No. Just… an observation.” Your gaze slid past him toward the keep. Slowly, your eyes returned to his. “She sits next to you, pleasantly. But there’s no thought in those eyes but how she might please you.”
You leaned in, your words a whisper against the edge of his mouth. “Does she please you, my Little Lord?”
The question hung between you like a blade. His hand twitched at his side, as if resisting the urge to reach for you — to hold, or to silence, even he wasn’t sure. His breath came sharper now, his jaw clenched, his gaze heavy with a fire you hadn’t seen in him before.
“She is dutiful,” he said at last, tone clipped, but low enough to betray the truth beneath. “But I do not ask for duty.”
Your smile curled slow, wicked and knowing. “Then you already know your answer.”
The silence stretched, thick as the snow-draped branches above. The red sap of the heart tree bled its tears into the stillness, as though the Old Gods themselves bore witness to your defiance. For the first time, the wolf looked hungry.
───────── 𐂃 ─────────
The next day the snow was deep enough to numb your legs as you sank to your knees before the heart tree. The pale bark glistened in the weak light, its carved face bleeding red sap that streaked down like tears. Your breath puffed out in small clouds as you stared at it, voice a whisper meant for no one, yet for everything.
“Do you hear me?” you murmured, eyes locked on the weeping eyes. “Or is it just another tale Northmen spin to keep their children quiet at night?”
You had sat there for much of the feast, letting laughter and music fade to nothing behind the stone walls. Your eyes never left the tree, but you felt him again before you heard him — the weight of his gaze, the hush of his steps across snow.
“Do you enjoy my company, my Little Lord?” you asked lightly, peering over your shoulder, a smile tugging at your lips.
Cregan’s answer came low, rough with truth. “In truth… yes. Painfully so.”
He lowered himself beside you, snow crunching under his weight, his fur cloak brushing yours. His nearness pressed like heat against the cold air. His voice was steady, but his eyes stayed fixed on the face of the heart tree, as if afraid to look at you. “Are you praying?”
“No.” You tilted your head, smile soft, honest. “Just waiting for you.”
That made him falter. His breath caught, visible in the icy air. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admitted at last, though his gaze still wouldn’t meet yours. “I am a man of honor. Of duty. My word is bond. But every time I see you… hear you… gods, every small touch of you—”
He broke off, jaw tight, eyes finally dragging to yours.
The storm inside you broke first. You leaned forward swiftly, closing the gap, your lips finding his with the certainty of thunder striking earth. His breath shuddered against your mouth as you molded to him, your hand fisting into the fur at his shoulder, dragging him down into you.
Cregan groaned low in his chest — the sound of a wolf breaking its chains — and the restraint he’d held cracked. His arm went around you, fierce and unyielding, pulling you against him as his mouth slanted over yours. His lips were hot, desperate, moving against you as though he’d been starving.
The cold disappeared as he moved, as his cloak unfurled and fell over the both of you, a heavy fur shield against the winter air. You gasped into his mouth, his warmth flooding over you, his body covering yours as he pressed you into the snow. His weight was solid, grounding, his heat searing through the layers between you.
His hands burned where they touched — one cupping your jaw with surprising gentleness, thumb stroking your cheek, the other trailing lower, spreading against your waist, then your hip, fingers flexing as if he meant to claim every inch. His lips moved against yours again and again, slower now, deliberate, as though memorizing the shape of you.
When he finally broke for air, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and uneven, his hand still cradling your face as though he might never let go.
The fur cloak was heavy around you both, a cocoon against the cold, trapping his heat until you felt consumed by it. His lips were relentless, hot and hungry, moving over yours again and again as though he couldn’t bear to stop. His weight pressed you into the snow, hard earth beneath your back, but you welcomed it, your body yielding to him even as your pulse raced like a storm-tide.
He broke from your lips only to drag his mouth down your throat, teeth grazing, tongue soothing, heat searing into the sensitive skin there. His hand fisted into your skirts, bunching the fabric impatiently until his rough palm found your thigh. The first squeeze drew a gasp from you, sharp against the night.
“You’re softer than I thought,” he whispered against your neck, his breath ragged. His thumb stroked along the inside of your thigh, testing, savoring. Then he lifted, guiding your leg up, bending it around his waist. The movement pulled you open beneath him, closer to the hard press of his body, making your breath falter.
The sound he made — half growl, half groan — vibrated against your skin. “Gods help me.” You clung to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him tighter even as the weight of him pinned you down. The more he pressed, the more you bent, softer than he expected, yielding to the wolf’s hunger.
His mouth claimed yours again, bruising now, his tongue sliding against yours, heat mingling with the cold air. At the same time, his hips pressed harder between your legs, his hand gripping your thigh tighter, lifting it higher, hooking it over him until he filled the space between you. You moaned into his mouth, your body betraying just how much you wanted him.
He groaned into the kiss, breaking it only to murmur against your lips, “Say you’ll let me—”
You cut him off with another kiss, pulling his hair to hold him there, your voice breaking between your teeth. “I’m yours, Little Lord.”
That was all it took.
He tore the space between your bodies apart only long enough to free himself, his movements clumsy with urgency, the sound of tearing fabric muted beneath the cloak. His mouth never left yours, each kiss desperate, grounding. And when he finally pushed into you, the sharp stretch gave way to warmth, to fullness, to a sensation that made your whole body arch up into him.
His head dropped to your shoulder, a guttural sound escaping him as he sank deeper. “Gods…”
The weight of him pressed you deep into the snow, the cold biting at your back but fading beneath the heat of his body. His fur cloak enveloped you both, muffling the world, trapping the sound of your breaths, your moans, the rustle of fabric, the harsh slide of him inside you.
Cregan moved with a rhythm that was almost measured at first — heavy, deliberate thrusts, his hips grinding into yours as though trying to memorize every inch of you. Each time he pulled back, the air rushed in, cold; each time he pressed back into you, the heat seared you whole again.
Your body bent beneath him, softer than he’d ever dared imagine. You had been storm and defiance since you first rode through his gates, all sharp smiles and fearless words. But here — here you melted. Your thighs parted for him, your leg lifted higher at his urging, his hand guiding you open, holding you steady against his thrusts. The way you yielded to him made him groan low, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged.
“Gods, you’re…” He couldn’t finish, the words breaking into a growl as he rocked into you harder, faster now, the rhythm growing urgent, losing its restraint.
Your voice spilled out softer than you knew, softer than he’d ever heard it — sighs, gasps, broken whimpers that escaped against his lips. “Cregan…” It wasn’t the storm-sharp teasing he’d grown used to hearing. It was breathless, pleading, a sweetness he’d never imagined could come from you.
The sound unraveled him.
“Say it again,” he rasped, his thrusts deeper, his pace quickening as he lifted your thigh higher, nearly to his hip, spreading you to take him fully. Each movement made your breath falter, made your voice softer still.
“Cregan…” You whimpered it this time, your lips brushing his jaw. He shuddered, his rhythm breaking for a moment as he pressed himself deeper, groaning against your ear.
“You’re softer than I thought you could be,” he whispered, voice harsh, the words trembling with something close to awe. His hips ground against yours with every thrust, his weight pinning you down while his hand moved against your thigh, urging you to hold tighter, to cling harder.
And you did. Your body gave beneath his, your arms winding around his shoulders, pulling him closer as his rhythm drove you into the earth. Each thrust was stronger than the last, the wolf breaking himself against the storm, yet it was your softness — your yielding — that undid him.
Your voice rose again, quiet, desperate, words spilling without thought, “Don’t stop, my Little Lord.” The command struck through him like lightning. His teeth grazed your throat, his groan muffled against your skin as his hips snapped harder, faster, his rhythm abandoning all restraint, chasing the storm’s edge with a hunger he could no longer hold back. And still, through the urgency, he listened for your voice — softer than snow falling, softer than prayer — until it was the only sound in the godswood that mattered.
Your leg clung high around his waist, guided there by his strong hand. His grip was unyielding, fingers digging into your thigh as he held you open for him, as though he couldn’t stand an inch of you not his. With every deep, desperate push, the fur brushed your skin, heat and cold colliding, your body softening further beneath him, bending to meet each movement.
Your voice — gods, your voice — it was what undid him most. He’d braced for your storm, for wild laughter or daring words. But the sounds spilling from your lips were soft, breathless, fragile in a way that pierced his chest. “Cregan… gods, don’t stop…”
He growled low, forehead pressed to yours, the raw scrape of his voice catching. “I won’t… I can’t…” His rhythm faltered, then surged, his hips driving into you with the full force of the wolf unleashed.
The tree loomed above, its carved mouth dripping crimson tears. You felt its eyes on you both, ancient and unblinking, as if the Old Gods themselves bore witness to your breaking — and to his
“Say it,” he rasped, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your mouth. His thrusts grew sharper, urgent. “Say you’re mine.”
Your back arched, body clinging to him, voice breaking softer than snow melt: “I’m yours, Little Lord. Yours.”
That vow shattered him.
He buried himself deep, groaning raw against your throat, the sound torn from somewhere primal. His body trembled above you, hips jerking in desperate rhythm as his release tore through him. You felt it — hot, pulsing, filling — his grip on your thigh tightening, his other hand tangling in your hair as if anchoring himself to you while he unraveled.
He groaned, the sound torn from his chest, his control slipping further. “In front of my gods… my faith… my heart…” His hips surged, pounding into you, his voice breaking between gasps. “You are mine. Do you hear me? No one else will have you. No one else will have me—the way you do.”
Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours. You kissed him through the vow, through the breaking of it, your body answering his with every soft arch, every yielding whimper.
His pace grew ragged, desperate, his thrusts jerking as the storm inside him broke loose. “My storm—” he groaned, burying himself deep, holding there as his body convulsed. His release ripped through him in hot waves, spilling into you, his hand squeezing your thigh as though to mark you from within.
The force of it shook him, his hips shuddering as he spilled everything into you, his teeth sinking into your shoulder to stifle the sound of his unraveling. Still he whispered, broken against your skin: “Mine… gods, mine… forever.”
You tightened around him, clinging, your body giving beneath the weight of his, meeting his hunger with your softness until he trembled through the last pulses of release.
At last he collapsed fully against you, chest heaving, his lips finding your temple in reverence, not frenzy. “My wild thing,” he whispered, still gasping, “my storm. My undoing.”
───────── 𐂃 ─────────
The muffled sounds of the feast carried faintly through stone and snow — laughter, music, the clink of cups. But in the godswood, beneath the shadow of the heart tree, the world was still. The only warmth was him, still heavy above you, his cloak sheltering your body from the cold, your skin flushed, your breath shallow.
You raised a trembling hand, caressing his cheek, the roughness of his jaw brushing your fingertips. His gray eyes found yours, storm-tossed, uncertain for the first time.
“My Little Lord,” you whimpered softly, voice breaking in a way you’d never let anyone else hear. Your eyes fluttered closed as he pressed his lips to your forehead, reverent, careful, as if you were something he hadn’t meant to touch but could never let go of now.
When you looked again, you saw it in his face — the realization. The oath-breaker’s weight. He had taken you here, beneath the red eyes of his gods, before the face of his ancestors. His vow to Skylar, his honor as a Stark — all shattered in the space of a heartbeat.
“Do you regret it?” you whispered, your hands cradling his face, forcing his gaze to stay with you.
His jaw clenched, his breath misting the air. “No,” he confessed hoarsely, his forehead pressing to yours. “That’s what scares me.” And then he kissed you, not with the hunger of before, but with a gentleness that trembled in its honesty.
You felt the quake in him, the weight of his restraint cracking again as his lips lingered. He broke the kiss, eyes locked on yours, voice rough. “Skylar… she means nothing. She is soft words and quiet obedience — all duty, no fire. I never wanted her. I never chose her.” His hand slid to your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. “But you—gods, you’re different. Wild thing. My storm. You tear through every wall I’ve built.”
Your chest tightened at the words, at the stark truth in his tone. His eyes burned, silver-gray and certain now, no hesitation left.
“In front of my gods, my faith, my heart,” he rasped, each word sharper than the last, dragging from him like a vow carved into stone, “you are mine. No one else will have you. No one else will have me, the way you do. Not now, not ever.”
The words hung heavy, binding, the weight of a vow spoken not in court, but before the only witnesses that mattered in the North.
Your lips curved softly, the storm in you quieting for once. You cupped his face with both hands, your smile tender. “Then hear me, Cregan Stark,” you whispered back. “In front of your gods, your faith, your heart. I am yours. No one else will have me. No one else will have you, the way I do.”
You pressed a kiss to his lips, sealing it, the two of you breathing the same vow into the same silence.
Above, the heart tree watched, its red eyes bleeding still, as if the Old Gods themselves had marked the oath — wolf and storm bound in defiance of duty, in defiance of the world.
───────── 𐂃 ─────────
It began with the godswood. With your back in the snow and his cloak covering you both, the Old Gods bleeding their silent witness. That was where restraint broke. Where vows burned.
And after… it didn’t stop.
He found you everywhere.
At first, it was chance: his hand brushing yours as he passed a cup, his eyes catching yours across the yard when you laughed with his men. But then it became deliberate. His step always slowed when you crossed his path. He lingered in halls he had no business walking, his excuses transparent, his eyes searching until they found you.
You began to crave it. To wait for it.
In the kitchens, you brushed against him in passing, his hand steadying your waist as though the touch meant nothing — but his thumb pressed, lingering, before he let go.
In the yard, your laughter rang sharp, and when you turned, there he was, watching, lips quirked in the smallest smirk. When no one was looking, you darted forward and kissed him quick, fierce, stealing it like a thief. His hand caught your chin, held you there, deepening it until your knees went weak.
In the shadows of the corridors, he would catch you by the wrist, drag you into an alcove, his mouth already on yours, the kiss hot, unrelenting, before he pulled away with a ragged breath. “You’ll be the ruin of me,” he whispered once, his forehead pressed to yours, his hand tight on your hip.
But it wasn’t only stolen kisses. It was touches, too — the small, quiet kind that meant more than the fever.
You sat by the fire with Benjen and your brother, teasing and laughing, and when you shifted, you felt it: Cregan’s hand slide along the back of your chair, fingers brushing your shoulder lightly, deliberately. No one else noticed. But you felt it.
The hunger in him was constant — the wolf pacing, restless, until he found you again. But it wasn’t only need; it was reverence. Every touch carried the weight of a man who had never allowed himself to touch anyone this way before.
Sometimes, he pulled you into shadowed corridors, his mouth hot and desperate, kissing you like a man drowning. His hands roamed under your cloak, greedy for skin, dragging sighs and whimpers from you until your knees weakened. He always steadied you, one hand firm at your waist, the other sliding higher, cupping, squeezing, fingers teasing until your breath hitched against his lips.
Sometimes he sought your pleasure first — laying you back against furs, pushing up your skirts, his head lowering until his mouth was on you. His beard scraped your thighs, his tongue slow at first, then relentless, lapping, sucking, until you were arching up and gasping his name. His large hands pinned you down as though holding prey, but the tenderness in his eyes when you broke apart under him was almost unbearable. “That’s it, my storm,” he murmured against you. “Break for me.”
Other times, you took him in your hands, stroking him slow, watching his jaw clench, his chest heave. You teased him until he growled, until he grabbed your wrist and forced your hand to move faster, his hips jerking helplessly. On bolder nights, you sank to your knees, your lips wrapping around him, tongue working as his hand tangled in your hair. His groans were low, guttural, echoing off stone as he whispered broken curses and your name, trying not to spill too quickly, trying not to lose control completely.
And when he took you — gods, when he took you — he was relentless. His strength pinned you beneath him, his thrusts deep, hard, unyielding, but his mouth was everywhere: on your throat, your breasts, your lips, kissing between groans as though he needed every part of you. He whispered to you in those moments, words torn from a man who never spoke so freely. “Mine. My wild thing. My storm. I’ll never let you go.”
Your body yielded to him every time. No fight, no storm — only softness he had never expected. You bent to his rhythm, clung to him, tightened around him until his composure shattered. His release was always raw, groaned into your skin, his body shaking with the force of it as he spilled hot inside you. He would press deep, staying there as though to carve the moment into memory, his lips pressed to your temple as he whispered, “You’ll ruin me… and I’ll thank you for it.”
But afterward, he always touched you as though you were fragile — brushing sweat-soaked hair from your face, tracing your lips with his thumb, kissing you slow, as if reverence was all that could follow ruin.
───────── 𐂃 ─────────
Today, the training yard rang with the sound of steel and laughter, the bite of cold air filled with the smell of sweat and iron. You stood with Benjen and your brother at the edge, teasing one another, your laughter rolling bright into the crisp morning.
Across the yard, Skylar Trant lingered at Cregan’s side, speaking softly, her hand brushing his sleeve. He inclined his head, listening out of courtesy, but his eyes weren’t on her. They stayed fixed across the yard — fixed on you.
It was then a voice cut sharp through the noise.
“I hear the Stormlands sends us a wild pup,” one of the lords muttered, loud enough for all to hear. “Her father hides behind words while his daughter tries to play at being a man. A bastard’s trick, not a lord’s blood.”
The laughter around you stilled. Your body went rigid, your breath seizing in your chest. Slowly, you turned, eyes snapping to the man.
“What?” you hissed, your voice like a blade scraping from its sheath.
He smirked, doubling down. “Your house breeds bluster, not honor. Baratheons — drunkards, whores, and bastards. Best you keep to gowns, girl, lest you shame your father further.”
The yard froze. Men shifted uneasily, some glancing to Cregan, some to Benjen.
But you moved first.
You strode to the practice rack, your hand closing around the hilt of a longsword. In a heartbeat, the blade hissed free. Without waiting, without thought, you lunged. Not elegant, not the measured strikes of Winterfell’s men — but brutal, relentless, your whole body thrown into each swing. Your attacks came heavy, fluid in their ferocity, battering through his guard. The men circled, startled, then raucous, shouts rising around you.
“She’s terrible with a longsword,” your brother called out, his voice carrying, his tone smug. “She uses a warhammer. One my father forged for her.”
The words struck the crowd like flint to tinder. Whispers spread, bannermen leaning forward, eyes locked on you as they began to see it — the force behind your blows, the storm-born rhythm that made you dangerous.
The lord grunted, teeth bared as he barely kept pace. With a twist, he knocked the blade from your hand. The clang rang across the yard — and his fist cracked across your face. Your head snapped to the side, blood rushing down your lip.
Gasps rose from the circle.
You spat red into the snow and lunged, a snarl tearing from your throat. “Fight me, you cunt! Fight the whore! Or am I a bastard? A drunkard?” Your fists pummeled him, each word punctuated by the crack of knuckles to flesh. “Fight me in front of the Little Lord! You fucking cunt! You stupid idiot!”
The yard roared — shock, laughter, awe — men crowding closer as the storm-born Baratheon bared her teeth.
The lord tried to shove you off, but you slammed him back into the dirt, your knees pinning him as your fists rained down. Blood streaked his face, your hair whipping around you wild and untamed.
“You hit me! You struck me!” you spat, your voice ragged, dripping with rage. “I’ll have your head and feed it to every dragon, wolf, stag, or beast I can find! You fucking cunt!”
Your blood sprayed as you shouted, your fists still driving until his arms sagged beneath him. “Fucking cunt!”
The men howled, some jeering, some urging, no one daring to move. Benjen gaped wide-eyed, your brother laughed aloud, proud and unashamed.
It was only then that Cregan moved.
He tore through the circle like a wolf through brush, his hand closing on your arm. You jerked against him, snarling, trying to tear free. His strength dwarfed yours, but still you fought him, clawing forward, blood and fury dripping from your mouth.
“Let me go! I’ll kill him!”
“Enough!” Cregan’s voice thundered, the fury in it silencing even the bannermen. He dragged you back, iron-strong, his chest heaving as he held you fast.
You twisted in his grip, your eyes wild, your chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. “He disrespects my house! My father! My brother! Me! And you’d have me stand idle?”
The men stared — at your storm, at the wolf holding you back, at the blood spattering the snow.
Cregan’s jaw clenched, his grip unyielding, his eyes burning into yours. “You’ll tear yourself apart if I let you. You’ll destroy everything.”
You spat blood again, your lips curling, your voice dropping to a hiss. “Then let me.”
For a heartbeat, the world held still.
The Northmen shifted uneasily. And Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell, stood in the yard with your blood on his hands and your storm in his arms, his restraint stretched so thin you could see it break in his eyes.
Cregan’s grip on your arm was iron, unyielding. He dragged you through the training yard with long strides, your boots skidding across the stone. You twisted, snarling, hair wild around your face, blood dripping down your lip.
“Let me go! Do you hear me, Little Lord? I said let me go!” you screamed, your voice echoing off the walls. “I’ll finish him! I’ll take his head and feed it to every wolf and dragon I can find!”
Your words rang sharp, your body thrashing, but Cregan never loosened his hold. His hand engulfed your arm, his jaw clenched tight. He pulled you forward with the ease of a man hauling a hound on a leash. The bannermen stepped back to give you both room, their eyes wide. Some smirked, entertained. Some whispered, unsettled. All of them watched.
Benjen fell in close, half-amused, half-concerned. “She’d have gutted him if you’d given her another moment,” he muttered to Cregan, though you heard him clearly.
Your father and brother followed calmly behind, no urgency in their steps. They’d seen this fire before. They knew it was better left to burn itself out. You jerked against Cregan’s hold again, your voice raw. “He struck me! You saw it! You would have me sit meek while some dog insults my father, my house?”
“You’ll sit quiet because I command it.” Cregan’s voice cracked like thunder, low but powerful, silencing even Benjen. His eyes flashed down at you, gray as storm clouds over ice.
“I’ll not!” you spat back, blood flecking your chin. “Not for you, not for anyone. You call yourself Lord, yet you would leash me? I am no hound, Little Lord—I am stormborn.”
You dug your heels in, trying to stop his march, but he only dragged harder, your shoulder nearly lifted from its socket with the force. You hissed in pain, but still fought, your rage unbroken.
The Maester appeared in the doorway of his chambers, eyes wide as Cregan pulled you inside. Your brother surged forward, reaching for your face, his hand gentle. “Let me see to that cut, sister—”
You shoved him back with a snarl, blood dripping from your lip. “Don’t touch me.”
Benjen tried next, a cloth in hand, his grin dimmed. “Here, let me—”
“I said don’t!” you snapped, batting the cloth aside. Your body shook with rage, your chest heaving.
Every hand that reached for you, you pushed away. Every one but his. Cregan’s grip you never broke, never shook. Your arm remained bound in his hold as though it belonged there.
Your father watched from the doorway, his sharp eyes softening. No smirk this time. No calculation. Just a small, quiet smile — as if he saw the truth of it before you did.
“I don’t need help,” you hissed through your teeth, glaring at the Maester, at your brother, at anyone but Cregan. “I want to finish him.”
At last, Cregan stopped. He turned you to face him, towering above you, his grip shifting from your arm to your jaw. His hand was firm, holding you still, forcing your storm-tossed eyes up to meet his. His thumb brushed across your bloodied lip, smearing crimson against your skin.
“You’ve done enough,” he said, voice low, steady, unshakable.
You breathed hard, your chest rising and falling against him, your fists trembling at your sides. The fury still burned hot, but his eyes held you — steel and storm, unmovable, unyielding.
Your breath hitched, softer this time, the words breaking from you in a whisper. “You’d leash me too, then? Like the rest of them?”
His jaw clenched, his thumb still resting against your lip. “No,” he murmured, so quietly only you heard. “But I’ll not watch you destroy yourself.”
The Maester fumbled with his satchel, eyes darting nervously between you and Cregan. He raised a cloth, hesitant. “My lady, please—”
“Stop calling me that!” you snapped, your voice sharp enough to cut stone. The Maester froze, cloth trembling in his hand.
You turned suddenly, fire spilling out of you, your gaze snapping to your father. “This is your fault! Yes—train me with a warhammer! Teach me its weight and its fury but never the longsword! I know nothing—nothing!—of their blade work. And now that cunt thinks he bested me?”
Your voice rose until it cracked, until the rafters themselves seemed to shiver. Blood streaked your chin, your fists clenched, your chest heaving as the storm consumed you.
“I am a Baratheon!” you cried, raw and unflinching. “In truth! I’m no whore! I’m not a drunkard! I’m not—”
The words strangled in your throat. You whirled on the Maester instead, shrieking the last of your fury into his face, so loud and raw that he stumbled back, nearly dropping his satchel. His eyes went wide with fear. You shrieked until your voice ran hoarse. Screaming like a child deprived of sweets.
Your father chuckled softly at the sight, shaking his head. “My daughter. My storm-born daughter.” His voice was warm, steady, even proud. “You were never made for that cunty thing they call a longsword. No—you are a warhammer. You rage just like one.” His smile softened, not cruel, but certain.
You sucked in a sharp breath, your fists trembling, your whole body still wound tight as a bowstring. “I want his fucking head!”
Before anyone else could answer, Cregan’s voice cut in, low but thunderous, vibrating in the stone chamber. “I’ll handle it.”
Your head snapped toward him, fury blazing. “No! I don’t want—nor need—you to handle it! I want to do it!”
Cregan’s gray eyes locked onto yours, storm and fire meeting in the space between. His jaw worked, his nostrils flared, but his voice stayed low, sharp with a possessive edge that sent a ripple through the room. “He struck you in my yard. You think I’ll let that stand? You think I’ll let him touch you again?”
Benjen leaned against the wall, smirking softly at the exchange. He’d seen it now—everyone had. The way their Lord watched you, the way his hand never left your arm, the way his eyes burned hotter than anger.
Your father saw too. And his smile lingered, small and secret, as though he’d known this storm would find its wolf all along.
The room seethed with tension, your body still thrumming with rage, Cregan’s hand heavy on your arm as if he feared you might break free and finish what you started.
“You don’t get to handle him,” you snapped, stepping into his space, blood streaking your lip, hair wild. “He struck me. Me! His insult wasn’t to Winterfell — it was to my house, my father, my blood. That’s mine to avenge!”
Cregan loomed over you, his jaw clenched tight, his voice cutting sharp as steel. “And I’ll not have my yard turned into a brawl where you bleed for every fool’s word. He struck you — which makes it my right to punish him.”
Your laugh was bitter, storm-born, a crack of thunder. “Your right? Then what am I? Some dainty flower for you to shield? I don’t need your protection, Cregan Stark. I want his head on the ground, and I want it to be my hand that takes it!”
His nostrils flared, his eyes storm-grey and burning. “And when you’ve bloodied yourself past reason, when you’ve shattered bone and tooth, will you stand over him and feel better? Or will you be another fool brought low because you couldn’t hold your temper?”
You stepped closer, your voice low but shaking with fury. “Better a fool with blood on her hands than a coward who hides behind honor.”
The chamber went silent. Even the Maester froze mid-step, eyes darting between you both.
Cregan’s breath thundered in his chest, his restraint fraying to threads. “Careful, my beautifulstorm,” he muttered, warning and plea both.
Before you could retort, the door creaked.
Lady Skylar entered, her skirts sweeping, her voice tentative. “My lord, I—”
You spun, your eyes catching hers, and then you threw your head back and let out a dramatic sigh that echoed off the stone. “Gods, kill me!”
Cregan’s teeth ground together. “Will you stop screaming?” he snapped, his voice cracking like a whip.
You turned back on him, ruthless, unbowed, and planted your hand on his shoulder. Then you screamed louder — raw, shrill, a sound that rattled the Maester’s bones.
Cregan moved faster than you could brace. His hand shot up, his palm chopping lightly but firmly against your throat. Your voice cut off in an instant, a strangled choke breaking free as you stumbled back a half step, clutching at your neck.
“You little sneak!” you rasped hoarsely, eyes blazing. “That’s not fair!”
Benjen, still leaning against the wall, barked a laugh he couldn’t smother. Even your brother grinned. The Maester nearly dropped his satchel again, while Skylar froze in the doorway, eyes wide, confusion and hurt flashing across her face.
But Cregan didn’t look at her. His storm-grey eyes stayed fixed on you — bloodied lip, flushed cheeks, throat burning where he’d silenced you. for all his fury, there was no mistaking the truth in his gaze: you were the only one who could shake the wolf this far.
The chamber still bristled with your fury when Skylar stepped timidly forward, her hands clasped tight. “My lord… perhaps this isn’t the time—”
You wheeled on her, hair wild, lip bleeding, your laugh sharp and cruel. “Oh, gods. Her?” You threw your head back in mock despair. “Yes, let the little dove tell the storm how to fold its wings. That’ll calm me, won’t it?”
Skylar flinched, color flooding her cheeks. “I only—”
“You only what?” you hissed, straining against Cregan’s grip. “You only know how to sit pretty and smile? You’ve never been struck in the face, never bled for your name. You’ve never had to stand when men spat on your house. So tell me, my lady, what use is your counsel to me?”
Gasps rose. Benjen smirked. Your brother chuckled under his breath.
“Enough!” Cregan snapped, his voice thunder in the room. His grip tightened on your arm, his eyes cutting into yours. “She’s done nothing to you. Skylar has never spoken against you, or your house. She doesn’t deserve your venom.”
The words hit like a slap.
Your head jerked toward him, your chest heaving, your voice cracking with rage. “Take it back.”
Cregan’s brows pulled tight. “What?”
“Take it back!” you screamed, jerking against him, blood spattering from your lip. “Take it back or I’ll never forgive you!”
He blinked, confusion flashing, but you pressed on, your voice raw and rasping. “Stop yelling at me in your Little Lord of Winterfell voice, you don’t defend her to spite me! I am not your bannerman, not your soldier, not your lord to command! You do not command me! You do not betray me!”
“Gods, you’re being reckless—”
“Take it back, or I’ll never utter another word to you again!” Your voice broke, high and ragged with fury. “Not one! I swear it on your gods! On that bloody weeping tree! I swear it! Gods My Little Lord, I swear it!”
The chamber fell still.
Your brother leaned back against the wall, a small smile tugging at his lips. For all your storm-strength, for all the blood and brute force, you were still his little sister — still more girl than woman despite your age. Bleeding with emotion you didn’t yet know how to hold. Cregan’s storm-gray eyes searched yours, his jaw flexing, his hand loosening its grip. The weight of your vow pressed between you like the weirwood itself stood there.
At last, his breath left him in a whisper, low and raw. “I’m sorry.”
The words cracked in the air, softer than you’d ever heard from him. And the hall, the Maester, your kin — all of them heard the wolf bend to the storm.
The Maester’s chamber was not large, only a modest room lined with shelves of herbs and scrolls, the air thick with the sharp scent of mint and poultices. The handful of aides who lingered hovered in the corners, wide-eyed and silent, afraid to even breathe too loud.
Cregan still held you, his hand on your arm, his thumb grazing where your skin was reddened by his grip. His apology — that hoarse “I’m sorry” — still rang in the air.
Skylar’s soft slippers faltered against the stone floor. Her breath hitched, her steps retreating a pace. Her hands twisted in her skirts, eyes wide and brimming. “My lord…” she whispered faintly, disbelief clouding her gentle features. He had never apologized to her. He had never looked at her like this.
Cregan didn’t turn. His gray eyes were fixed on you, storm-dark and aching.
“Calm down,” he murmured, voice low, meant for you alone though everyone heard it. His hand rose from your arm to cup your jaw, rough palm warm against your chilled skin. “No one is betraying you.” His thumb brushed along your lip where blood still shone, smearing it softly, as though he meant to erase the insult. “I just want you to understand that I will handle it. Not because you can’t. Not because it is my duty. But because—” His breath caught. His forehead pressed to yours, the weight of him grounding you. “Because I want to. No, I need to.”
Your chest heaved, your storm still rattling your bones. Slowly, your hands lifted, trembling, catching his wrist, his jaw, dragging him closer. The intimacy of it burned against the smallness of the chamber.
“Swear it to me,” you whispered, your voice raw, almost breaking. Your eyes searched his desperately, softer now, vulnerable. “Swear it on your vow you made to me in the weirwood. Before your bleeding tree.”
The aides stilled in the corners. Benjen tilted his head, smirk tugging faintly at his mouth. Your brother folded his arms, lips twitching into a smile. And your father — your father’s eyes softened in quiet recognition.
Cregan’s breath trembled, his thumb stroking your jaw. He bent his head, his nose brushing yours, his lips so close you could taste the warmth of his breath. “I swear it,” he whispered, heavy and fierce, as though carving it into stone. “On the heart tree. On the gods. On my soul. I’ll see it done.”
Your lips parted, a small, broken sound escaping you, your forehead pressing harder against his. Your storm calmed just enough to let a smile curve faint and trembling at your mouth.
“Fine. Whatever! I yield!” You snapped
In the corner, Skylar’s hand clutched at the doorway, her eyes shimmering with betrayal, her body faltering back another step. She knew, as did everyone in the chamber: the vow was not for Winterfell, nor for duty. It was for you.
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Night pressed heavy against Winterfell, the corridors silent, the stones cold beneath torchlight. But in his chambers, under the weight of his furs, there was only warmth — the kind that seemed to swallow you whole.
Cregan lay behind you, his body solid and broad, his arm slung heavy across your waist. His hands could not keep still. They roamed slowly, deliberately, massaging, caressing — up the curve of your hip, over the plane of your stomach, along your thigh where his thumb stroked in idle circles. Every touch was grounding, possessive, as though he meant to remind himself you were not a dream that would vanish with the dawn.
Your breath hitched when his palm slid higher, flattening against your ribs before moving lower again, kneading with a reverence that made your chest ache. His mouth pressed heat into the slope of your neck, your jaw, the shell of your ear, lingering each time as though he couldn’t bring himself to let you go.
“You’ll undo me,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and rough. His lips moved against your shoulder as he spoke, every word spilling warmth across you. “Gods, every time I touch you, every time you say my name… I lose myself.”
Your body softened beneath him, your storm quieting under the weight of his touch. For a while, there was only your breath mingling with his, the scrape of his beard against your cheek, his hands moving in slow circles over your skin like a man learning prayer.
Then his hands stilled, spreading wide at your waist, holding you as though steadying himself. His chest rose heavy against your back. His voice was quieter now, careful, but the words landed with the weight of a vow.
“I dissolved the agreement with Lady Skylar.”
You turned your head slightly, eyes opening, breath caught.
His lips brushed your temple as he continued, his tone firm, storm-grey eyes watching you even in the dark. “She was never mine. I never wanted her. She is soft words and quiet duty, but she was never what I needed.” His fingers traced your jaw, tipping your face so he could press a slow kiss to the corner of your mouth. “She could never hold me the way you do. No one can.”
Your heart thudded wildly. “Cregan—”
He kissed you again, harder this time, swallowing your voice, his hand cupping the back of your neck. When he broke away, his breath was harsh, his forehead pressing to yours.
“I’ve begun to speak with your father,” he whispered. “I’ll not have you as anything less than my wife. Before gods or men, you are mine.”
The words sank into the dark, heavy, irrevocable. Your lips parted, but before you could answer, he kissed you again, deep and desperate, pulling you closer into the furs as though to bind you there. The wolf had chosen — and the storm was caught in his arms.
Summary; requested::You are the daughter of Lord Boremund Baratheon, Brother to Borros Baratheon, sent North to secure an alliance with House Stark after the tensions of succession begin pulling the realm apart.
AN: this is kinda fast paced, they fall in love quickly. This is a long one; I haven’t posted in a minute so (Teacher Life), I made it extra long. I have a requested Daemon and Jace imagine next. But, I want to do this Joel Imagine first.
Warnings: smut, mentions of male receiving and females, explicit content of p in v. Violence.
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The stag’s hooves pounded against the frozen earth, steady and sure. The wind bit sharp at your cheeks as you rode, but you didn’t falter — you leaned into it, hair loose and streaming behind you like a banner. Your father’s eyes flicked toward you now and then, sharp and measuring, though he said nothing until the gallop slowed. Your brother reined his horse in beside yours, his gaze darting between you and Lord Boremund as the escort began to fall into formation.
The gates of Winterfell loomed in the distance, stark and imposing against the pale sky. The walls rose high, their stones rimmed with snow and frost, shadows of men stationed at the battlements.
“You need to be…” your father began, voice low, the words carried on a cloud of breath in the cold.
“Soft,” your brother finished for him. “Smile, curtsy. Pliant. Soothing. Not…”
“Yourself,” Lord Boremund hissed, the reins tightening in his gloved hands.
You stared ahead, lips pressed to a thin line.
“Lord Cregan Stark already courts another,” your father went on, the words laced with irritation. “Your uncle Borros will choose whichever side benefits him most. Do not think you are irreplaceable, girl. Do not think your wildness is charming.”
“Stark was loyal to Viserys,” your brother added quickly, glancing at your father as though to curry favor by echoing him. “And he chose Rhaenyra as heir. The Starks are stubborn. They honor their oaths. You must make him believe you are a worthy prize — not a risk.”
Your hands tightened on the reins until the leather creaked. The stag tossed its head as if sensing your tension. You lowered your voice, steady, unyielding. “I can only be what you raised me to be, Father.”
Boremund let out a low, humorless chuckle. “Aye. Wild as the storm. Dangerous as the sea. Quick to anger, quicker to strike.” His gaze sharpened as the gates of Winterfell grew near. “Lord Stark’s courted lady, Skylar Trant, is beautiful. Poised. Soft-spoken. Everything a true Lady of Winterfell is meant to be.”
You drew your cloak tighter around your shoulders as your brother added, almost lightly, “And you are beautiful, but wild. Daring. Dangerous. Always ready for battle, never ready to bend. Never understanding.”
Their words should have weighed heavy. Instead, you shrugged them off like falling snow, chin tilting higher as the carved wooden direwolves flanking the gates came into full view.
Winterfell loomed before you now — vast, ancient, and cold. The portcullis was already rising. You could see movement beyond the archway, banners of grey and white stirring in the wind.
The North was watching.
And so, with the stag stamping impatiently beneath you, you lifted your chin, smoothed your windswept hair with one gloved hand, and prepared to meet the Wolf of Winterfell.
The words of your father clung to you like the winter air, echoing in your skull with every breath. Soft. Smile. Pliant. Soothing.
Never.
You had never been soft. Not once. You were Baratheon born, storm-blood running thick in your veins, raised by men who valued thunder and strength over courtesy and curtseys. Your father’s sons were forged in iron, and you, the youngest, had been raised alongside them. You had no chance of being dainty. No chance of being the flower your father longed to parade before the North.
The stag shifted beneath you as the gates yawned open, the shadow of Winterfell’s towers stretching across the snow. Your chin tilted higher, the sound of hooves clattering against stone as you rode through. The Northerners stood lined, their eyes cool and assessing. The wind tugged at your hair, and you let it — better the truth of the storm than the mask your father demanded.
It was then a rider peeled from the gathered Stark men, his horse moving with easy control until he drew alongside you. Younger than the others, leaner but no less wolfish, his smile quick and unguarded.
“My Lady,” Benjen Stark greeted, bowing his head just enough.
Your eyes flicked sidelong, lips curving in a smile sharp as a blade. “Does it look like I need help, little wolf?”
His brows rose, but his grin only widened. “Maybe… maybe not, my lady. The North has yet to see.”
“I don’t,” you replied swiftly, pride sparking in your voice. “I’ve ridden a stag since before I could walk.”
With deliberate defiance, you swung your leg over and dismounted in one fluid movement. Not like a delicate lady guided down by her lord — but like a soldier hitting the earth, steady, sure, and proud. Snow crunched beneath your boots as you landed, cloak sweeping. The stag tossed its head as if to echo your defiance.
Benjen barked a laugh, delighted rather than chastising. “Storm and steel. I should have guessed.”
Your father tensed in his saddle, jaw tight. Your brother smirked, watching with both pride and mischief.
And then — the crowd shifted. A presence stepped forward, and the mood shifted with it. Cregan Stark moved into view, taller, broader, his cloak of direwolf fur draped heavy across his shoulders. His dark hair caught in the cold wind, gray eyes fixed on you with a weight that pinned you where you stood.
He bowed, low and formal. “Lady Baratheon. Winterfell welcomes you.”
You didn’t bow. You weren’t going to. Instead, you tipped your head, eyes gleaming, a smile tugging your lips as you answered with the same tone you used on your brothers when you meant to needle them.
“Little Wolf,” you said softly, with deliberate audacity.
Gasps stirred among the Northern men, your father’s hand twitched on the reins, and your brother nearly choked on his laughter.
But Cregan Stark did not flinch. He straightened slowly, studying you with a gaze that neither warmed nor froze — but measured. A long silence stretched, the kind that could topple kingdoms. And then, the faintest flicker of a smile ghosted across his lips, quick as lightning before it vanished.
“Little wolf?” Cregan’s voice cut through the hush, deep and steady, though there was a faint curve at the corner of his mouth. “Do I appear little to you?”
The men around him stiffened, waiting for your apology. Your father’s jaw clenched like stone.
You only shrugged, pulling your cloak tighter against the cold. “Do I appear as a lady to you?” Your smile broke sly and daring, a spark of mischief dancing in your eyes.
For a heartbeat, he studied you — and then he chuckled. Not stiff or forced, but quick, warm, startling in its honesty. “Yes,” he said simply.
Your smile softened into something warmer, genuine. “Well, then, Little Lord of Winterfell—you have your answer.”
The ripple of disapproval among the bannermen was sharp enough to feel. You hadn’t bowed. You weren’t going to. Their silence pressed like the weight of snow-laden branches. But Cregan’s eyes stayed on yours, unyielding, steady.
“You’ve come a long way,” he said at last, his tone more observation than pleasantry.
“I’ve traveled longer,” you replied, voice light, though there was steel beneath it. “The North has a way of making one lose a sense of time. Endless snow, endless forest, and…” Your gaze flickered deliberately past him, where a few young wolves lingered. “…wolves.”
Benjen grinned outright, eyes bright with amusement. Sara Snow lingered near him, pale as the frost, her expression curious and kind. Both watched you with interest rather than suspicion.
And you, with careful poise, stepped past Cregan himself — drawing a sharp breath from your father. Instead of offering the courtesy due to the Lord of Winterfell, you lowered yourself in a graceful bow before Sara Snow.
“My Lady,” you said warmly, a soft smile tugging at your lips as your eyes flicked up to meet hers. Beautiful. Poised. Deliberate.
Sara blinked, startled, then returned the bow with a softness all her own. “Lady Baratheon,” she said, her voice lilting with something almost shy.
The air seemed to shift around you. The bannermen exchanged glances, uncertain if they’d just witnessed insult or strategy. Benjen gave a low laugh, unable to help himself.
And Cregan? He hadn’t moved. His gray eyes lingered on you, unreadable, though the faintest trace of amusement ghosted across his face — like a wolf humoring a storm for daring to roar in his woods.
“It’s a pleasure!” you said, voice lilting with warmth.
Sara’s lips curved, a laugh breaking free as she reached up to squeeze your shoulder. “A bold stag, then!”
“Never known a stag who wasn’t,” you teased back, eyes glittering. You leaned in just a touch, lowering your voice for effect. “We don’t include my illiterate uncle, Lord Borros.”
The bannermen erupted in chuckles, even Benjen smothering a grin. A few glanced nervously toward your father, but the humor was too sharp to deny.
“You suggest your father is more honorable?” Sara asked, tilting her head, her smile edged with curiosity.
“I suggest nothing,” you said with an easy shrug, though your words carried weight. “I merely am here to subside the growing tensions between the Stormlands and Winterfell.”
Your father stiffened, but Sara leaned in, eyes bright. “An incredible job for just a lady, wouldn’t you say?”
Your smile widened, all teeth and storm. “Nothing is too big for me to handle. I’m storm-born Baratheon. Like a wolf, I only allow myself to be tamed when it’s beneficial.”
A ripple of amusement passed through the crowd — some smirking, others murmuring uneasily.
Sara’s laugh chimed, genuine. “Dangerous words for one meant to play peacekeeper.”
“Peace is easier kept when no one underestimates you,” you countered, a subtle spark in your eyes.
For the first time, Sara’s gaze flickered past you — to Cregan, who hadn’t spoken since his first welcome. You followed her glance. He stood as steady as the keep behind him, gray eyes trained on you with a look that was not cold, nor amused, but… intent. As though every word you’d spoken, every shrug, every flash of defiance, was a thing he weighed and measured.
You held his gaze for the barest moment, heat curling low in your chest, before turning smoothly back to Sara.
“Your North is vast,” you said softly. “I think I might enjoy it here.”
“Or it might enjoy you,” Sara returned, voice warm with something like admiration.
The great hall opened before you, stone walls hung with banners of gray and white, the air thick with smoke from the torches. The Northerners shifted aside as Cregan Stark stepped to your side, his presence solid as the keep itself. His hand hovered at the small of your back — not touching, but guiding you forward with a wordless command.
You leaned closer, your voice a soft, teasing whisper only he could hear. “Little Lord, I’m honored.” Your chuckle was low and daring, a spark meant to test the wolf.
“The pleasure is mine,” he replied quietly, gray eyes flicking to you, the corner of his lips twitching as though he fought the rise of a smile. Then, in a tone even, but edged with steel, he added, “Bold is an understatement. Foolish is the better word for your playful tongue.”
You stopped in the middle of the hall, boots firm against the stone. The crowd rippled with confusion at your sudden halt. Tilting your head, your smile widened, bright as lightning before a storm. “Would it serve you better, my Little Lord, if you were to have it?”
Before anyone could guess your meaning, you stuck out your tongue slowly, deliberately, your eyes locking on his. “Yours for the taking, Little Lord?”
A stunned silence fell. The bannermen stiffened, some gasping in disbelief, others biting back laughter. Eyes darted to the side where Lady Skylar Trant sat, her soft face paling, confusion clear.
Cregan moved in an instant, faster than a man of his size had any right to. His hand caught your tongue, his dagger flashing free with a hiss of steel. The hall held its breath.
Your father’s men shifted, hands on hilts, but Boremund lifted a single hand, stilling them. Robert, your brother stiffening, ready to strike Cregan down if needed.
Cregan’s knife glinted in the torchlight, his hand steady as the steel hovered near your mouth. His gaze bore into yours, sharp as winter air. “Are you not afraid?” His voice was low, gravel deep, meant only for you.
You did not flinch. Not a twitch, not a blink. Slowly, you shook your head, storm in your eyes.
The silence stretched until it threatened to snap. Then, at last, he released you. The dagger slid back into its sheath in one smooth motion.
You laughed — bright, reckless, unbowed. “What use would you have for my tongue, Lord Stark?”
A murmur went through the crowd, but Cregan did not look away. “Do you wish to plead your case, Lady Baratheon?”
You gave a half-shrug, smile wicked as you tipped your chin higher. “A lot of uses, unfortunately… most too vulgar to name in front of your bannermen.”
The hall erupted with laughter this time, warm and shocked, the men exchanging knowing looks. Even Benjen barked a laugh, clapping a friend on the shoulder. Cregan’s jaw twitched — a sign of suppressed amusement or frustration, you could not tell. His gray eyes lingered on you, dark with something unspoken, something the soft-spoken Skylar could never conjure. And for the first time since stepping into Winterfell, you knew you had the wolf’s full attention.
Skylar Trant sat still as stone at Cregan Stark’s side, but her eyes betrayed her. Jealousy flickered there, sharp and uneasy, a fire she tried to smother beneath her gentle smiles. For years, she had been assured she had no real competition. Women had come and gone, each one overlooked by the Lord of Winterfell. None had caught his eye. Not truly.
Neither had she.
Cregan courted Skylar because her father pressed the matter, because alliances were neat and trade agreements cleaner. She had her father’s ambitions to thank for her seat beside the wolf, not her own charms. Cregan listened when she spoke of grain, of trade routes, of southern comforts that might ease the North through long winters. He always listened — steady, courteous, polite. But never once had he leaned close to steal a kiss. Never once had he looked at her with the heat, the weight, that now colored his glances at you.
Her chest tightened painfully. She forced her eyes down to her cup.
Your father saw it — the shadow of envy in Skylar’s gaze, the tension in her shoulders. And for the first time since leaving Storm’s End, hope flickered across his face. Perhaps your wild, reckless ways would win you a wolf after all.
When the feast began, you did not take the place expected of you, high at the dais beside your father. No — you slipped down among the long tables, planting yourself between Stark bannermen as though you had belonged there all your life. The Northmen glanced in surprise, but soon laughter rose from the table as you leaned close to hear their jokes, chuckled at their coarse tales, and volleyed back your own sharp wit. A bold stag in the den of wolves.
You lifted your cup and laughed brightly at some jest, head thrown back, your hair catching firelight as though the storm followed you indoors.
From the dais, Cregan’s gaze flickered — quick, steady, and always back to you. His expression gave nothing away to the untrained eye, but Skylar saw. Every time. His gray eyes finding you in the crowd, lingering too long, before he forced them back to his food, his brother, his bannermen.
But it was never unnoticeable. Not to Skylar.
Her fingers tightened around the stem of her cup until her knuckles whitened. The hall roared with laughter around her, yet all she could hear was silence, the hollow realization ringing in her chest. He had never once looked at her that way.
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It had been only a handful of moons since your arrival, and yet Winterfell bore your mark in ways no one had predicted. You rose with the guards at first light, laughing at their rough tales, carrying steaming cups of tea to ward off the chill. You lingered with the kitchen maids, listening to their gossip as though you were one of them, adding your own sharp remarks that made them giggle behind their hands. You did not hold yourself apart, nor above. You sat among them easily, storm-born and unafraid, as if the cold walls were not meant to contain you but to echo with your voice.
And though you did not seek him, though you rarely spoke more than necessity demanded, Cregan Stark’s eyes found you. Always. He watched from the edges of hall and yard, gray gaze steady, unreadable, but constant.
This morning, your feet carried you further than you’d meant — into the woods, into silence.
The trees rose ancient and solemn around you, their branches heavy with snow. Your fingers brushed the rough bark of one, and then you froze. The heart tree stood before you, vast and pale, its face carved long ago, its red eyes bleeding sap like tears. The sight seized something deep within you. You stumbled back, breath catching, your skin prickling as though unseen eyes crawled across your body.
“Wow,” was all you managed, your voice thin in the hush.
You did not hear him approach. Not until you felt him.
Cregan’s presence was quiet but unshakable, his voice low as the snow falling through the branches. “You stand before the heart of Winterfell,” he said. “This tree has watched over us for thousands of years. We believe the Old Gods see through these faces. They hear every word spoken beneath their branches.”
You swallowed hard, eyes flicking back to the bleeding face. For the first time since stepping into this frozen keep, you had no jest. No barb. No stormy quip. Only silence, heavy in your chest, stirred by something older than you, older than your line, older than storms or wolves.
“No outsider has dared walk this deep,” he added, softer now.
Your lips parted. “Do your gods answer you?” you whispered, the words carried by the stillness.
“They listen.” His reply was certain, unshaken.
Your breath clouded in the air. The wind lifted suddenly, tossing your cloak, pulling your hair across your face. The snow stilled around you, as though the gods themselves leaned closer.
“Then let’s hope they listen well enough…” Your voice dropped, barely a breath, though it rang sharp in the frozen quiet. Your eyes shifted from the weeping tree to the man at your side. “…when I say Lady Trant is not the one for you. Not in the eyes of the Old Gods. Nor in the eyes of the Seven.”
The words hung between you, bold as lightning splitting the sky.
Cregan’s gaze lingered on you, longer than it should, his jaw tightening though his expression betrayed nothing. For once, he did not answer quickly. He only looked — at you, at the storm in your eyes, at the way you stood unflinching before gods not your own. And for the first time, his silence was not dismissal. It was consideration.
Cregan finally closed the distance. Snow crunched under his boots as he stepped into your space, his height casting a shadow across you, his breath mingling with yours in the frozen air. His gray eyes held yours unflinchingly, sharp and storm-dark.
“You’ve barely spoken two words to me since your arrival,” he murmured, voice low enough to disappear in the stillness of the godswood. “And this is what you choose to say? In the heart of my woods?”
You only shrugged, though the closeness pressed against your ribs like a weight. “I just feel like you deserve more than an alliance,” you whispered. “Something that makes you feel safe. Seen.”
His eyes flickered, narrowing slightly, as if your words unsettled him. You lifted a hand, fingers brushing the rough bark of the heart tree. “This… is being seen. Coming here, feeling the weight of your ancestors, standing where they stood. Seeing your men, your people, in their eyes.”
Cregan tilted his head, his face lowering until his lips were a breath from yours, his voice no more than a hush: “Is that your truth?”
You let out the faintest laugh, not mocking, but dangerous in its softness. “No. Just… an observation.” Your gaze slid past him toward the keep. Slowly, your eyes returned to his. “She sits next to you, pleasantly. But there’s no thought in those eyes but how she might please you.”
You leaned in, your words a whisper against the edge of his mouth. “Does she please you, my Little Lord?”
The question hung between you like a blade. His hand twitched at his side, as if resisting the urge to reach for you — to hold, or to silence, even he wasn’t sure. His breath came sharper now, his jaw clenched, his gaze heavy with a fire you hadn’t seen in him before.
“She is dutiful,” he said at last, tone clipped, but low enough to betray the truth beneath. “But I do not ask for duty.”
Your smile curled slow, wicked and knowing. “Then you already know your answer.”
The silence stretched, thick as the snow-draped branches above. The red sap of the heart tree bled its tears into the stillness, as though the Old Gods themselves bore witness to your defiance. For the first time, the wolf looked hungry.
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The next day the snow was deep enough to numb your legs as you sank to your knees before the heart tree. The pale bark glistened in the weak light, its carved face bleeding red sap that streaked down like tears. Your breath puffed out in small clouds as you stared at it, voice a whisper meant for no one, yet for everything.
“Do you hear me?” you murmured, eyes locked on the weeping eyes. “Or is it just another tale Northmen spin to keep their children quiet at night?”
You had sat there for much of the feast, letting laughter and music fade to nothing behind the stone walls. Your eyes never left the tree, but you felt him again before you heard him — the weight of his gaze, the hush of his steps across snow.
“Do you enjoy my company, my Little Lord?” you asked lightly, peering over your shoulder, a smile tugging at your lips.
Cregan’s answer came low, rough with truth. “In truth… yes. Painfully so.”
He lowered himself beside you, snow crunching under his weight, his fur cloak brushing yours. His nearness pressed like heat against the cold air. His voice was steady, but his eyes stayed fixed on the face of the heart tree, as if afraid to look at you. “Are you praying?”
“No.” You tilted your head, smile soft, honest. “Just waiting for you.”
That made him falter. His breath caught, visible in the icy air. “I can’t stop thinking about you,” he admitted at last, though his gaze still wouldn’t meet yours. “I am a man of honor. Of duty. My word is bond. But every time I see you… hear you… gods, every small touch of you—”
He broke off, jaw tight, eyes finally dragging to yours.
The storm inside you broke first. You leaned forward swiftly, closing the gap, your lips finding his with the certainty of thunder striking earth. His breath shuddered against your mouth as you molded to him, your hand fisting into the fur at his shoulder, dragging him down into you.
Cregan groaned low in his chest — the sound of a wolf breaking its chains — and the restraint he’d held cracked. His arm went around you, fierce and unyielding, pulling you against him as his mouth slanted over yours. His lips were hot, desperate, moving against you as though he’d been starving.
The cold disappeared as he moved, as his cloak unfurled and fell over the both of you, a heavy fur shield against the winter air. You gasped into his mouth, his warmth flooding over you, his body covering yours as he pressed you into the snow. His weight was solid, grounding, his heat searing through the layers between you.
His hands burned where they touched — one cupping your jaw with surprising gentleness, thumb stroking your cheek, the other trailing lower, spreading against your waist, then your hip, fingers flexing as if he meant to claim every inch. His lips moved against yours again and again, slower now, deliberate, as though memorizing the shape of you.
When he finally broke for air, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and uneven, his hand still cradling your face as though he might never let go.
The fur cloak was heavy around you both, a cocoon against the cold, trapping his heat until you felt consumed by it. His lips were relentless, hot and hungry, moving over yours again and again as though he couldn’t bear to stop. His weight pressed you into the snow, hard earth beneath your back, but you welcomed it, your body yielding to him even as your pulse raced like a storm-tide.
He broke from your lips only to drag his mouth down your throat, teeth grazing, tongue soothing, heat searing into the sensitive skin there. His hand fisted into your skirts, bunching the fabric impatiently until his rough palm found your thigh. The first squeeze drew a gasp from you, sharp against the night.
“You’re softer than I thought,” he whispered against your neck, his breath ragged. His thumb stroked along the inside of your thigh, testing, savoring. Then he lifted, guiding your leg up, bending it around his waist. The movement pulled you open beneath him, closer to the hard press of his body, making your breath falter.
The sound he made — half growl, half groan — vibrated against your skin. “Gods help me.” You clung to him, fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him tighter even as the weight of him pinned you down. The more he pressed, the more you bent, softer than he expected, yielding to the wolf’s hunger.
His mouth claimed yours again, bruising now, his tongue sliding against yours, heat mingling with the cold air. At the same time, his hips pressed harder between your legs, his hand gripping your thigh tighter, lifting it higher, hooking it over him until he filled the space between you. You moaned into his mouth, your body betraying just how much you wanted him.
He groaned into the kiss, breaking it only to murmur against your lips, “Say you’ll let me—”
You cut him off with another kiss, pulling his hair to hold him there, your voice breaking between your teeth. “I’m yours, Little Lord.”
That was all it took.
He tore the space between your bodies apart only long enough to free himself, his movements clumsy with urgency, the sound of tearing fabric muted beneath the cloak. His mouth never left yours, each kiss desperate, grounding. And when he finally pushed into you, the sharp stretch gave way to warmth, to fullness, to a sensation that made your whole body arch up into him.
His head dropped to your shoulder, a guttural sound escaping him as he sank deeper. “Gods…”
The weight of him pressed you deep into the snow, the cold biting at your back but fading beneath the heat of his body. His fur cloak enveloped you both, muffling the world, trapping the sound of your breaths, your moans, the rustle of fabric, the harsh slide of him inside you.
Cregan moved with a rhythm that was almost measured at first — heavy, deliberate thrusts, his hips grinding into yours as though trying to memorize every inch of you. Each time he pulled back, the air rushed in, cold; each time he pressed back into you, the heat seared you whole again.
Your body bent beneath him, softer than he’d ever dared imagine. You had been storm and defiance since you first rode through his gates, all sharp smiles and fearless words. But here — here you melted. Your thighs parted for him, your leg lifted higher at his urging, his hand guiding you open, holding you steady against his thrusts. The way you yielded to him made him groan low, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath ragged.
“Gods, you’re…” He couldn’t finish, the words breaking into a growl as he rocked into you harder, faster now, the rhythm growing urgent, losing its restraint.
Your voice spilled out softer than you knew, softer than he’d ever heard it — sighs, gasps, broken whimpers that escaped against his lips. “Cregan…” It wasn’t the storm-sharp teasing he’d grown used to hearing. It was breathless, pleading, a sweetness he’d never imagined could come from you.
The sound unraveled him.
“Say it again,” he rasped, his thrusts deeper, his pace quickening as he lifted your thigh higher, nearly to his hip, spreading you to take him fully. Each movement made your breath falter, made your voice softer still.
“Cregan…” You whimpered it this time, your lips brushing his jaw. He shuddered, his rhythm breaking for a moment as he pressed himself deeper, groaning against your ear.
“You’re softer than I thought you could be,” he whispered, voice harsh, the words trembling with something close to awe. His hips ground against yours with every thrust, his weight pinning you down while his hand moved against your thigh, urging you to hold tighter, to cling harder.
And you did. Your body gave beneath his, your arms winding around his shoulders, pulling him closer as his rhythm drove you into the earth. Each thrust was stronger than the last, the wolf breaking himself against the storm, yet it was your softness — your yielding — that undid him.
Your voice rose again, quiet, desperate, words spilling without thought, “Don’t stop, my Little Lord.” The command struck through him like lightning. His teeth grazed your throat, his groan muffled against your skin as his hips snapped harder, faster, his rhythm abandoning all restraint, chasing the storm’s edge with a hunger he could no longer hold back. And still, through the urgency, he listened for your voice — softer than snow falling, softer than prayer — until it was the only sound in the godswood that mattered.
Your leg clung high around his waist, guided there by his strong hand. His grip was unyielding, fingers digging into your thigh as he held you open for him, as though he couldn’t stand an inch of you not his. With every deep, desperate push, the fur brushed your skin, heat and cold colliding, your body softening further beneath him, bending to meet each movement.
Your voice — gods, your voice — it was what undid him most. He’d braced for your storm, for wild laughter or daring words. But the sounds spilling from your lips were soft, breathless, fragile in a way that pierced his chest. “Cregan… gods, don’t stop…”
He growled low, forehead pressed to yours, the raw scrape of his voice catching. “I won’t… I can’t…” His rhythm faltered, then surged, his hips driving into you with the full force of the wolf unleashed.
The tree loomed above, its carved mouth dripping crimson tears. You felt its eyes on you both, ancient and unblinking, as if the Old Gods themselves bore witness to your breaking — and to his
“Say it,” he rasped, lips brushing your cheek, your jaw, your mouth. His thrusts grew sharper, urgent. “Say you’re mine.”
Your back arched, body clinging to him, voice breaking softer than snow melt: “I’m yours, Little Lord. Yours.”
That vow shattered him.
He buried himself deep, groaning raw against your throat, the sound torn from somewhere primal. His body trembled above you, hips jerking in desperate rhythm as his release tore through him. You felt it — hot, pulsing, filling — his grip on your thigh tightening, his other hand tangling in your hair as if anchoring himself to you while he unraveled.
He groaned, the sound torn from his chest, his control slipping further. “In front of my gods… my faith… my heart…” His hips surged, pounding into you, his voice breaking between gasps. “You are mine. Do you hear me? No one else will have you. No one else will have me—the way you do.”
Your hands fisted in his hair, pulling his mouth back to yours. You kissed him through the vow, through the breaking of it, your body answering his with every soft arch, every yielding whimper.
His pace grew ragged, desperate, his thrusts jerking as the storm inside him broke loose. “My storm—” he groaned, burying himself deep, holding there as his body convulsed. His release ripped through him in hot waves, spilling into you, his hand squeezing your thigh as though to mark you from within.
The force of it shook him, his hips shuddering as he spilled everything into you, his teeth sinking into your shoulder to stifle the sound of his unraveling. Still he whispered, broken against your skin: “Mine… gods, mine… forever.”
You tightened around him, clinging, your body giving beneath the weight of his, meeting his hunger with your softness until he trembled through the last pulses of release.
At last he collapsed fully against you, chest heaving, his lips finding your temple in reverence, not frenzy. “My wild thing,” he whispered, still gasping, “my storm. My undoing.”
───────── 𐂃 ─────────
The muffled sounds of the feast carried faintly through stone and snow — laughter, music, the clink of cups. But in the godswood, beneath the shadow of the heart tree, the world was still. The only warmth was him, still heavy above you, his cloak sheltering your body from the cold, your skin flushed, your breath shallow.
You raised a trembling hand, caressing his cheek, the roughness of his jaw brushing your fingertips. His gray eyes found yours, storm-tossed, uncertain for the first time.
“My Little Lord,” you whimpered softly, voice breaking in a way you’d never let anyone else hear. Your eyes fluttered closed as he pressed his lips to your forehead, reverent, careful, as if you were something he hadn’t meant to touch but could never let go of now.
When you looked again, you saw it in his face — the realization. The oath-breaker’s weight. He had taken you here, beneath the red eyes of his gods, before the face of his ancestors. His vow to Skylar, his honor as a Stark — all shattered in the space of a heartbeat.
“Do you regret it?” you whispered, your hands cradling his face, forcing his gaze to stay with you.
His jaw clenched, his breath misting the air. “No,” he confessed hoarsely, his forehead pressing to yours. “That’s what scares me.” And then he kissed you, not with the hunger of before, but with a gentleness that trembled in its honesty.
You felt the quake in him, the weight of his restraint cracking again as his lips lingered. He broke the kiss, eyes locked on yours, voice rough. “Skylar… she means nothing. She is soft words and quiet obedience — all duty, no fire. I never wanted her. I never chose her.” His hand slid to your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. “But you—gods, you’re different. Wild thing. My storm. You tear through every wall I’ve built.”
Your chest tightened at the words, at the stark truth in his tone. His eyes burned, silver-gray and certain now, no hesitation left.
“In front of my gods, my faith, my heart,” he rasped, each word sharper than the last, dragging from him like a vow carved into stone, “you are mine. No one else will have you. No one else will have me, the way you do. Not now, not ever.”
The words hung heavy, binding, the weight of a vow spoken not in court, but before the only witnesses that mattered in the North.
Your lips curved softly, the storm in you quieting for once. You cupped his face with both hands, your smile tender. “Then hear me, Cregan Stark,” you whispered back. “In front of your gods, your faith, your heart. I am yours. No one else will have me. No one else will have you, the way I do.”
You pressed a kiss to his lips, sealing it, the two of you breathing the same vow into the same silence.
Above, the heart tree watched, its red eyes bleeding still, as if the Old Gods themselves had marked the oath — wolf and storm bound in defiance of duty, in defiance of the world.
───────── 𐂃 ─────────
It began with the godswood. With your back in the snow and his cloak covering you both, the Old Gods bleeding their silent witness. That was where restraint broke. Where vows burned.
And after… it didn’t stop.
He found you everywhere.
At first, it was chance: his hand brushing yours as he passed a cup, his eyes catching yours across the yard when you laughed with his men. But then it became deliberate. His step always slowed when you crossed his path. He lingered in halls he had no business walking, his excuses transparent, his eyes searching until they found you.
You began to crave it. To wait for it.
In the kitchens, you brushed against him in passing, his hand steadying your waist as though the touch meant nothing — but his thumb pressed, lingering, before he let go.
In the yard, your laughter rang sharp, and when you turned, there he was, watching, lips quirked in the smallest smirk. When no one was looking, you darted forward and kissed him quick, fierce, stealing it like a thief. His hand caught your chin, held you there, deepening it until your knees went weak.
In the shadows of the corridors, he would catch you by the wrist, drag you into an alcove, his mouth already on yours, the kiss hot, unrelenting, before he pulled away with a ragged breath. “You’ll be the ruin of me,” he whispered once, his forehead pressed to yours, his hand tight on your hip.
But it wasn’t only stolen kisses. It was touches, too — the small, quiet kind that meant more than the fever.
You sat by the fire with Benjen and your brother, teasing and laughing, and when you shifted, you felt it: Cregan’s hand slide along the back of your chair, fingers brushing your shoulder lightly, deliberately. No one else noticed. But you felt it.
The hunger in him was constant — the wolf pacing, restless, until he found you again. But it wasn’t only need; it was reverence. Every touch carried the weight of a man who had never allowed himself to touch anyone this way before.
Sometimes, he pulled you into shadowed corridors, his mouth hot and desperate, kissing you like a man drowning. His hands roamed under your cloak, greedy for skin, dragging sighs and whimpers from you until your knees weakened. He always steadied you, one hand firm at your waist, the other sliding higher, cupping, squeezing, fingers teasing until your breath hitched against his lips.
Sometimes he sought your pleasure first — laying you back against furs, pushing up your skirts, his head lowering until his mouth was on you. His beard scraped your thighs, his tongue slow at first, then relentless, lapping, sucking, until you were arching up and gasping his name. His large hands pinned you down as though holding prey, but the tenderness in his eyes when you broke apart under him was almost unbearable. “That’s it, my storm,” he murmured against you. “Break for me.”
Other times, you took him in your hands, stroking him slow, watching his jaw clench, his chest heave. You teased him until he growled, until he grabbed your wrist and forced your hand to move faster, his hips jerking helplessly. On bolder nights, you sank to your knees, your lips wrapping around him, tongue working as his hand tangled in your hair. His groans were low, guttural, echoing off stone as he whispered broken curses and your name, trying not to spill too quickly, trying not to lose control completely.
And when he took you — gods, when he took you — he was relentless. His strength pinned you beneath him, his thrusts deep, hard, unyielding, but his mouth was everywhere: on your throat, your breasts, your lips, kissing between groans as though he needed every part of you. He whispered to you in those moments, words torn from a man who never spoke so freely. “Mine. My wild thing. My storm. I’ll never let you go.”
Your body yielded to him every time. No fight, no storm — only softness he had never expected. You bent to his rhythm, clung to him, tightened around him until his composure shattered. His release was always raw, groaned into your skin, his body shaking with the force of it as he spilled hot inside you. He would press deep, staying there as though to carve the moment into memory, his lips pressed to your temple as he whispered, “You’ll ruin me… and I’ll thank you for it.”
But afterward, he always touched you as though you were fragile — brushing sweat-soaked hair from your face, tracing your lips with his thumb, kissing you slow, as if reverence was all that could follow ruin.
───────── 𐂃 ─────────
Today, the training yard rang with the sound of steel and laughter, the bite of cold air filled with the smell of sweat and iron. You stood with Benjen and your brother at the edge, teasing one another, your laughter rolling bright into the crisp morning.
Across the yard, Skylar Trant lingered at Cregan’s side, speaking softly, her hand brushing his sleeve. He inclined his head, listening out of courtesy, but his eyes weren’t on her. They stayed fixed across the yard — fixed on you.
It was then a voice cut sharp through the noise.
“I hear the Stormlands sends us a wild pup,” one of the lords muttered, loud enough for all to hear. “Her father hides behind words while his daughter tries to play at being a man. A bastard’s trick, not a lord’s blood.”
The laughter around you stilled. Your body went rigid, your breath seizing in your chest. Slowly, you turned, eyes snapping to the man.
“What?” you hissed, your voice like a blade scraping from its sheath.
He smirked, doubling down. “Your house breeds bluster, not honor. Baratheons — drunkards, whores, and bastards. Best you keep to gowns, girl, lest you shame your father further.”
The yard froze. Men shifted uneasily, some glancing to Cregan, some to Benjen.
But you moved first.
You strode to the practice rack, your hand closing around the hilt of a longsword. In a heartbeat, the blade hissed free. Without waiting, without thought, you lunged. Not elegant, not the measured strikes of Winterfell’s men — but brutal, relentless, your whole body thrown into each swing. Your attacks came heavy, fluid in their ferocity, battering through his guard. The men circled, startled, then raucous, shouts rising around you.
“She’s terrible with a longsword,” your brother called out, his voice carrying, his tone smug. “She uses a warhammer. One my father forged for her.”
The words struck the crowd like flint to tinder. Whispers spread, bannermen leaning forward, eyes locked on you as they began to see it — the force behind your blows, the storm-born rhythm that made you dangerous.
The lord grunted, teeth bared as he barely kept pace. With a twist, he knocked the blade from your hand. The clang rang across the yard — and his fist cracked across your face. Your head snapped to the side, blood rushing down your lip.
Gasps rose from the circle.
You spat red into the snow and lunged, a snarl tearing from your throat. “Fight me, you cunt! Fight the whore! Or am I a bastard? A drunkard?” Your fists pummeled him, each word punctuated by the crack of knuckles to flesh. “Fight me in front of the Little Lord! You fucking cunt! You stupid idiot!”
The yard roared — shock, laughter, awe — men crowding closer as the storm-born Baratheon bared her teeth.
The lord tried to shove you off, but you slammed him back into the dirt, your knees pinning him as your fists rained down. Blood streaked his face, your hair whipping around you wild and untamed.
“You hit me! You struck me!” you spat, your voice ragged, dripping with rage. “I’ll have your head and feed it to every dragon, wolf, stag, or beast I can find! You fucking cunt!”
Your blood sprayed as you shouted, your fists still driving until his arms sagged beneath him. “Fucking cunt!”
The men howled, some jeering, some urging, no one daring to move. Benjen gaped wide-eyed, your brother laughed aloud, proud and unashamed.
It was only then that Cregan moved.
He tore through the circle like a wolf through brush, his hand closing on your arm. You jerked against him, snarling, trying to tear free. His strength dwarfed yours, but still you fought him, clawing forward, blood and fury dripping from your mouth.
“Let me go! I’ll kill him!”
“Enough!” Cregan’s voice thundered, the fury in it silencing even the bannermen. He dragged you back, iron-strong, his chest heaving as he held you fast.
You twisted in his grip, your eyes wild, your chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. “He disrespects my house! My father! My brother! Me! And you’d have me stand idle?”
The men stared — at your storm, at the wolf holding you back, at the blood spattering the snow.
Cregan’s jaw clenched, his grip unyielding, his eyes burning into yours. “You’ll tear yourself apart if I let you. You’ll destroy everything.”
You spat blood again, your lips curling, your voice dropping to a hiss. “Then let me.”
For a heartbeat, the world held still.
The Northmen shifted uneasily. And Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell, stood in the yard with your blood on his hands and your storm in his arms, his restraint stretched so thin you could see it break in his eyes.
Cregan’s grip on your arm was iron, unyielding. He dragged you through the training yard with long strides, your boots skidding across the stone. You twisted, snarling, hair wild around your face, blood dripping down your lip.
“Let me go! Do you hear me, Little Lord? I said let me go!” you screamed, your voice echoing off the walls. “I’ll finish him! I’ll take his head and feed it to every wolf and dragon I can find!”
Your words rang sharp, your body thrashing, but Cregan never loosened his hold. His hand engulfed your arm, his jaw clenched tight. He pulled you forward with the ease of a man hauling a hound on a leash. The bannermen stepped back to give you both room, their eyes wide. Some smirked, entertained. Some whispered, unsettled. All of them watched.
Benjen fell in close, half-amused, half-concerned. “She’d have gutted him if you’d given her another moment,” he muttered to Cregan, though you heard him clearly.
Your father and brother followed calmly behind, no urgency in their steps. They’d seen this fire before. They knew it was better left to burn itself out. You jerked against Cregan’s hold again, your voice raw. “He struck me! You saw it! You would have me sit meek while some dog insults my father, my house?”
“You’ll sit quiet because I command it.” Cregan’s voice cracked like thunder, low but powerful, silencing even Benjen. His eyes flashed down at you, gray as storm clouds over ice.
“I’ll not!” you spat back, blood flecking your chin. “Not for you, not for anyone. You call yourself Lord, yet you would leash me? I am no hound, Little Lord—I am stormborn.”
You dug your heels in, trying to stop his march, but he only dragged harder, your shoulder nearly lifted from its socket with the force. You hissed in pain, but still fought, your rage unbroken.
The Maester appeared in the doorway of his chambers, eyes wide as Cregan pulled you inside. Your brother surged forward, reaching for your face, his hand gentle. “Let me see to that cut, sister—”
You shoved him back with a snarl, blood dripping from your lip. “Don’t touch me.”
Benjen tried next, a cloth in hand, his grin dimmed. “Here, let me—”
“I said don’t!” you snapped, batting the cloth aside. Your body shook with rage, your chest heaving.
Every hand that reached for you, you pushed away. Every one but his. Cregan’s grip you never broke, never shook. Your arm remained bound in his hold as though it belonged there.
Your father watched from the doorway, his sharp eyes softening. No smirk this time. No calculation. Just a small, quiet smile — as if he saw the truth of it before you did.
“I don’t need help,” you hissed through your teeth, glaring at the Maester, at your brother, at anyone but Cregan. “I want to finish him.”
At last, Cregan stopped. He turned you to face him, towering above you, his grip shifting from your arm to your jaw. His hand was firm, holding you still, forcing your storm-tossed eyes up to meet his. His thumb brushed across your bloodied lip, smearing crimson against your skin.
“You’ve done enough,” he said, voice low, steady, unshakable.
You breathed hard, your chest rising and falling against him, your fists trembling at your sides. The fury still burned hot, but his eyes held you — steel and storm, unmovable, unyielding.
Your breath hitched, softer this time, the words breaking from you in a whisper. “You’d leash me too, then? Like the rest of them?”
His jaw clenched, his thumb still resting against your lip. “No,” he murmured, so quietly only you heard. “But I’ll not watch you destroy yourself.”
The Maester fumbled with his satchel, eyes darting nervously between you and Cregan. He raised a cloth, hesitant. “My lady, please—”
“Stop calling me that!” you snapped, your voice sharp enough to cut stone. The Maester froze, cloth trembling in his hand.
You turned suddenly, fire spilling out of you, your gaze snapping to your father. “This is your fault! Yes—train me with a warhammer! Teach me its weight and its fury but never the longsword! I know nothing—nothing!—of their blade work. And now that cunt thinks he bested me?”
Your voice rose until it cracked, until the rafters themselves seemed to shiver. Blood streaked your chin, your fists clenched, your chest heaving as the storm consumed you.
“I am a Baratheon!” you cried, raw and unflinching. “In truth! I’m no whore! I’m not a drunkard! I’m not—”
The words strangled in your throat. You whirled on the Maester instead, shrieking the last of your fury into his face, so loud and raw that he stumbled back, nearly dropping his satchel. His eyes went wide with fear. You shrieked until your voice ran hoarse. Screaming like a child deprived of sweets.
Your father chuckled softly at the sight, shaking his head. “My daughter. My storm-born daughter.” His voice was warm, steady, even proud. “You were never made for that cunty thing they call a longsword. No—you are a warhammer. You rage just like one.” His smile softened, not cruel, but certain.
You sucked in a sharp breath, your fists trembling, your whole body still wound tight as a bowstring. “I want his fucking head!”
Before anyone else could answer, Cregan’s voice cut in, low but thunderous, vibrating in the stone chamber. “I’ll handle it.”
Your head snapped toward him, fury blazing. “No! I don’t want—nor need—you to handle it! I want to do it!”
Cregan’s gray eyes locked onto yours, storm and fire meeting in the space between. His jaw worked, his nostrils flared, but his voice stayed low, sharp with a possessive edge that sent a ripple through the room. “He struck you in my yard. You think I’ll let that stand? You think I’ll let him touch you again?”
Benjen leaned against the wall, smirking softly at the exchange. He’d seen it now—everyone had. The way their Lord watched you, the way his hand never left your arm, the way his eyes burned hotter than anger.
Your father saw too. And his smile lingered, small and secret, as though he’d known this storm would find its wolf all along.
The room seethed with tension, your body still thrumming with rage, Cregan’s hand heavy on your arm as if he feared you might break free and finish what you started.
“You don’t get to handle him,” you snapped, stepping into his space, blood streaking your lip, hair wild. “He struck me. Me! His insult wasn’t to Winterfell — it was to my house, my father, my blood. That’s mine to avenge!”
Cregan loomed over you, his jaw clenched tight, his voice cutting sharp as steel. “And I’ll not have my yard turned into a brawl where you bleed for every fool’s word. He struck you — which makes it my right to punish him.”
Your laugh was bitter, storm-born, a crack of thunder. “Your right? Then what am I? Some dainty flower for you to shield? I don’t need your protection, Cregan Stark. I want his head on the ground, and I want it to be my hand that takes it!”
His nostrils flared, his eyes storm-grey and burning. “And when you’ve bloodied yourself past reason, when you’ve shattered bone and tooth, will you stand over him and feel better? Or will you be another fool brought low because you couldn’t hold your temper?”
You stepped closer, your voice low but shaking with fury. “Better a fool with blood on her hands than a coward who hides behind honor.”
The chamber went silent. Even the Maester froze mid-step, eyes darting between you both.
Cregan’s breath thundered in his chest, his restraint fraying to threads. “Careful, my beautifulstorm,” he muttered, warning and plea both.
Before you could retort, the door creaked.
Lady Skylar entered, her skirts sweeping, her voice tentative. “My lord, I—”
You spun, your eyes catching hers, and then you threw your head back and let out a dramatic sigh that echoed off the stone. “Gods, kill me!”
Cregan’s teeth ground together. “Will you stop screaming?” he snapped, his voice cracking like a whip.
You turned back on him, ruthless, unbowed, and planted your hand on his shoulder. Then you screamed louder — raw, shrill, a sound that rattled the Maester’s bones.
Cregan moved faster than you could brace. His hand shot up, his palm chopping lightly but firmly against your throat. Your voice cut off in an instant, a strangled choke breaking free as you stumbled back a half step, clutching at your neck.
“You little sneak!” you rasped hoarsely, eyes blazing. “That’s not fair!”
Benjen, still leaning against the wall, barked a laugh he couldn’t smother. Even your brother grinned. The Maester nearly dropped his satchel again, while Skylar froze in the doorway, eyes wide, confusion and hurt flashing across her face.
But Cregan didn’t look at her. His storm-grey eyes stayed fixed on you — bloodied lip, flushed cheeks, throat burning where he’d silenced you. for all his fury, there was no mistaking the truth in his gaze: you were the only one who could shake the wolf this far.
The chamber still bristled with your fury when Skylar stepped timidly forward, her hands clasped tight. “My lord… perhaps this isn’t the time—”
You wheeled on her, hair wild, lip bleeding, your laugh sharp and cruel. “Oh, gods. Her?” You threw your head back in mock despair. “Yes, let the little dove tell the storm how to fold its wings. That’ll calm me, won’t it?”
Skylar flinched, color flooding her cheeks. “I only—”
“You only what?” you hissed, straining against Cregan’s grip. “You only know how to sit pretty and smile? You’ve never been struck in the face, never bled for your name. You’ve never had to stand when men spat on your house. So tell me, my lady, what use is your counsel to me?”
Gasps rose. Benjen smirked. Your brother chuckled under his breath.
“Enough!” Cregan snapped, his voice thunder in the room. His grip tightened on your arm, his eyes cutting into yours. “She’s done nothing to you. Skylar has never spoken against you, or your house. She doesn’t deserve your venom.”
The words hit like a slap.
Your head jerked toward him, your chest heaving, your voice cracking with rage. “Take it back.”
Cregan’s brows pulled tight. “What?”
“Take it back!” you screamed, jerking against him, blood spattering from your lip. “Take it back or I’ll never forgive you!”
He blinked, confusion flashing, but you pressed on, your voice raw and rasping. “Stop yelling at me in your Little Lord of Winterfell voice, you don’t defend her to spite me! I am not your bannerman, not your soldier, not your lord to command! You do not command me! You do not betray me!”
“Gods, you’re being reckless—”
“Take it back, or I’ll never utter another word to you again!” Your voice broke, high and ragged with fury. “Not one! I swear it on your gods! On that bloody weeping tree! I swear it! Gods My Little Lord, I swear it!”
The chamber fell still.
Your brother leaned back against the wall, a small smile tugging at his lips. For all your storm-strength, for all the blood and brute force, you were still his little sister — still more girl than woman despite your age. Bleeding with emotion you didn’t yet know how to hold. Cregan’s storm-gray eyes searched yours, his jaw flexing, his hand loosening its grip. The weight of your vow pressed between you like the weirwood itself stood there.
At last, his breath left him in a whisper, low and raw. “I’m sorry.”
The words cracked in the air, softer than you’d ever heard from him. And the hall, the Maester, your kin — all of them heard the wolf bend to the storm.
The Maester’s chamber was not large, only a modest room lined with shelves of herbs and scrolls, the air thick with the sharp scent of mint and poultices. The handful of aides who lingered hovered in the corners, wide-eyed and silent, afraid to even breathe too loud.
Cregan still held you, his hand on your arm, his thumb grazing where your skin was reddened by his grip. His apology — that hoarse “I’m sorry” — still rang in the air.
Skylar’s soft slippers faltered against the stone floor. Her breath hitched, her steps retreating a pace. Her hands twisted in her skirts, eyes wide and brimming. “My lord…” she whispered faintly, disbelief clouding her gentle features. He had never apologized to her. He had never looked at her like this.
Cregan didn’t turn. His gray eyes were fixed on you, storm-dark and aching.
“Calm down,” he murmured, voice low, meant for you alone though everyone heard it. His hand rose from your arm to cup your jaw, rough palm warm against your chilled skin. “No one is betraying you.” His thumb brushed along your lip where blood still shone, smearing it softly, as though he meant to erase the insult. “I just want you to understand that I will handle it. Not because you can’t. Not because it is my duty. But because—” His breath caught. His forehead pressed to yours, the weight of him grounding you. “Because I want to. No, I need to.”
Your chest heaved, your storm still rattling your bones. Slowly, your hands lifted, trembling, catching his wrist, his jaw, dragging him closer. The intimacy of it burned against the smallness of the chamber.
“Swear it to me,” you whispered, your voice raw, almost breaking. Your eyes searched his desperately, softer now, vulnerable. “Swear it on your vow you made to me in the weirwood. Before your bleeding tree.”
The aides stilled in the corners. Benjen tilted his head, smirk tugging faintly at his mouth. Your brother folded his arms, lips twitching into a smile. And your father — your father’s eyes softened in quiet recognition.
Cregan’s breath trembled, his thumb stroking your jaw. He bent his head, his nose brushing yours, his lips so close you could taste the warmth of his breath. “I swear it,” he whispered, heavy and fierce, as though carving it into stone. “On the heart tree. On the gods. On my soul. I’ll see it done.”
Your lips parted, a small, broken sound escaping you, your forehead pressing harder against his. Your storm calmed just enough to let a smile curve faint and trembling at your mouth.
“Fine. Whatever! I yield!” You snapped
In the corner, Skylar’s hand clutched at the doorway, her eyes shimmering with betrayal, her body faltering back another step. She knew, as did everyone in the chamber: the vow was not for Winterfell, nor for duty. It was for you.
───────── 𐂃 ─────────
Night pressed heavy against Winterfell, the corridors silent, the stones cold beneath torchlight. But in his chambers, under the weight of his furs, there was only warmth — the kind that seemed to swallow you whole.
Cregan lay behind you, his body solid and broad, his arm slung heavy across your waist. His hands could not keep still. They roamed slowly, deliberately, massaging, caressing — up the curve of your hip, over the plane of your stomach, along your thigh where his thumb stroked in idle circles. Every touch was grounding, possessive, as though he meant to remind himself you were not a dream that would vanish with the dawn.
Your breath hitched when his palm slid higher, flattening against your ribs before moving lower again, kneading with a reverence that made your chest ache. His mouth pressed heat into the slope of your neck, your jaw, the shell of your ear, lingering each time as though he couldn’t bring himself to let you go.
“You’ll undo me,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and rough. His lips moved against your shoulder as he spoke, every word spilling warmth across you. “Gods, every time I touch you, every time you say my name… I lose myself.”
Your body softened beneath him, your storm quieting under the weight of his touch. For a while, there was only your breath mingling with his, the scrape of his beard against your cheek, his hands moving in slow circles over your skin like a man learning prayer.
Then his hands stilled, spreading wide at your waist, holding you as though steadying himself. His chest rose heavy against your back. His voice was quieter now, careful, but the words landed with the weight of a vow.
“I dissolved the agreement with Lady Skylar.”
You turned your head slightly, eyes opening, breath caught.
His lips brushed your temple as he continued, his tone firm, storm-grey eyes watching you even in the dark. “She was never mine. I never wanted her. She is soft words and quiet duty, but she was never what I needed.” His fingers traced your jaw, tipping your face so he could press a slow kiss to the corner of your mouth. “She could never hold me the way you do. No one can.”
Your heart thudded wildly. “Cregan—”
He kissed you again, harder this time, swallowing your voice, his hand cupping the back of your neck. When he broke away, his breath was harsh, his forehead pressing to yours.
“I’ve begun to speak with your father,” he whispered. “I’ll not have you as anything less than my wife. Before gods or men, you are mine.”
The words sank into the dark, heavy, irrevocable. Your lips parted, but before you could answer, he kissed you again, deep and desperate, pulling you closer into the furs as though to bind you there. The wolf had chosen — and the storm was caught in his arms.
Summary: Cregan's obsessive love is too much. When he denies your wish to go to Jace's coronation, you take matters into your own hands-- no matter what your husband says.
Warnings: alludes to much smut, unhealthy obsessiveness, manhandling, etc
Winterfell felt dangerous. Hostile. Biting and unruly.
You had tried to please your mother's wishes of staying with Cregan.
And he had provided for you.
You couldn't really hate him. Not truly.
But it wasn't right.
You had asked him if you could attend your brother's coronation at King's Landing.
And he'd told you no.
And when you'd asked why not, he spoke of the dangers that lied outside the walls, waiting for you.
As if you weren't married to danger as well.
He could protect you from anything. He was a force to be reckoned with. One brush of the northerner's calloused hands told you that he had the blood of many staining them.
You felt a hand push the hair away from your shoulder, and cold lips brushing your neck.
"What's on your mind, my love?" His low voice whispers.
You stare at the fire in your shared chambers. The flames dance, warming the front of your body. The rest of you remains cold.
His hand gently pushes the sleeve of your dress over your shoulder. His lips slowly follow.
"Are you still upset with me?" He asks in an almost teasing manner.
When you don't answer, he stands straight again. You can feel the tension build in his shoulders at the thought of your unhappiness. "'S dangerous out there, my girl. I promised your mother I'd protect you."
"And what of my brother? Am I not safe around him?"
He sighs. "The outside world is always dangerous. If something were to happen to you-"
"Please, Cregan."
His eyes harden, boring into your back. "Be good," he reprimands.
He isn't used to being ignored or disobeyed. He doesn't like it.
"Forgive me."
He sighs, and you can feel his breath against your neck. "'S alright. I've been a bit rude. Haven't I?" Lips brush against the skin again. "Not even listening. My sweet girl. Let's forget this, huh?"
You turn in his grip to see him. Your hands brush over his heavy biceps. The muscles tense under your fingertips. His own hands find your waist.
"My brother…" you try one more time in a soft whisper.
His grip tightens.
He leans down, nuzzling his nose against your temple. "Let it go," he warns lowly.
As he kisses your forehead, you decide: You won't let it go.
…
Three days later, you decide you will go to Jace's coronation.
Cregan is leaving himself for King's Landing today. You've decided that you'd show, albeit late, without your husband's knowledge.
He straps his last bag to his horse, brushing its mane with his rough hands.
You stand not far off, arms around yourself to withstand the cold air.
He turns to you and sighs softly. Eyes roam from head to foot.
Guilt eats at you, and you find yourself crossing to close the gap.
He catches you with far too much ease, as if his arms were created to be around you.
You kiss him softly. The scruff almost burns. His love almost burns. But you can't pull away from him.
One hand stays firm on your hip, the other comes to the back of your head, keeping you close.
Cregan's kisses are heavy. Everything about him is calculated and weighs down on his shoulders.
So, to say he doesn't love you would be a complete lie about his very soul.
To kiss the way that he does?
He loves you as much as his mind allows him to.
He pulls away just enough to see you. And a soft breath escapes as he gently smiles. His hand comes to your cheek, thumb brushing the skin. "You'll be good while I am away?"
You nod, pushing down the guilt.
He hesitates, hands pausing. "Yeah?"
Your gut twists. You're sure he can see right through you. But you can't afford to let him. You nod again, more desperately.
He sighs and you're sure something in you died.
His eyes roam your face then soften. "Good girl." He kisses you again, more desperate, more gentle, more soul bearing.
And when he pulls away again, he speaks. "I am an unfair husband. I know how much you wished to go with me. When I return… I will owe you my time. We will do the things you wish to." His hand plays with your hair as he continues, "Horseback rides, picnics, perhaps the market." He says each one slowly like he's trying to grab your attention. Trying to catch a happy glint in your eye. "I may even have tea with your ladies. Think of what you wish. You have much time until I return."
He notices how quiet you've been. He lowers his head to catch your eye sight. "What, my love? Do you wish me to bring something back for you? I know you miss the soft fabrics of the South. Enough for a dress, perhaps? Would that bring you joy?"
You shake your head. "I only want safe travels for my husband."
"None of that," he dismisses. "Tell me what you want, my dear, pretty wife. I will hand you the world if you ask me."
There are days you question his love— how he keeps you cooped in that castle. But then he says such loving things like this. You see how he protects, but also how he obsesses to do so in unhealthy manners.
"I don't need the world," you try again. "But… perhaps those shells from the shore? My brothers and I used to collect them so gently-"
"Shells," he whispers to memory. "I will hunt for the prettiest shells the shores can make."
Even when he is trying his hardest, he still speaks in manners of 'hunting,' as if stealing these shells from the waters to provide for his wife.
You remember when you taught your younger brother Luke to find shells. The different animals that lived in them. There was one he loved so desperately, but he had to let go because of the small hermit crab living in it. It was a hard lesson you had to teach him.
How your small collection you took to Winterfell makes your heart hurt. The shells remind you of your life before the war. Oh, how peaceful your life had been when you were oblivious to the hatred brewing beneath the hearts of Targaryens.
"Thank you, Cregan."
He nuzzles against your temple. "Speak nothing of it. It is a joy to provide the thing your heart longs for."
As you watch him ride away, you see the way he pauses to look back at you one last time.
…
The next day, you'd finished packing. Your guards had been so hesitant to let you do this. But their Lord was nowhere to be found, and their Lady was demanding that she go. They had no choice but to start a small trusted caravan to King's Landing.
You hated riding in the cold. Targaryen blood ran so hot, you felt like the warmth ran off in waves.
You wished your husband had let you go with his own caravan. His cloaks warmed you so well. And the heat from his body always soothed something in you.
He was going to be so angry at you.
The thought hurt.
In time, the familiar air of King's Landing brought tears to your eyes.
You had missed it more than you originally thought.
How the air, the sun, the sky, it all accommodated the dragon blood in the silver haired family that controlled it.
"Lady Stark," your guard called, "Shall I ride ahead to tell the King of your arrival?"
You nod, "but… be subtle. Do not let my husband know. Not… not yet."
You didn't miss the way his eyes flashed with worry.
…
The moment you got to the castle, every guard's eyes caught the familiar silver hair.
Their princess had returned.
Much like your mother, you were this generation's Realm's Delight. The townspeople once gossiped of how the ugly North never deserved you.
"My princess," one of them greeted as they helped you off your horse. "Forgive us. We were not made aware of your arrival."
"And please do not do more on my account," you assure.
"Lord Stark arrived two days ago. Shall I-"
"No! No," you panic. "That's alright. Thank you. Perhaps just take me to one of the spare rooms."
"Yes, Princess."
…
After getting your bags in your room, you finally refreshened and got to relax. Well, as much as your mind would let you.
The soft knock at your door made the panic come right back.
But when it opened, black curly hair was the first thing you saw.
Like when you were children, he barely poked his head in, as if he wasn't the reigning King over all of the Realm. He's just your brother when you're together. His lips pull up in that knowing grin. "Thought I heard of my beloved sister showing her pretty face here."
Relief floods through, and you're racing across the room into his arms.
He catches you and spins you happily.
He's stronger than you remember.
More manly.
The baby fat in his cheeks are gone, replaced by carefully melded cheek bones.
He sets you down. "Why have you not come with Stark?"
He notices everything. That was something you always cursed him for.
He also noticed the twitch in your brow at his question, and it set him on edge. "What has he done?"
"Nothing, brother. Truly."
He huffs. "But something is amiss. A man that will not travel with his wife is not a man at all."
"Jace-"
"No. I will not have you mistreated. Not while I still have breath in my body. And to think, he told-"
"Jace, nothing happened."
He cups both sides of your face as if checking for injuries.
You have to tug his hands down. "I came without his knowledge."
His face falls. "What?"
"He did not want me to come. So… I came by myself. He does not know."
Jace's face contorts to a new emotion entirely. "W- Why would you do that?"
"He was… worried for my safety."
"Perhaps he should be!" He steps back. "Here you are, lying and hiding away from your own husband. He only wished to protect you, and yet-"
"You do not understand it, Jace!" You yell back. "I feel suffocated by him some days. The snow, it packs down and feels so heavy."
He grabs you by your biceps firmly. "Listen to me." He makes sure he has your attention. "Cregan Stark loves you. Fiercely. You have disobeyed your husband. And… while I love you, I must side with him this time."
"W-" The words catch in your throat. "You side with him?"
"Sister," he sighs. "I know he can come across as… brash. Trust me. Please. You should not have come. The war has only just ended a few months ago. And Cregan Stark," his voice lowers. "Cregan Stark won us the war."
"I know that." You began to question yourself. Perhaps it was a mistake.
"Regardless," he sighs. "Come to the feast tonight. Leave in the morning. Please."
…
A few hours pass. Cregan was right in saying that you deeply missed the light fabric of the South.
Jace had found a few of your old dresses and had them brought to you.
The red fabric of this one… you had forgotten how it looked poured on.
You'd missed it so badly.
You imagined how your Lord husband would react. He'd only seen you in heavy materials in the cold air. But now, he was in your territory.
You felt the need to remind him that he married the daughter of the Realm's Delight.
He might be happy. He might be angry. Gods, he might take you to the next room and ravish you.
With your hair braided a traditional Targaryen way, you almost didn't feel like yourself.
It had been so long since you'd looked like this. And you'd grown into much more of a woman since then.
…
You had it all planned out. You would come later in the night. Sneak in. Whatever happens, do not make it a big deal. If Cregan were to notice you, he'd have no choice but not make a scene in front of the others.
But, as always, fate works against you.
It's two hours into the night. Just enough that people are comfortable. Perhaps they'll be drunk.
When the doors open, it's so fast that you can't tell the servant not to announce your presence.
So the door opens, you're announced, and everyone goes silent.
You stand in the doorway, slight panic in your eyes. But you push it down and set your eyes on your brother.
He's seated at the high table, goblet in hand. He grins and takes a long sip.
And, of course, Cregan sits next to him.
You should have known. He's technically part of the royal family now due to the marriage. And the two are such strong friends. Out of everyone in the room (his own wife, Baela, aside), Jace would choose to sit next to your husband.
You take a deep breath and walk calmly into the crowd. They bow their heads as you pass. But your eyes are still set on the high table.
When you near, you pause, waiting for Jace to allow you forward.
He leans forward with that grin you know far too well.
He's tormenting you.
Making you wait.
Making the room sit and wait in silence.
Letting your husband stare at you.
You finally look at Cregan. His hands grip his seat with white knuckles. His eyes don't stray. Don't move. Never waver from you. And though you try, you can't figure out what emotion is more present on his face.
Your brother waves you up, and you take it with hurried steps.
You have two choices: Sit next to your husband with no one on your other side to save you from his wrath. Or move past both him and Jace to sit with Baela and Rhaena.
There was a clear answer.
So you step around the table with the intention of moving past Cregan. But as you even begin to near, he stood and moved behind his own chair.
You don't look at him, but he catches your arm firmly.
"Sit."
He pulls out his own chair for you, setting you next to Jace. He sits next to you. He refills his (now your) wine glass, and puts food on your plate as if he hadn't been using it only moment ago.
"Eat, wife."
Jace tries his hardest not to look at the two of you. But as a curious brother, he struggled. How he loved drama.
You thank your husband quietly and begin to eat, avoiding looking at anything.
The feast continues as before. Lively voices and music.
His hand finds your thigh. His pinkie brushes the inside of your thigh and you have to keep your thoughts to yourself.
And still, you can't decide what emotion is more prominent in his face.
Jace only speaks with Baela, avoiding you completely. Perhaps he didn't wish to get in trouble with the northerner either.
You couldn't say that you blame him.
…
The night progresses, albeit awkward between you and your husband. He's been quiet. It's a bit unnerving.
Sometimes his hand tightens on your thigh, reminding you of the tension you shared. A silent reminder not to run.
Finally, he leans in towards your chair. He brushes the braid away from your neck so he can admire the skin there. His nose brushes your jaw as he tilts his head up so speak directly in your ear.
"Do not tell me you won't dance with me?"
He hates dancing.
There's something up his sleeve.
He doesn't lean away, but his hand extend out in front of yours.
His large hand.
You accept it with your own nimble one.
He stares down, thumb running over your wedding ring.
And with that, he stands and leads you to the floor.
With him in front of you, you can truly admire him.
He's handsome in the North. You know that. But heavy cloaks hide just how muscular he is.
Seeing him like this reminds you of the way your hand brushes down his arms when you're making love.
And he knows it. The fucking smirk he has on his face right now.
Each brush of your hands feel like the biting chill of his home. Like stepping into a cold bath.
And for being so large and formidable, he's surprisingly graceful in a dance.
You knew his mother had taught him when he was young. Before she'd passed.
So each step comes to him so naturally it's almost sickening.
He grabs your hand roughly now and spins you into him. Your back collides with his chest harder than the other moves before. And when you try to move on, a hand anchors to your waist.
The others continue, but the two of you remain this way for a moment. You can feel the heavy breaths against your back.
"My girl," he whispers. "What are you doing here?"
His free hand starts at your shoulder then unapologetically runs down the exposed skin of your chest, between your clothed breasts and down your stomach, stopping just at the line of inappropriate.
He hears the small whimper escape your throat and he knows he's won.
So his hand slithers to your arm, spinning you back out and catching up with the other dancers as if nothing happened.
There's a flush to your cheeks. A heat that's buried deep in your stomach that you didn't plan on having tonight.
All you can think about is the way his hips roll so perfectly when the two of you are alone-
"Do you need some fresh air, my princess?" He grins. "You look unwell."
Without an answer, he guides you away from the feast. It's almost daunting the way the large doors close behind the two of you.
He takes you out to the gardens. The moon has come up by now, lighting the path through the flowers.
It's not far before he grabs you.
"Do I have to fuck some sense into you?" He questions, far too serious to be a tease anymore. "Is that what it will take?"
As much as you'd like to accept, he's at his wits end and you're beginning to grow upset yourself. So, you push down the growing heat and try to replace it with anger. "I would happily take a fucking if it got you to, for once, pay attention to my needs!"
"Your needs?" He questions. He scoffs, letting you go dramatically. "I have met them all enthusiastically! You think I simply do not care?"
"Then why could I not come here?" You throw off your anger as a laugh. "What needs of your own were so important that I could not come along to see my own family? If you wanted to fuck a whore in King's Landing like the other husbands, do not hide that."
He's quiet, eyes trained on you like you just said something worth executing for. He doesn't even breathe. Only stares. "You think," he words slowly, taking a step forward, "that I barred you from coming here because I want to be unfaithful?"
"W-" you find yourself pausing for a second but decide the words aren't worth thinking anymore on. "What else could the reason be?"
"I do not tolerate keeping secrets," he whispers. "In any regard. I do not lie to you. And I hope that you do not lie to me. Perhaps I was wrong."
You scoff. "You do not lie? Then perhaps you do not say the entire truth because I not only live in a castle that does not see the sun, but you keep me in the dark!" You step back, noting the water now in your lash line. "You do not tell me anything! Am I too slow? Perhaps my pretty little head cannot keep up with your manly plans o-"
"Quiet," he growls, gripping your jaw.
Then you two stare.
He's quite handsome in the moonlight.
It shines off his cheekbones in such a pretty manner.
"You are an intelligent woman. Pretty. And with far too much spirit in you. You are determined," he says, "and I admire it of you." He takes a breath. "But it is something I worry of as well."
For all the words you had before, your mind is empty now.
"I will never tame your dragon blood. It can be breathtaking in its fullness. But there are things you still do not understand. And you must listen to me."
"I want to understand."
"I know you do." He takes your hands, cupping them against his heart. "And I am beginning to see that not telling you may have been a mistake. But worrying you with matters out of your own hands felt cruel."
You lean into him, fluttering your lashes in hopes of softening him. "Why have you hid me away, Lord Stark?"
He exhales lowly at the use of his title. Your plan works.
He frees one of his hands, tipping your chin up and kissing you softer than he ever has before.
Without embarrassment, you give in, moaning at the genuine kindness and passion in his gesture.
He continues, peppering soft kisses down the side of your chin and across your jaw to your ear. He takes his time to get there, enjoying the way you react to his stubble scraping your skin.
Once at your ear, he tips your head to the side to give him full access. Which you happily oblige.
"Can you imagine," he whispers, "having your one weakness exposed so openly?"
He bites at your earlobe, his hand now moving down your neck. Your heart races.
"I just won your brother a war, pretty girl. Do you know how many enemies I have?"
His palm rests over the pulse in your neck. You feel like prey to a fierce predator.
The Wolf of the North.
"Imagine a body. A perfect body. It can hunt. It can move. It wields a sword. It rides horses. It leads armies and it rules with an iron hand."
His hand moves lower, resting over your heart. The fingers twitch. You've now realized his other hand has found a firm place around your waist.
"Now imagine that same body. But its ribs have been plucked out and its vital organs remain exposed for even the dullest of swords to penetrate."
The hand wanders back up to your jaw. He tilts your head to nuzzle against your pulse with his nose. "I would almost call you vile for the way you expose my heart."
The sharp hairs on his face scrape, then a kiss is left behind. It's a sickening cycle down your neck to its connection of your shoulder.
"I worship you, my girl," he pants against your skin. "How have you not realized that?"
You whimper at his words.
He nips at a sensitive spot, but the grip on your waist and jaw keeps you from pulling away.
"Be good," he whispers.
…
You return to the feast a little while later, looking far too disheveled to pass as acceptable.
But there's a light in your eyes that can't be mistaken for anything but pride.
Even if there's a slight limp in your step.
Cregan, the ever protective dog stands behind you, hands brushing your waist just enough to relight the flame deep within you.
You both try to ignore the shit eating grin on Jace's face.
…
When the two of you return to Winterfell, you find seashells that he has somehow had time to place for you before you noticed.
The four prettiest shells you've ever seen, followed by a note in his sloppy handwriting:
I would have a fifth for you, but there was a particular crab that would not let it go. Cannot say I blame him. I am rather hesitant to expose the weak parts of myself as well.
All is not fair in love and war. But perhaps I should be more fair in love.
You are my beloved wife. And my heart burns for no other.
Your Cregan
Cregan Stark, who is planning to propose to the woman he's been courting, stands in front of her father and the two hash out the details of the wedding.
The woman in question has no idea that they're even courting.
Cregan never asked to court her, per se-- he's a man of action, not words-- and he just assumes she understood that they were together. The many gifts, the quality time spent together, the attention to little details others wouldn't notice; all showcased what Cregan believed was a large declaration of love.
One of her handmaidens overhears the conversation between Cregan and her father and brings it up while helping her dress. "What color will your dress be?" is what she opens with.
Every day I handle more money than I will ever make. Every day.
At the start of my employment, my boss showed me videos of people stealing, and we both had a chuckle about it. How silly they were! There was a camera overhead, and it’s not to watch the shoppers. See, we can’t actually stop shoplifters. They get away with it maybe nine out of ten times. But we, who are watched and tallied and witnessed? We are always caught.
At first it was hard to hold one hundred dollars bills. An amount I had never seen before. An amount that didn’t exist in my household. It’s normal now. Here is something that is not for me.
“What the hell, I’ll take another,” says the man, pondering our 200 dollar watches. What the hell. Total comes to 580 and not even a flinch in his face. I have been working for 11 hours today and made only 110 dollars. It will go to my rent. Today I work for free, it feels. When I get my check, I will have 35 dollars left for food and saving.
The six hundreds he hands me go into the cash register. For a moment, I imagine having money. Then I put it away, counting out his change.
I know for a fact we sell our products for double what they are worth. That I could be making commission. That they could hand me those 580 dollars and change my life and not even mark the difference in their checkbooks. He’s not the only sale they make today, but I am the reason they made it. He’s not the only one spending 600 dollars, but if I hadn’t spent two hours with him telling me about his life, he wouldn’t have spent any. I go home. I don’t own a watch.
I have watched and rewatched a video on how to make salmon four ways. My shopping list is always the same. Pasta. Rice. Tuna. If I can afford butter it was a good week. I dream of the world I will never walk in, where I can throw the best fish fillet in the cart with a shrug. I hold hundreds in my hand and look up at the camera. I put them under the cash drawer.
I go to work. I scrap together my savings. I eat my bowl of rice slowly. My manager takes a paid week off from work just for his birthday. He owns a yacht.
i wrote this while i was working at orlando’s walt disney world parks.
i was part of their college program. i moved to the state for it. they legally owned the building i was living in and still charged me rent. i ostensibly was being charged to work for them. it was a 2 bedroom apartment and they placed 6 adult women in it in forced triples.
as many as one in ten disney employees have experienced homelessness while working for the company. despite huge efforts to unionize, strike, or otherwise demand fair treatment; disney has refused to increase employee quality of life.
disney admits publicly that a good portion of their success is because the employees (“cast members”) are dedicated, passionate, and selfless. this is never reflected in pay. even “face” characters (ie those that are princesses etc) make barely above a minimum wage.
at the time that i worked there, i made $8.50 an hour. at one point i was asked to create a human shield around a bag because a bomb dog had alerted to it. for eight fucking dollars an hour.
i now work a very cushy office job. i have bought the salmon and cooked it all four ways.
i go to the store. i am nice to the person behind the counter. she looks up at the camera while she counts out my change. there is nothing fundamentally different about her and i.
~{Ser Duncan the Tall x Traveling Companion!Reader}~
author’s note: short traveling companion reader x dunk lolzzz it’s the only fic ive been able to finish in a while i’m low on inspiration
plot description: after traveling with Dunk so long, you’d think that he’d want to return your friendship. But the man will hardly talk to you, and you begin to wonder if the foolish knight even wants you around at all.
warnings: none, lil suggestive as always
word count: ~1,600
enjoy!
Silence with Duncan was easy and familiar. Sitting across the fire, taking turns sparing glances at the other, that was the language you two communicated in.
Ever since he and Ser Arlan had found you alone on the road and let you join their party, Dunk had always been reserved in his interactions with you. Polite, impersonal greetings and necessary dialogue. You reasoned that he felt awkward around women, or found you difficult to converse with. But as the years passed and he still seemed to find no peace in your presence, you believed him to despise you for intruding upon his life. Perhaps his silence was a punishment, and he resented you. Nevertheless, Duncan never said a mean word, so you supposed his sullenness should be a relief if hatred was really what he felt for you.
Sometimes, when you caught his eyes on you, the softness made you think that it wasn’t hatred. When he gave you the larger portion at supper, or mended your cloak without request, or looked after you on nights when Arlan went to the brothel. Maybe he just couldn’t figure you out. After so long, perhaps he simply didn’t want to, because despite these small kindnesses, he never engaged with you beyond pleasantries.
His impassivity was exacerbated by fact that you were harboring an unfortunate crush on him, but how could you help it when the man was gentle and good and soft-spoken?
When Arlan passed, you were terrified that Dunk would leave you, but he said nothing to indicate he wanted you gone. Ashford nearly killed him, which made you eager to get on the road again. Even though you were unsure how the knight felt about you, the prospect of losing him had terrified you. When he lay recovering, you hardly left his side. He still said nothing; but he’d watched you through a swollen eye, and never asked you to leave, nor did he pull away when you held his hand for comfort.
Finally, a new trio rode out on Chestnut and Thunder, you sharing a saddle with Egg. Having someone to converse with was a welcome change, and Egg had plenty of knowledge of Westeros to keep you entertained on long days of riding. Duncan often listened in, sometimes chiming in. Something about the boy eased the quiet that had always settled between the two of you.
The three of you set camp upon a hill overlooking a nearby town, and Dunk had allowed Egg to go off and play with the children in the village, with the promise that he’d return before sunset. Watching him run off excitedly, you’d turned towards Dunk.
“He really brightens things, doesn’t he?” you inquired. Duncan had pressed his lips together in a thin line, humming in response.
Your heart had tugged with the realization that he still wouldn’t engage with you. The disappointment simmered as he moved to tend to the fire absently, and his nonchalance caused the sensation in your stomach to bubble with a vengeance until you were storming after him. You yanked the stick from his hand that he used to poke the coals and pointed it at him accusingly.
“I’ve been perfectly helpful and pleasant for all these years I’ve traveled with you,” you seethed, “and yet you snub me at every opportunity. If you find me so insufferable, I might as well just branch off here and leave you to enjoy conversation with Egg, since you won’t have one with me.”
With that, you stomped off, barely gathering the courage to look him in the eye as you blew past him. His brow was furrowed in what looked like fear, or confusion. It didn’t matter to you.
Down by the river you tried to cool off by pacing along the bank, muttering to yourself angrily. How could he still refuse your friendship after so many years of trust built between you? It had you wondering what could possibly be wrong with you that made him hate you. Still holding the stick from earlier, you poked at the soft mud beneath your feet. The rustling of leaves signaled the emergence of Duncan from the woods a few minutes later, and he approached you.
“I don’t want to talk now,” you huffed, refusing to meet his gaze. You looked across the water, but could feel his presence a few feet behind you. The warmth of his body shielded you from the late afternoon breeze.
“Aye, I know, so just let me talk.” he requested. You heard the man take a breath and murmur out a curse before beginning. “I’ve been a fool. A cowardly fool. All these years, I never found the courage to say it, and so I said nothing. It’s on the tip of my tongue whenever I speak to you, and so it’s easier… it’s better to say nothing. Fuck, I didn’t want to ruin anything. But now I’ve gone and ruined it anyways.”
You listened to his words carefully, turning slowly so that you could read his expression. He was finally looking you in the eye. Cerulean pools searched yours for a reaction. His chest was heaving with effort, or fear, or something of the like. But certainly not hatred. Now that you looked at him, he stepped closer. Closer than he’d ever willingly come to you, unless he was helping you from your mount.
“I want to speak to you, more than anything, only I cannot without risking telling you how I feel. And I’ve been afraid. But I am more afraid of losing you.”
You stared at him, a challenge. He accepted willingly, reaching out to grasp your hand. After so long holding back, he couldn’t help but tremble at the contact.
“Why have you been afraid of me?” You needed him to say it, out loud.
“Because every time I open my mouth around you, I chance spewing out how I want you to come closer.” he blurted, “be near me. I want to hear you laugh — I want to be the cause of it.”
“You’ve done a piss-poor job of making an effort to jest with me.” you bit back. And yet, you obliged his request for you to be nearer, and leaned into the warmth of his towering figure.
He laughed at that, an exhale of slight relief as he felt you squeeze his hand, an encouraging gesture that softened his shaking. “I feared you’d never return my affections so I stayed quiet.” he admitted earnestly. “But… I cannot have you interpret my silence as indifference. That is the furthest thing I feel for you.”
“Then what do you feel for me? I want you to tell me. I deserve that.” you urged him.
His jaw tightened. “It’ll change things.”
“Duncan.” you begged. He pulled your hands, enclosed in his giant ones, towards his lips.
“I love you,” he murmured, whispering the ghost of a kiss into your knuckles. “Gods, I love you. Every day I wish you were mine to hold, but I couldn’t imagine a world where I was worthy of ye. So I stayed quiet. I’m sorry for that, I’m sorry for the misery I’ve caused.” He searched your eyes. “Please forgive me. Please. I’ll be yours however you want me, even if it’s to be your manservant.”
“My manservant.” you said blankly. He flushed, thinking he’d gone too far. Until finally, finally, the smile he constantly sought to catch sight of crossed your lips. “I’ve never had one of those.”
“I’ll wash your clothes, and cook your meals, and protect you from harm.” he promised shyly.
“You already do those things, Dunk.”
“Well then… suppose I already am your manservant,” he pondered, the grin on your face emboldening him to push further into your space, enclosing you in his massive arms. “Maybe it’s time we became something else.”
“Have something else in mind?” you tugged at his shirt, pulling him towards your lips.
“I’ll be yours. I’m already yours. And if you want to be mine…”
“I’m already yours too, Duncan.” you swore, blinking at him expectantly. The way you pressed into his chest on the tips of your toes was enough permission for the man. His fingertips grazed up your spine and tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head up properly. His hands were so large and warm, cupping around your entire head, encompassing your in a delicate hold that felt so right.
When Dunk’s lips finally closed over yours, the kiss came suddenly, like he couldn’t hold himself back any longer, thumbs stroking the apples of your cheek fondly. In your dreams, you’d imagined him to be timid — the reality was that he moved with practiced care, so tenderly did he find the seam of your lips waiting to be opened by his tongue. His boldness made you gasp and he hastily pulled away.
“Too much?” He apologized, examining your flushed face with concern. You shook your head and surged upward, throwing your arms around his thick neck. It was his turn to grunt with surprise as your weight fell into him, although he caught it without effort. His arms found the crook of your waist and lifted you with ease, allowing the kiss to deepen. Instinctively, your legs encircled his back to draw him closer. Duncan was slower to pull away this time, but he eventually sought air. “We ought to have enough to talk about now that we’ve cleared the air,” he smiled at you, pecking your lips a few more times. “Do you think?”
“I think I’m still a bit angry at you,” you teased, licking at his jaw. “I’m still not sure I want to talk.” Duncan suppressed a groan as you pressed yourself even closer against his body.
“Aye, I was never so good with words anyhow.” You took a moment to look at the way his eyes sparkled with a new emotion you’d never seen him show so freely. He watched you examine him and raised a brow, grinning contentedly. “Enjoying the view?”
“Just kiss me, foolish knight."
Your knight wasn’t foolish enough to refuse that order.
summary: ...aemond realizes he’s fallen in love with his handmaid five months later as he stands outside his bedchamber.
warnings: explicit language. aemond's kinda horny but mainly a lovesick dude. steamy makeout session towards the end??
notes: welcome back to another short episode of "aemond targaryen being a total fucking simp for his handmaid bc vic is too damn obsessed with this pairing."
his handmaid's tales | main masterlist
Aemond realizes he’s fallen in love with his handmaid five months later as he stands outside his bedchamber.
Through the doors comes your soft voice from the inside, feminine and melodious, absolutely beautiful to him. It’s muffled by the thick walls, but he can hear the verse you sing to yourself. I loved a maid as fair as summer, he chants along in his head, with sunlight in her hair...
He sneaks a peek inside the room. You sit on the settee, crossed at the knee like a highborn lady, with an eyepatch in one hand and a thread and needle in the other. Aemond recognizes that one eyepatch at first glance. The sight tugs at his heartstrings. It was a favorite of his, a rare gift from his father on his thirteenth nameday. Viserys had his name embroidered along the inside in pretty cursive.
Aemond One-Eye.
Viserys’s smile was as brilliant and big as the blue summer sea. My boy…three-and-ten. How you’ve grown so fast before my very eyes.
But the eyepatch grew too small for him as the years passed, and he hid it away, never wishing to see it again. His father now was nothing more than a half-decaying corpse still sitting the throne in pure mulishness, who hadn’t muttered his second son’s name in two long years. He doesn’t know how you found it, nor does he feel any slight bit of bother.
“I loved a maid as red as autumn, with sunset in her hair,” you hum next, turning the eyepatch around to thread the loop. Your feet are bare, pretty hair tousled, and the servant’s robe does little to veil your blinding beauty. His gaze focuses on your face. Your lips look pink and plump- ripe for him to kiss and bite and swallow in all the endless kisses he yearns to give you, and your eyes twinkle as bright as the midday sunlight.
I love a maiden as beautiful as all the seasons.
“I love a maiden as white as winter, with moonglow in her hair-”
He strolls into his bedchamber, striking you off guard, your singing breaking off abruptly. “My prince!” you exclaim, bolting up to slip your feet back into your shoes. “Oh, my sincerest apologies, my prince. I was told you would be gone for the better part of the day.” Amid your babbling, you drop the needle and thread onto the floor, “is there anything you need from me?”
He wanted to laugh.
“I had no notion that you had such a…lovely voice,” Aemond instead tells you, lacing his hands together behind his back. The compliment widens your eyes, and he hears how your breath hitches in your throat. You resemble a fairytale maiden, doe-eyed and flustered at the sight of her wooer. “I’m very sorry, my prince….”
“Do you sing a lot?”
You bite your lip, and it causes his cock to stir within his pants. No, no, stop that at once, he wishes to say aloud. Only I should be allowed to bite your luscious lips like that. All mine. “My mother sang to me as a little girl,” you admit, braving a faint smile up at him. “Sometimes, when I’m missing her, I sing. Perhaps it sounds a bit silly…but it makes me feel as if she is in the room with me.”
Aemond hums, nodding his head. He then looks down at the eyepatch within your hands, raising an eyebrow. “Pray tell where you found my old eyepatch. I swore I hid it well all those years ago…” and he hopes you catch the thin amusement in his tone.
“Oh…” you fall silent, unsure what to say next. “I was tidying up your desk and bookcase, my prince…I opened a drawer, I believe it was the second to last one to the left of the desk, and I found it there….” you glance at the eyepatch, running a finger over the black cloth patch, “-I thought, perhaps, it would be a nice surprise if I extended the straps so that you could wear it once again. It is very pretty!”
You hold it out for him to take. “Would you like to try it on? Just for me to check if I need to loosen it up some more.”
Aemond stiffens. “Perhaps later,” he says, a bit sullenly. “I do not like to take off my patch when others are still around. I’ve found that my missing eye is quite the…dreadful sight to many.” He clenches his jaw so tight he wonders if his teeth might shatter. But you just shake your head.
“My prince, believe me when I say that no such thing would ever terrify me.” Aemond could hear his brother snigger in the back of his mind, and he shifted uneasily. “I’m your handmaid. Please trust every word I tell you.” He remembers the cool night under the stars when he claimed Vhagar for himself, gazing out into the darkened sand dunes where she slept. Your smile is the warmth he needed.
He tilts his head, searching for any sign of deceit amongst your features. Gods, but you’re too damn beautiful for your own good, he thinks as he sighs and slides the patch from off his face.
Do not dare mock me…flinch…or run away…
But you just stare up at him, studying the dark sapphire he’s stuffed inside his missing socket. The skin stretched around it is rather uneven and tender and pinkish, and his healed scar cuts through his eyebrow. “May I, my prince?” you ask. He nods, and you gently trace the scar with your fingertip, up and down. Your touch is soft, and delicate, sending a shiver up his spine.
“You did not deserve this, believe me when I say that,” you whisper, and he feels your hot breath, “—you were just a boy….”
Gods be good, no one has ever told Aemond those words before. He does not know what to say, remaining silent and still.
Then, without warning, you stand on your tippy toes to kiss his cheek, your eyes shutting as your soft lips press against his skin.
I love a maiden as beautiful as all the seasons.
“You are still handsome and strong and worthy, my prince,” you mumble, stroking his cheek, a smile flickering across your pink…plump…luscious lips and Aemond…
…Aemond pulls you flush against his chest, swathing an arm tight around your waist as the other tangles his fingers through your hair, his mouth slamming down on yours in a heavy and wet kiss that leaves your knees buckling beneath you. Kiss her. Take her. Make her yours. Your arms fly up to his neck as you sink into his grasp.
“She is yours. Your handmaid. Everything she does next is at your own will and mercy…but do treat her well, Aemond…it is through kindheartedness that you receive devotion.”
And he lays a kiss on your lips, and another, and another…and with them all, Aemond swears himself a man obsessed and blinded by love. He knows he will not survive this miserable, torturous life without you by his side. You, his precious handmaid- his maiden as beautiful as all the seasons.
By the time he lets you go, you’re breathless and dizzy and as giddy as a young girl. He gives you only a few more seconds before he kisses you again, flinging you onto his bed. “My prince…!” you cry out, bouncing as he begins to chuckle, swallowing the rest of your words in his mouth. “Oh, this is improper,” you gasp, toes curling as he pulls at your bottom lip, “it’s so….gods, it’s so wrong…I need to…I need…”
“Shhh,” he answers, kissing your nose and chin, and temple before your lips again. “You don’t leave this room unless I dismiss you, remember?”
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Summary: After getting approached by one of Blackfyre's loyal henchmen, you are set out to end the Targaryen line in turn of a place at court. You start with the young prince Aerion Targaryen, but things take a turn when you realise his true obsession and feelings towards you.
Warnings: NSFW, 18+, manipulation, toxic relationships, tension, strong language, obsession, Aerion Targaryen is his own warning, descriptions of violence and gore, MDNI!
werewolf!Soap has gotten robbed by a one night stand.
you were desperate. short on rent because your siblings couldn’t be bothered to return the money they borrowed from you after you’d been pressured by your parents to just give them what they wanted.
so you got creative and got busy. the bar was your usual place to strike. you went after the loud and boisterous fucker with the bad haircut after he’d declared that drinks were on him at his table for the night.
it was Soap’s own fault, really, for bringing you to his place. he was a good lay, which was a bonus. enthusiastic, a little too passionate. you hated how soft his eyes were when he pinned your hands above your head and made a point to set a slower pace, hated how praises seem to tumble out of his mouth when he trailed his lips down your skin before he littered you with bites and nips. his chest rumbling with something sickly sweet as he nuzzles his cheek against your neck and inhaled thickly as if he’s trying to breathe you in.
you didn’t sign up to be worshiped. didn’t sign up to be revered by a complete stranger. one you planned to steal from anyway, yet here you were. trapped under him as he pushed you over the edge again and again while your nailed raked down his arms.
he was eager to please too. eager to eat your pussy before and after he stuffed you full of cum. you went the extra mile to ride him to tears for good measure and he returned the favour by folding you in half and fucked you till the neighbours called and complained to keep the noise down.
but slept like a log right after. you almost did too with how much he wore you out but you forced yourself to stay away and pry yourself out of his heavy arms. which gave you the perfect opportunity to take what you want from him.
you struck gold that night. found a fat wad of cash in his wallet and a couple of expensive watches on his night stand which were worth a fortune.
you cast one long look at his sleeping frame. handsome motherfucker, this one. burly arms with a big hairy chest and legs to match. your fingers traced the faint, jagged line running along the side of his head to his chipped ear.
part of you wished this could’ve lasted longer. part of you wished you met him under different circumstances. but alas, life goes on. this would be the last you saw of him and he’d be glad to be rid of you.
or so you thought.
not even half a week lapses before you heard a knock at your front door. your blood ran cold when you opened it to find Soap’s familiar grin flashing vividly before he pushes his way in and pins you down, clasping a hand over your mouth before you can even think to call for help.
“there ye are, little thief.” he heaves over you as you squirm helplessly under him. “yer scent was far too easy tae find, lass.”
it’s not just that he’s heavy. he’s strong too. much stronger than you’d like him to be. you’re reminded of how he’d used that strength a two days ago to mold you to his bed without much of an effort.
you attempt, through tears, to mumble apologies under his palm. your hands try to push him away, to crawl out from under him. but he won’t budge and he won’t let you go anywhere.
just like last you saw of him, you’re trapped under him.
“not here fer that, sweet thing.” he pants into your neck. “i came tae finish what we started.”
it’s only then that you feel his cock pressed against your thigh. his hands pawing over the layers of your clothes and slipping underneath.
it’s only then that you realized that robbing him wasn’t your first, nor worst mistake.
willingly throwing yourself his way like a lamb to slaughter was.
“Jon,” Maester Aemon started, “did you ever wonder why the men of the Night’s Watch take no children?”
Jon grumbled. Here goes Maester Aemon with another one of his stories, “No.”
Aemon laughed, as if the answer was obvious, “So they will not love. Love is the bane of honor, the death of duty. What is honor compared to a woman’s love? What is duty against the feel of a newborn son…or the memory of a brother’s smile?” Aemon went on, “Wind and words. We are only human, Jon Snow. The Gods fashioned us for love, that is our great glory. Our great tragedy.”
“What do you know about a woman’s love?” asked Jon, “You’ve sat up here in the cold all your life.”
“You think…I did not love before joining the Night’s Watch?” Aemon laughed, “No, Jon. I loved, but it was quiet, unrequited. For she had been grieving my brother. Oh, yes. I was there with her, through it all. Until she left.”
“Aegon’s wife?”
“No, Aerion’s.”
Jon nodded, trying to think about who Aerion is. Then he remembered, he was the one who drank the fire. The Brightflame.
Maester Aemon closed his blind eyes, “Yes, she was kind, Jon. Kind and beautiful, and the most peculiar of hair. Hightower, she was—no…my mistake. Tyrell, she was. Yes, but she had hair like her father, but among the brown were chunks of Targaryen. She was a bastard, Jon Snow.”
Now Jon was intrigued, “A bastard?”
Aemon nodded, “And wild-wildfire eyes, my brother would say,” he said, although he hesitated on the word wildfire.
“How does a bastard go about marrying royalty?”
“We did not know for certain,” said Aemon, “Her father kept it well hidden, if not for her hair, and the fire that lived within. My father naturalized her.”
“But, you could not love her, Maester…she was already your brothers,” Jon guessed correctly, “And duty had bound you here, already?”
“Only to the Citadel, but yes,” said Aemon, “Aerion was cruel, especially to her. Still, he loved her fiercely. More fiercely than I, or anyone else ever could. Her the same to him. She kept his heart, even. Peculiar, how it survived that tragedy. When she left, the final time I ever saw her, she gave me a piece of counsel…” Aemon started, “Which I bestowed upon my brother, before I departed for Castle Black and he the Iron Throne. A man grown, he was, with sons of his own, yet in someways still a boy.”
Aemon continued, “Aegon had a sweetness to him, an innocence we all loved. Kill the boy within you, I told him, the day I took the ship for The Wall. It takes a man to rule, an Aegon, not Egg. Y/N knew it, too. You are half the age Aegon and Y/N were, yet your own burden is crueler. You will have very little joy over your command, but you have the strength within you to do your duty. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is coming, kill the boy and let the man be born.”
Maester Aemon’s words only made Jon want to leave more. He wanted to go fight alongside Robb, to march South with him onto King’s Landing, and save his sister from Joffery’s grasp.
King’s Landing - The Gardens
“No, you mustn’t marry him,” Sansa pleaded. “You mustn’t! He’s not like what he seems, I promise you he’s not. He’ll hurt you.”
Sansa’s eyes filled with tears as she pleaded to Margaery. She didn’t want to see Joffery ruin yet another girl, like he had done to her.
Margaery only smiled, soft and beautiful. She reached across the table, and held Sansa’s hands in her own, “I shouldn’t think so. It’s brave of you to warn me, but you need not fear. Joff’s spoiled and vain and I don’t doubt cruel as you say, but Father forced him to name Loras to the Kingsguard, so he would agree to the match. Besides, Tyrell’s have suffered worse fates than King Joffery, and conquered. Has anyone ever told you about Prince Aerion and Lady Y/N Tyrell?”
Sansa shook her head, she knew Aerion as the Prince who thought he was a dragon, and Y/N as the beautiful Queen the People named, although she was only actually Queen for a few minutes. “I do not recall much, My Lady.”
“Lady Y/N married Prince Aerion, at the will of their fathers. Aerion was cruel. A certain strain of it much worse than you or I could ever be dealt by Joffery. He killed her father,” Margaery said, “The Tourney at Ashford Meadow, he challenged her father and struck his lance through his horse. The horse fell atop him, and crushed him, and he died from his injuries. He was a Prince, he could get away with anything. Do you know how Lady Y/N persevered, through all those years and seven children with the man that murdered her father?”
Sansa looked at her expectantly, touched by Lady Y/N’s story, somehow so similar to her own, “How?”
Margaery continued the tale, “Y/N played Aerion, like an absolute fool. She redirected his anger, and if that didn’t work, she warmed his bed. They call her The Siren of The South, The Queen of The People, but really, she was a Dragontamer. I intend to be a Liontamer,” Margaery giggled.
Sansa giggled, too. “Didn’t they love each other, though?”
“Not for a while. It was only after she consumed his every thought they truly loved. Y/N followed him down to the sound of her voice, and it haunted Aerion,” Margaery recalled, “He never got away from the sound.”
“How do you know all of this?” Sansa asked.
“She’s my great-grandmother,” Margaery said, “She was still alive in my youth. You’d never know it, though. Y/N always kept to herself, and only wore black and red. But some nights, she’d find her strength again. She’d wear a white gown and go out to the rose fields, and look at the stars.”
Sansa thought for a moment, and a smile—the first one on a while—happened upon her face. Maybe there was some good in this world, and the world might just be smaller than what she thought. If Lady Margaery’s great-grandmother is Lady Y/N, that would make Margaery’s cousin…
The Battle of Whispering Wood - Afterword
“My Lady,” Theon spoke to Lady Catelyn, “The Realm has not seen such a victory since The Battle on the Mander, or The Field of Fire. I vow, for every man we lost the Lannisters lost ten.”
“The Battle on the Mander was a much more decisive victory,” Catelyn said, although almost all of the Lannister forces had been killed or captured—including Ser Jamie. “Did your mother tell you of it?”
“She did,” Theon said, “Although she was only a small girl, then. They left her at the castle, with her siblings, while her father fought in the vanguard and her mother shot the arrows.”
Catelyn nodded, remembering the stories of Y/N Tyrell, and how she proved to be a strong ruler, despite her sex or circumstances. She hoped Robb to be the same, when they go home from all this fighting and he takes his father’s seat as Warden of the North.
“Did you ever meet your grandmother, Theon?”
“Once,” he said, “My mother brought us to Highgarden, at her request. I was small then, but I remember. I remember the smell of the roses, the sun on my skin, and how at the bottom of The Mander, pieces of Bittersteel’s ship still sat. It reminded me of home,” Theon said, “You can still see pieces of the burnt ports in the shallow parts of the water, from the Burning of Pyke.”
Catelyn nodded, remembering stories of that battle. Lady Y/N had the idea to use wildfire in battle, a favorite tactic of hers which brought her great success, but also her downfall.
“I remember Old Nan telling stories of that,” Robb breathed, tired from battle. “How Y/N used the wildfire. If we had any casks of it, I would have burnt the whole forrest to a crisp,” Robb said, “But I would risk my men. I don’t want them to meet the same fate her husband did, the Brightflame.”
Hello🫶🏻 can I request a piece on Daeron? Like I'd like a little think piece maybe from someone else's pov ( Maekar's? Baelor's? Maekar's second wife? Queen Myrah's?) about how Daeron marrying has changed him somehow for the better? Obvs he has his dreams still but how having someone has made an impact on his life.
Thanks. ☀️
- A CHANGE,
maekar starts to notice changes in his eldest son, and who to thank for them.
CW: none, just some sweet fluff + lil sad moments, but not enough to be labelled angst, maekar loving his family.
WC: 2.5k
for more view my masterlist!
i actually love writing for daeron, might write some modern!daeron soon.
request me here!
Maekar has never seen his son like this. Not once - not in boyhood, not in the long, strained years that followed, not even in those softer, young days when his mother still lived and the halls had not taken on that hollow, echoing quality they bear now.
There had been, once, a liveliness to the boy, something quick and restless beneath the skin, though even then it had not settled into anything that resembled discipline. What stands before him now, or rather what moves through Summerhall with a steadiness that does not draw attention, is something altered in a manner Maekar would not have believed possible had he not witnessed it with his own eyes.
Since meeting you, three summers ago, his son has tidied himself in ways that go beyond mere appearance, though that too has changed. The disarray that once clung to him - the unfastened collar, the hair left too long and poorly kept, the faint, ever-present scent of wine - has been stripped away piece by piece. It was not done all at once, but gradually, in increments so small they might have gone unnoticed had Maekar not been the sort of man who notices everything and remarks on very little.
He no longer drinks as he once did. The cups that used to follow him, one into the next without pause, have been set aside. In their place, he now insists upon a vial of dreamwine each night. It is a compromise, and Maekar sees it plainly for what it is. The dreams have not left him - they will never leave him - but the dreamwine binds him to sleep in a way that spares him the wandering hours, the pacing, the restless stirring that once carried him through the corridors like a ghost that had forgotten its grave. There is something almost clinical in the way he has taken to it, like he has made a study of his own affliction and settled upon the least ruinous method of enduring it.
He no longer whores around. That, too, is not a thing that he announces, but the absence of whispers travels just as swiftly as their presence. The servants speak less of him now, and when they do, it is with a different tone - cautious, uncertain, as though they are not yet certain what he has become.
And he is no longer lazy.
That, more than anything, had been the greater disappointment. Not the drinking, not the reputation, but the lack of will. Maekar had watched it with a mounting irritation that settled, over time, into something colder. A prince may be flawed. A prince may even be broken in certain, quiet ways. But a prince who does not rise at all is of no use to anyone.
Yet now he has stood up. He attends where he must. He listens. He answers when spoken to, and at times, though rarely, he speaks first. There is an honour in it that had not been there before, or perhaps had been buried too deeply to be seen.
He has become, in the most unassuming sense, the heir Maekar had once needed and long since ceased expecting.
He is still considerably gloomy at times. That has not changed, nor will it. There are moments when Maekar catches sight of him alone, the weight of whatever thoughts trouble him settling visibly upon his shoulders, and in those moments he is no different from the man he had been before. The eyes give it away. They always have. Too knowing, too distant, fixed upon something no one else can see.
But when you appear - and Maekar has taken note of this more than once, though he would not admit it aloud - it is as though the air itself shifts.
You move through the space without hesitation, your gown trailing behind you in a flurry of color. There is colour to you, life, a presence that does not demand attention and yet gathers it all the same. And when you come near him, when you speak to him or merely stand at his side, there is a visible change.
It is not the sort of transformation that would draw laughter or comment. It is quieter than that, more contained. The tension leaves him by degrees. His posture alters, straightening not out of obligation but ease. His gaze, which so often drifts, settles. There is even, on occasion, the faintest suggestion of something resembling contentment, though Maekar would hesitate to name it as such.
It is as though someone has lassoed the sun and brought it into the room, and though the light does not banish the shadows entirely, it softens them.
It pleases Maekar more than he is inclined to examine too closely.
The marriage itself had come with a haste that would have been objectionable under different circumstances. Not even half a summer had passed between your arrival and the wedding, and that alone had been enough to set Maekar’s temper on edge. Daeron had asked for your hand a mere week after you arrived at Summerhall, under the pretense of serving as a lady in waiting to the young Daella, and the speed of it had suggested only one conclusion.
At first, Maekar had been near furious. There had been an assumption, immediate and uncharitable, that his son had compromised you. It would not have been beyond him, not then, and the thought of being forced into a marriage born of carelessness did not sit well.
“You will speak plainly,” Maekar had said, not looking up at first, his hand resting heavy upon the desk as though the wood itself required keeping in place. “And you will do so without the courtesy of evasion. I have no patience for it tonight.”
“I mean to marry her.” It had not been said with force, nor with hesitation. Simply stated, as one might remark upon the hour.
Maekar’s gaze had lifted then, slow, deliberate, fixing upon his son with a scrutiny sharpened by long familiarity. “You mean to marry many things, from one night to the next. You will forgive me if I do not take this as immediately compelling.”
“I am not drunk.”
“No,” Maekar had replied, and there had been something quieter in it, something more dangerous than anger. “You are not.”
A pause had followed, and it stretched with the weight of his words.
“Have you compromised her?”
“No!” The answer had come too quickly to be rehearsed, too steady to be dismissed.
“And yet you would bind yourself to her within a week of her arrival,” Maekar continued. “You must explain that, boy.”
“I do not require more time with her to know..”
“That is not an explanation, that is mere impatience.” Daeron had held his gaze, and in that there had been something uncharacteristically firm. “I say it with certainty, father.”
Maekar had leaned back slightly at that, studying him.
“You presume a great deal.”
“I do,” Daeron had said, without apology. “But not without thought.”
Daeron had stood before his father’s desk in a manner that dispelled that notion before a word had been spoken.
He had been sober. Entirely, unmistakably sober, for the first time in years. His face had been cleanly shaven, his hair cut and properly kept, his clothing worn as it was meant to be worn rather than thrown upon him. There had been no sway to his stance, no dullness to his gaze. He had looked, in that moment, precisely what he was meant to be.
And more than that, he had been resolute.
There had been no slurring, no half-formed reasoning, no attempt at deflection. He had spoken plainly. He wished to marry you. He intended to marry you. And he had come, not to ask in the manner of a boy seeking permission, but to state his intent as a man prepared to be refused and yet unwilling to withdraw.
It had been, if nothing else, convincing.
You had prospects. A dowry that would not burden the crown, and a family of good standing, loyal, which in itself held weight. There had been no reason, in the practical sense, to deny it on his end; but his son held an undesirable title, Daeron ‘the Drunken.’
Nevertheless, Maekar had sent a raven to your father, and half a summer later, you were wed.
It had been a quiet affair by royal standards, though not lacking in propriety. Maekar remembers little of it beyond the necessary formalities. What remains, curiously, is the image of his son standing beside you, composed in a way that had once seemed beyond him.
And then, ten moons after that, you welcomed your daughter into the world.
Daeron had been beside you at all times during the pregnancy. That, too, had not gone unnoticed. He had taken to it with a devotion that bordered on the excessive, though never to the point of absurdity. He attended to you, remained near, saw to matters that might once have bored or irritated him. There was no complaint in it.
He was, Maekar notes with some reluctance, entirely besotted with you.
Yet even then, there had been moments that betrayed the strain beneath.
Late at night, when the halls had quieted and even the servants moved with less urgency, Maekar would, on occasion, find his son in the gardens. Sitting alone, in the dark, with that look in his eye - the one Maekar knows too well. The look that speaks of thoughts turned inward, circling, deepening into something that will not easily be set aside.
It is the look that precedes worse dreams.
On one such night, Maekar had sat beside him. It was not something he was in the habit of doing, nor something he would have thought to do years prior, but the moment had demanded it in a way he did not question.
“You should be abed,” Maekar had said, though the words lacked insistence.
“I have been,” Daeron replied, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond the line of the hedges, where the dark gathered thickest. “Sleep does not hold.”
“She is with child,” Daeron said at last, though it was no revelation.
Maekar gave a slight incline of his head. “So I am aware.”
“I do not know what I am meant to do with that.” Daeron looks away, as if ashamed to meet his fathers eyes, the older man leans forwards - trying to withhold any snapping tone from his voice.
“You will do as men have always done. You will endure it.”
“That is not what I mean.” Daeron whispered.
Maekar’s expression shifted, if only slightly. “Then say what you do mean.”
Daeron’s jaw tightened, not in anger, but restraint. “What if it passes to my child?”
There was no need to clarify what it was. Maekar’s gaze moved, briefly, to his son, then back to the dark. “It may.”
“And if it does?”
“Then the child will bear it,” Maekar said, plainly. “As you have.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only one that exists, atleast… the child will have you to guide it.” Silence followed that, though it was not empty.
“I was afraid,” Maekar added, after a time, the words measured as though they had been weighed before being allowed to leave him. “When you were born. I remain so, on occasion. It does not diminish with familiarity.”
Daeron let out a quiet breath, something close to a humourless laugh. “You are not reassuring.”
“I was not attempting to be.”
He had also told him, with equal bluntness, that he was not the best man to come to for such matters, given that he had not been, by any reasonable measure, a good father.
Daeron had insisted otherwise. There had been a quiet defiance in it, not argumentative, but firm. He had spoken of himself, of Aerion, of Aegon, and of Rhae, with a candour that suggested he understood precisely the difficulties they had presented and continued to present.
It had not absolved Maekar of anything. Nor had it been intended to.
But it had been… something.
When the time came, he had been there with you throughout the birth. That, more than anything, had marked the extent of his change. Many men would not have endured it. Many princes, fewer still. Yet he had remained, steady where he might once have faltered, present in a way that could not be mistaken.
“She is so… small..” Daeron sniffs, a tear running down his cheek as he lays her on your chest.
You pant, exhausted; “Babes often are, my love..” You smile meekly up at him as he kisses your damp forehead. “You did so well, my heart. She looks just like you.” Daeron praised, but in truth the babe had his hair and his violet eyes.
You rolled your eyes, acknowledging the lie.
And now, he is an attentive father to his daughter. Not indulgent, not careless, but engaged. He holds her with a care that suggests both affection and awareness, as though he understands the weight of what he carries and refuses, as far as he is able, to pass it on unexamined.
It is a quiet competence, and it sits upon him more naturally than Maekar would have predicted.
On a mild afternoon, Maekar walks the open path through the gardens. The air is still, the sort that carries sound without distortion, and it is this that draws his attention before sight does.
You are seated in the grass. The child rests in your lap, slapping her hands and giggling, Your head leans against Daeron’s shoulder, and he sits beside you, unmoving save for the slight shift required to better support your weight.
For a moment, Maekar watches - a sense of pride lays heavy in his chest at the sight.
It is not a long moment, nor an indulgent one, but it is enough to register the scene in its entirety. The stillness, the absence of strain, the peculiar, almost foreign sense of… sufficiency.Maekar trudges through the path; “Good afternoon,” Maekar grunts, his usual rough voice carrying evenly across the short distance.
You inclined your head, careful not to disturb the child. “Your Grace.”
Daeron glanced up, slower, but no less aware. “Father.” Little Vaella has now noticed her grandfather's presence and sits reaching up at him, babbling incessantly.
Maekar’s gaze moved between you both, settling on the child - and Daeron notes how his eyes soften at the sight of his gleeful grand-daughter.
“You are well?” Maekar asks, he does not entertain the child anymore - looking back to you two, “We are,” you answer with an inviting smile.
Maekar nods, pausing ever so slightly.
“See that it remains so,” he said, before continuing on.
There is, for the briefest instant, the suggestion of a smile upon his face. It does not sit easily there. It pulls at the mouth in a way that might be mistaken for a grimace, and perhaps it is, in part.
But it is there, nonetheless.
And then it is gone, replaced by the familiar set of his features as he returns to his duties.
synopsis: Sent to Storms End as a ward when only a young girl, growing up besides Lyonel Baratheon meant growing impossibly close. A divide could only seemingly be caused by other women, and marriage proposals.
word count: 3,425
trope: mutual pining, angst
warnings: angst angst angst, affection, unspoken love, kind of yearning??, kind of fluff?, gentle intimacy (but no smut), reader is a legal adult, no use of Y/N, readers looks un-described, sexual themes implied. YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONTENT AND MEDIA THAT YOU CHOOSE TO CONSUME
DISCLAIMER: All themes, plot, images used and characters from A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms + elsewhere belong to the rightful owners, I hold not rights to the original media - but my writing belongs to me.
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You were a Royce of Runestone by birth and blood, a bronze fury born in the Vale and raised amongst its fealty. Your house had remained a stronghold within the Vale of Arryn, loyalty borne of oaths and exchange, keeping your house writhing in its own quiet prosperity. However, simple favour to one house was not enough for your father, for at the age of ten and one you were sent to be a a ward of Lord Symon Baratheon, after a bartering fell through when your father did not provide the Storm-Lord with any bannermen to assist in a small uprising on the eastern coast. It grew thick tension swiftly, and in order to calm such ferocity between the two, you were the quiet political bargain left to uphold what had fallen through between your families. It was a strange exchange, Baratheon’s and Royce’s scarcely had much to do with one another, but there was an unspoken loyalty between the two relatively powerful houses that did not want to be stretched so thin. So when the bargain was struck to keep the peace, it was set in stone. Your place away from your family, was now solidified.
Being a ward was to be a prisoner, yet you were not treated as such. Lord Symon understood the terms of the arrangement, you had no dealings in that of your father, you were simply an offering to keep the peace and it was one that was accepted graciously. You were fed, clothed and educated, more often than not serving as Lord Symon’s cupbearer throughout his councils. You grew to acknowledge what your place truly was here, yet the kindness that you endured made it feel more as though you were a guest in their halls, and not a prisoner. What made it most-so, was that Lord Symon had a son barely three years your senior. Lyonel was loud and boisterous, often finding himself sneaking from his lessons to watch the beaches of Shipbreaker bay, or, as he had grown even fonder of doing, sneaking you from your lessons to spy on the household members and catch ear of things that you were most certainly not supposed to be hearing. He was fond of you, that was no secret. Often times he sought to hear your laughter, make you grin in spaces that were certainly not appropriate for childish giggles, it brought him immense joy to be the one to do these gestures for you. He knew why it was that you were here, but he wanted a companion, and your presence provided as such and he never viewed you as anything but an equal to him.
“I am not supposed to be here Ly, I am not allowed in this section of the library it is forbidden!” You squealed quietly as Lyonel took your hand and dragged you through the vast shelves to the back of the library. “You wanted a book on the plants of the sea, I am finding you one!” He half-whispered, not very successfully, his voice carried regardless of volume, it was something that you liked of him. Even at his boyish age he could still command a room with it. “But if your father hears-”
“What will he do? Has he ever denied you anything?” He raised an eyebrow, turning to face you as his arms crossed over his chest. It was true, you had spent near two years in the halls of Storms End, and Lord Symon had treated you more as a daughter of his own as opposed to a ward. You just had those eyes that made it impossible to deny, not that you weaponised them, but they did almost always seem to work in your favour. “No but I do not wish to push my luck!” You hissed, watching as Lyonel grabbed the shelf ladder and begun to climb. The pair of you should have been abed long ago, only Lyonel had near dragged you from your bedchamber in your nightdress to find you the book that you had mentioned mere hours ago at dinner. Lyonel could have just asked his father for it and it would have been provided, yet he liked the thrill of sneaking around and showing you subtly that he would do just about anything to make you pleased. So if finding some boring book of underwater plants from the sea was going to make you contented, he was going to find the damned book.
His fingers grasped the spine of the heavy thing, pulling out from the stack, causing all others on the shelf to collapse onto their side in an unconventional domino tower, a cloud of dust gathering along the lining in the air in front of it. He coughed, dust settling in his lungs as he hastily climbed back down the ladder and placed the book in your arms “You see what I did for you? My lungs are thick with dust.” You rolled your eyes “Thick with dust may be slightly dramatic.”
“Am I anything if not dramatic?” He smirked, raising an eyebrow before he operated his plan to sneak back to both your bedchambers unnoticed. The mission ended in success, though you had been spotted by a maid from afar who reported back to Lyonel’s father of your exciting escapade, he did little more than chuckle and wave it off. “Bloody boy. Could have just asked me for the book.”
You remained as close, even as you both begun to mature. Years had passed until you were now ten and nine, Lyonel lingering into his twenties, just grasping life as a man of the house, directly seated under his father. He was a skilled warrior, in brain and body, his stature being large and broad, tight muscle encasing his figure as he begun to prioritise the things that his father desired amongst his own selfish pleasures. You yourself had grown into your body graciously, childhood skin stretching into that of a true woman. Lyonel could not deny that you were beautiful, the colour of your hair that complimented your eyes, the lavish gowns that swam over your figure in a way that drew his straying eyes far too often to be proper. But yet he never mentioned it, he would lather you in compliments indefinitely, yet the tone of his voice was nothing but teasing, as it had always been. You were his closest friend, most beloved companion, yet it was nothing further than that, nor would it ever be.
Tourneys were always a right of passage for house Baratheon, Lord Symon held many himself across the years. You had always tagged along, even to ones within other holds. It allowed you the freedom of movement, to explore, to learn. You took every one as a gift, Lyonel took each one as a challenge. Well, in your eyes anyway. A tourney was an opportunity for him to boast his growing greatness, and flirt with maidens. Or fuck maiden’s rather.
The grand tourney of Old Town was a welcome familiarity, they tried to host at least one tourney a season and it was never a subtle affair. Houses gathered from all across the lands to join in the audaciousness, meaning drink and dance were near everywhere as the nights grew long, and the Baratheon pavilion was no exception. Lord Symon had remained in Storms-End, having sent Lyonel in his place to enjoy the celebrations and retain the image and honour of his house as he competed. Having unhorsed three separate men in under two lances every time, Lyonel was in need of a ravenous celebration. He spun you to the music, your golden gown highlighting your features amongst the candlelight as you turned, laughing giddily at Lyonel as he watched in admiration. His hand grasped your own as he swung your body back close to his own warmth, “I hope that it was myself you were fretting over in the stands today, and not the Tyrell embarrassment.” You laughed lightly as he continued to flurry you around the pavilion floor, “Why would I fret over a man I do not know?” He clapped to the beat of the music, now dancing circles around you as you turned to keep your eye on his face “He seemed awfully fond of asking for your favour.” A playful glare overtook your expression, “He would not have asked for mine if you had asked me first.” The seemingly bitter undertone of the fact presented him did not affect him all that much, if he had wanted your honour he would have asked for it, instead he asked for the favour of Lady Lannister and he had won on her favour gallantly, not yours.
“Ha.” The laugh he boasted caught you off guard as he spun away from you into the arms of another woman, flirtatious demeanour now reserved for the one in front of him, not you. Though his eyes continued to glance in your direction, he did not take kindly to how unaffected you seemed that he had not asked for your honour to compete in this tournament. He wanted it to bother you yet it seemingly did not, so he resumed his heinous activities towards other more willing women, who appreciated his devoted affection more. The thing that made Lyonel Baratheon a complicated man was that he saw only what he wanted to see, you did not present yourself as bothered by such facts therefore in his eyes that meant that you were not at all bothered by his behaviours or sudden lack of interest in you whatsoever. Meaning he had no intention to pursue you further and ruin the close bond that had formed between the pair of you, if you did not desire him then he did not feel anything romantic for you either, supposedly anyway.
Strangely enough you found your attention drawn to that of Lyonel’s bannermen, more specifically Ser Tylan. He was a good friend of Lyonel, not borne of any specific noble-house yet had made an honour for himself without use of a loud name. He was kind, several years your senior, sandy blonde hair, grey eyes and a quietly charming smile. You were chatting of something quietly, Lyonel noted, he could see the creases next to your eyes as you grinned up at him. You were near sat between his legs on one of the benches of the pavilion, the pair of you a cup of ale each, your hand resting on his thigh, not the other way around. Lyonel scoffed bitterly, the twirling maiden in his arms near stuttered “Is something wrong Milord?” He drew his mouth close to her ear, eyes not leaving yourself, “Perhaps we ought to take a seat, we may have much fun to get up into tonight if you are not repulsed by me.” A giggle escaped her reddened face as she allowed him to lead her to the head table, perching herself in his lap as he bathed her in all of his devoted attention.
A frown embellished your features as you took in the sight, “He’s a promiscuous man, I don’t know why you’re still surprised.” Tylan humoured, raising an eyebrow in Lyonel’s direction as he fondled the pretty woman in his lap. “I am not surprised but how lax he is never ceases to amaze me.” You reasoned, taking yet another swig of ale. “Leave with me?” He asked, brushing some of his sandy hair back from his brow, “Not for what you think. Just to see what it is that he does.”
A laugh escaped you, “He will do nothing. He is heavily preoccupied.” The smile that graced you was far too composed for a woman who was so irritated by such a foolishly devout man. “Would you like to wager on it?” He prompted, a cheeky grin gracing his face.
“No.”
“That is because you know the truth.”
“Mhm.”
Yet he took your hand all the same, leading you from the pavilion into the direction of your private tent. The hand scraping near the curve of your ass did not escape Lyonel’s eyes. “What are you doing?” You asked, eyes drawn to Tylan’s tall figure. “I’m hovering. He is watching. Would you rather I didn’t?” His hand moved up to your back slightly, “I am not afraid of touch, Tylan.” You shot back quietly, his eyes gleaming as he squeezed your ass firmly before exiting the tent flap. Once it had swung back heavily behind you a fit of giggles broke out between you, “Oh he looks ready to spear me with that damn crown.”
“I wouldn’t put it past him to do it.”
“I’d rather he didn’t, as amusing as you may find it.” Your own tent was now before you, “I trust you are not too inebriated to get yourself into bed.” You grinned, a pretty feature that suited your face almost too well, it was natural. “Thank you, Tylan. Sleep well.” He parted from you with a gentle thumb that brushed your cheek, before leaving off in the direction his fellow bannermen were having a rowdy bonfire.
You rid yourself of your dress far too quickly, the thing was far from suffocating but too much fabric became stifling in such conditions. In just your slip, with a groan you sat onto the edge of your bed, removing many of the bracelets and necklaces you had gathered over the years, little trinkets and treasures that adorned your wrists and neckline in a fusion of stunning mixed metal. Just as you led the last bracelet onto the bedside dresser your tent flap shot open “I’ll fucking- where is he?!” Lyonel stumbled, blinking heavily as his eyes adjusted to the candled space. “Where is who, Lyonel?” Your feigning innocence only seeming to agitate him further as he kicked a stray candlestick from the floor “My fucking bannermen whatever his fucking name is- Tybalt or Tyrin- the one who had his hand practically up your fucking skirts!”
“Tylan? He was helping me to my tent.” You blinked, his hands coming to your face. The smell of alcohol was heavy on his breath, his nose practically caressing your cheek as he forced himself so close, taking the sight of you so personal. So quietly intimate. You grasped his wrists within your own and pulled his arms down slowly as his forehead pressed into your own, “I’ll kill him.” He grunted, voice so low it was almost unsettling. “Unfortunately that would get us nowhere, would it?” You smiled. His lips forced themselves to your brow, travelling to your cheek as his now free hand splayed itself at the base of your neck, not pulling or pushing, just placing. “You need to go to bed, please leave.” Your own voice now lost its previous confidence as your eyes met his own. “If you make me leave I’ll fuck that whore from the pavilion.”
“Oh the one that was perched in your lap? By my sights you were already half way there.” You allowed your hands to brush his clothed chest gently, before pulling at his collar to straighten it. A hazy smile overtook his once jealousy ridden features “I knew you were watching me, little fawn.”
“Go to bed please Lyonel.”
“Tell me not to fuck her.” He pleaded, as if he needed your permission alone to not do something that remained a frequent occurrence for himself. “Tell me.”
“This is me telling you. To go to bed.” You pressed a kiss to his forehead, palm brushing back the lavish curls that had adopted an unruly nature amongst the chaos of spinning and flinging himself across the pavilion to dance throughout the night. He pulled himself away from your warmth, the comfort of your closeness. He wobbled back into the night and to his own tents, alone.
⚘
“Do not tell me you have actually considering that fucking fool’s proposal for your hand!” Your chamber door slammed shut, the bang radiating through the stone walls as you lingered in the cushioned windowsill. You had returned to Storms End three weeks ago now, and Leo Tyrell had put forth claim for your hand in marriage. He was a pleasant enough man with growing prosperity, and a seat in Highgarden could not be so impossibly devastating. Though seemingly to Lyonel, no possibility could be worse. “I am of marital age. I cannot remain in Storms End forever.” You shook your head, a quiet laugh escaping you as you rocked slowly against the windowsill, anticipating the already forthcoming storm from the man in front of you.
“You know.” He laughed bitterly, shaking his head in almost utter disbelief. “I thought maybe we had something here. Maybe unspoken or maybe I am simply deluded. But I did believe there was something there. At least something more than you seemingly have with Leo fucking Tyrell.” You stilled now entirely, teeth gnawing at the inside of your cheek as he stared you down, waiting, pushing, clawing for that answer he so craved you to spill. “He has made an offer for my hand. You have made no such intent clear. None.”
“Was me begging you to tell me not to fuck another woman just nothing then?”
“I didn’t know you wished for it to mean something. You do it so frequently I simply overtook the impression married life would bore you.” You stared back, eye contact unwavering as again, he laughed bitterly. “How much clearer could I have been woman?”
“If you had asked for my hand. I would have never declined. But you did not, you have waited until another has been accepted and now you throw a tantrum like some petulant child!” You rose to stand fully, voice matching his in both volume and anger, he had never witness such a sight from you. Certainly not in this proximity. “You have accepted.” He muttered, distaste lacing his tone as he shook his head lightly. “I thought better of you than that.”
“You have had your chance. You have had a thousand and one chances yet you took none.” Tears welled in your eyes as they soon did in his own at the sight of you. “How could you do this to me?” He asked, voice breaking subtly as he took in the miserating realisation that you were moving on. From him. Leaving, him. “This was not to hurt you, Lyonel. I cannot be caged here forever. I deserved a husband, a family, a life of my own.”
“And you could have had all of that with me. I would have hung the fucking moon for you, I would have planted a thousand flowers by my own hand if that is what it is that entices you to Highgarden. I’d give you a hundred children if it kept you contented, I could have been that husband, your husband. I still could be.” He pleaded, stepping forwards until he was so near to being stood between your legs, he pried impossibly closer, hands grasping at you wherever they could. He would crawl into your skin like some fucking parasite if it meant he would not have to part from you, and he was damn near close.
“Yet you are too late. Too far.”
“I am right here. I am here, I am with you. He is not, you have spoken to the man scarcely twice how could he have you yet I cannot?”
“Because he asked.”
The hurt that crossed him was inexplicable, he was drowning. Locked in a cage of his own design and thrown to a see, weighted by the water surrounding him and the regret that solidified him. For being the man that did not ask.
“I am asking you now. Do not go to Highgarden. Stay here and let me make you my wife. I will give you the world and more. You will never need a day you are with me, I will kiss the fucking ground you walk on if it satisfies you, but please. Do not give yourself to him so far when I am right here.” The hands at your waist were hard to ignore, as were his words spoken against your collarbone, wet tears gracing the skin there as he tried to hide them against your body.
Gently you wrapped your arms around him as his face found place against your chest. You pulled him closer as his knees practically gave out, desperation crawling up his limbs and incapacitating him piece by piece until he was nothing but at the mercy of your touch.
A/N: sorry for the lack of updates and fic’s i’ve been pretty busy somehow lmao. but anyway, as always: likes, comments, reblogs and any interactions are always always appreciated. take care everyone!!
synopsis: There have been tales of barmaids giving their customers pretty eyes for a higher tip. You were never part of those barmaids, in fact you doubt the strategy would fail on most of your patrons anyway. But one handsome traveler has you feeling generous and the way he thanks you doesn't leave you regretting it at all.
warnings: smut, oral (f receiving), p in v, premature orgasms, Dunk cumming in his pants, plus size reader, afab reader
word count: 2.9k
taglist: @hopelesswritergall
(If you want to be tagged for any specific character/series/fandom or in general on my fics or moodboards let me know in my asks, comments or DMs)
Dividers by me
It had been a slow day. Not many people had come through, causing your parents to leave the remaining hours of work at their Inn to you. A responsibility you took on gladly and not for the first time. Rarely anything ever happened in the place where you were born and raised anyway. The few people that had come in to drink where already drunk enough to be of little trouble. Swaying to the point of almost falling over whenever one of them did stand up. Some even fighting gravities call while remaining in their sitting position.
And yet the moment you are close to losing your mind from the dullness of it all, the wind sweeps someone in that you are sure would be able to lift the fog that wraps around your mind and causes you to simply go through the motions.
The man, who has to duck to fit through the door frame, gives a wordless nod and thin lipped smile and seats himself at an empty table. The chair all but disappearing underneath his form. Subconsciously you run your palms over your apron to smooth out the fabric and then stroll over to him. "What can I do you for, handsome stranger?"
The blond man looks up at you with faint surprise glimmering in his eyes. Certainly not used to the way you address him.
"I'll have a cup of ale and whatever you have left from supper." His voice is quieter than you'd ever expected from a man his size, but it sends a pleasant shiver down your spine nonetheless. Only on a closer look you notice the pink tint of his cheeks.
Returning moments later and setting a cup and two plates down with a soft "I thought you might appreciate the extra portion."
The strangers eyes raise from the table for the first time when he thanks you. There is a glint of recognition in those blue depths followed by a fresh rush of blood to his cheeks. Now clearly visible even in the low light provided by the fireplace.
One thought enters his mind when he looks at you then, before he can even begin to think to stop it. One that makes his ears burn. He wouldn't have to be scared to break you with a simple touch.
When you turn away, he quickly shakes off the thought, busying himself with his meal instead. Listening as the wind outside whipped around and rattled the brittle doors. The sounds quickly devolve into a gentle patter on the roof and soon becomes a heavy downpour.
By the time you carry the empty plates away, you couldn't be more glad to be inside and by a warm fire. The blond man on the other hand puts some coin on the table and stands up.
"You have somewhere to stay for the night?" You try to inquire nonchalantly as you go to pick the silver from the table.
"Was planning on making camp not far outside the village." He awkwardly points to the door behind him, the old wood still visibly shaking from the weather.
"What is your name, stranger?" You ask in return, watching the neutral expression on the mans face shift to one of barely hidden confusion.
"D-Dunk… My name is Dunk." He answers gruffly nonetheless. Clearing is throat.
You hum, taking in his name and the hunch of his shoulders to make himself smaller. "No one should sleep out in weather like that, Dunk. Would you take a room upstairs if I offered it?"
"That is an honourable offer, but I have no coin to spare to offer for it in return." Large hands go to fidget with a cloak that looks like it has seen better days a long time ago.
And you know your parents wouldn't be happy about it, but you just smirk at him. "It isn't a good room. You can keep whatever coin you have."
It's unbeknownst to even you where the insistence to have Dunk, a complete stranger, stay comes from. Yet the spark between your thighs when he reciprocates the smirk with a tentative smile of his own is an indicator as to what that reason might be.
"I mean it. You might catch death if you stay out there tonight." Your feet take you closer to him just the tiniest bit with a mind of their own. Looking at him silently for a moment longer before he concedes with a deep sigh. Following you up the stairs.
"Should you need anything, my room is just down the hall." And with one last shared smile and nod you leave Dunk to his own devices. To close the tavern for the night and to lay your own head to rest. To hopefully forget the handsome man down the hall.
At least until a knock comes from across the room. Almost too quiet to pierce the silence, as if hoping to go unheard.
Graceful as you can in the face of the exhaustion from the day catching up quickly, you pad over to reveal Dunk standing like he had before. Face red, shoulders hunched, fingers picking at each other.
"Dunk… The hour has grown late." You rasp, voice half gone from the dozing state you had previously been fallen to.
"I know, but sleep wouldn't find me. And I feel I haven't thanked you near sufficiently." He mutters a gruff reply.
"On the contrary. You have thanked me more than enough." You insist, holding onto the door frame to keep yourself upright.
But Dunk continues despite it, remembering the broken fence he had seen on his way in. "If there is anything I can do to repay your favour. Something in need of fixing…"
His eyes pick up from the floor then. The sight of wooden floorboards changing for soft, glowing skin and a nightgown that does little to hide any of the full body beneath it. Blue eyes roaming over the outlines of thick thighs, bountiful curves and... He quickly looks to the side. The effect much more visible in his nether regions than he would have preferred under your watchful gaze which takes in his form as well.
The air grows thicker until it barely fills your lungs anymore. Shallow breaths giving way to a tension that physically pulls you towards him.
"There might be one thing." You murmur, eyes falling half close and fingers finding their way into his shirt. Not yet tugging him close, but playing with it. Holding onto it as you stand up on your tiptoes, slow enough for him to pull away should he wish to.
But Dunk doesn't pull away. Instead he draws closer as well. Lips barely meet before you pull him into your room. Eager but shy tongues dart out taste ale and remnants of what had been served for supper on their counterpart as they share in the passionate embrace.
Curious hands exploring the foreign body in front, and not unpleasantly surprised to find how well you fit into his hands. The large, damp palms sending impulses of warmth through your hips which he encircles more wholly than anyone had before. An involuntary squeeze to the plush flesh from his hardly contained strength elicits a soft hum. The delicate noise being swallowed by the feather light lip lock.
Only for a moment you break the kiss when you lower yourself onto the bed with Dunk kneeling between your legs. Only one moment your hands leave his muscular chest in favour of abandoning your nightgown and baring yourself entirely to the pads of his fingers, to the touch of his mouth. Arching into the slow, gentle attention of his hands wandering up your sides and his lips finding the crook of your neck. The right amount of delicious pressure in every caress to keep you as close to him as possible.
You run your hand up his back as he sucks at your collar bones, breath hitching and settling into a ragged panting rhythm when he nips at the hardened pearls atop your breasts. Grazing the sensitive flesh with his teeth just once before his explorations take him further down. Through the valley between your breasts over the expanse of your soft stomach. Pressing a low moan into the smooth skin as your hand squeezes his shoulder on its way into his hair. A shot of hot hunger pooling like liquid between your thighs when he teasingly bites at the surplus padding of your middle. Tugging at the dirty blond strands while the man lifts one of your legs over his shoulder. Fingers digging into the skin to surely leave some marks in the flesh spilling out between the thick digits.
Brushing a few hairs away from his forehead, Dunk's blue eyes shoot up to meet yours. Taking in every little whimper and flinch in your muscles as he closes his mouth around the bundle of nerves there. Feather light, almost more a quick kiss than anything else, but still enough to make an uncontrolled whispered curse to fall from your lungs. "F-Fuck…"
Dunk answers with another empathetic hum pressed to the heated flesh, feeling the muscles in your legs tense when he begins to suck harshly at the bud. Eyelids fluttering as the taste hits his tongue.
The movement of which comes in unpractised, but nevertheless lively movements against your core. Flicking steadily against it. Just enough to send jolts of stimulation through you, but still leave you so grounded to feel the way he presses closer. Parting your legs further to spear you open on the thick muscle. Plunging it in and out of your walls repeatedly while his nose insistently nudges against the bundle of nerves. Driven by the need evoked by the sensation of the coarse fabric of his pants which rubs against his own evidence of need as Dunk, accompanied by desperate sounds which perfectly mix with your moans, grinds himself against thin air in desperate search of relief. A relief he certainly doesn't think to find so soon.
The heat in your lower stomach coils ever tighter still when a broken whine vibrates against your heat and then with an unforeseen suddenness it all stops. Your eyes lower to see Dunk looking down his body, eyes widened and lips parted in something akin to shock and mortification. Following his gaze, the low light falling upon the growing wet spot where his release soaks into the crotch of his pants.
With your juices still soaking into his chin, but not letting go of your body just yet, Dunk opens and closes his mouth like a fish out of water in search of something to say. However his mind comes up with nothing. Ever more so when your hand in his hair moves to massage his scalp. Soothing him at least enough to close his eyes and lean up into the caress like an oversized cat.
A coo escaping you before you can fight it at the tears of humiliation stinging in his heavy lidded eyes. "It is alright. This needn't be the end of things."
Your hand leaves his hair to come to rest underneath his chin still damp chin. Angling him up to align with your core again, leading his lips back to where you still want him most. The sight of his stained pants only having heightened that want.
"You don't mind… this?" His eyes motion in the direction of his crotch for just a moment.
"Mind it?" You giggle weakly, tracing your thumb over his cheek. "No, you will find that I do not mind it in the slightest."
Temptingly your legs twitch apart slightly more to reveal that your core had only grown wetter since Dunk had revealed the reason for stopping his advances.
The physical proof of reassurance, has him dive back in so fast, he pulls a breathless gasp from your lungs as your hand flies back to his hair and your squishy thighs squeeze shut around the head that keeps them apart.
The ministrations leave you to tumble over the edge before you can warn the man between your legs. Toes curling upwards, inner walls fluttering uncontrollably as a high pitched cry tumbles past the bottom lip you bite to keep from screaming out.
Dunk holds you securely through every last spasm of the hips before sitting back on his haunches. Chest heaving as much as yours when he wipes the remaining juices from his face. But even as the last waves of your peak wash away, a glaring hunger for more begins to burn through your veins.
One look downwards reveals that the man before you feels the same. The front of his pants already straining into a tented form. Leaning into the palm brushing against his cheek before dropping to his chin once more to pull him off the floor and onto the bed. Halting for a moment, lips only a hairs breadth from each other to revel in the crackling of energy in the air all around.
Eyes alternate between gazing into each other and glancing at the other's lips, which tingle at the proximity. Bringing with it a delicious tension to bask in.
Only for a moment before calloused hands roam your skin once more.
"I want you… Inside me…" You breathily appeal to him. Leaning forward to run one of your own hands over Dunks midriff, feeling the muscles beneath tense under an agreeing whimper. Dunk tries to muster up more of an answer but the right so far has left his mind subdued in a deep fog which deepens with every touch that wanders beneath his clothes.
Clothes that now come off one by one. With careful, though impatiently shaking hands, his shirt joins your nightdress. Pants half way down his thighs, his length barely revealed, when the last of the patience you tried to hold onto flies out the window. Moving to quickly to straddle his lap, his hands already finding your sides again to steady you as you hover over the hardness aligned with your entrance.
With a deep breath you impale yourself on him, every inch stretching your inner walls and flooding you with a need burning brighter than before.
"Seven, fuck. So tight." Dunk's grip involuntarily tightens to keep himself from simply slamming his hips up into you, noticeably strained.
"So deep…" You take a moment to get used to the stuffed feeling and then pull yourself up until only his tip is left inside. Only to bury him inside fully once more.
A steady stream of skin slapping against skin fills the room as soon as your body adjusts. In and out with each deep exhale. His blue eyes glimmering as they are glued to yours. Refusing to close even when his mouth finds the valley between your breasts. Peppering the sweat slicked skin with attention, the salty taste spreading on his tongue which traces invisible patterns on the perspiration. Laving the mounds with equal affection, leaving behind fingerprints and spit slickened areolas. Keening cries becoming a steady stream of noise over the quiet hums from the man underneath you when you lead one hand between your thighs to rub tight circles where he had just nosed at.
With the thumb following each move of the movements of the bundle of nerves, your hips settle into a faster, undulating rhythm as a second climax crests in both your cores. Bodies faltering on every roll of the hip.
"Dunk, I…" A whine cuts off the sentence rather harshly and is met by one right back.
"I am too."
He can feel you are close by the fluttering of your walls around him and he is right in front of you. The previous relief still staining his pants having done nothing to slow his drive, which now has him thrusting up into you. Pulling you down onto his lap with every stroke, the wet slapping overshadowing any other sound.
Your forehead weakly drops to his shoulder, lips ghosting hot, open mouthed kisses over the expanse until your lips helplessly part around a string of moans. A grunt from below meets a high pitched squeal like your lips meet for a final time and then, for a small moment, there is nothing but tense silence in the small room.
Not even the rain from before dares to whip against the window to interrupt the panting breaths billowing against burning skin while shudders of gratification rock your bodies against each other. Prolonging stimulation to the point of oversensitivity. Dunk's hand withdraws from your aching heat as soon as your climax crashes over you, to hold you steady by the juncture of the hip. But in the face of what had transpired, even something so simple as soothing circles being rubbed into the pillowy flesh proves too much.
"Dunk…" You whisper his name weakly, barely another thought on your mind.
The addressed man hums in acknowledgement, using the leverage of the balancing hold to lay you on the bed and settle beside you. The bed barely big enough to hold the two of you comfortably even as you both test on your sides.
"Do you still believe to not have thanked me enough?" You chuckle, sharing in a quiet whine as Dunk pulls his now half hard, equally sensitive cock out of your entrance. Watching as your leg twitches in response to the sudden empty sensation. The half joke turning his head to the side shyly.
"N-no… I do not." He mutters under his breath. The interest with which he inspects the pillow between your bodies all too amusing.
With a lazy hand you slowly, but insistently pick his chin up to meet your gaze.
"If you stay until the sun has risen, I could imagine thanking you bach before you are on your merry way."
