frostbitten kisses | cregan stark
you disappear into the sudden onslaught of a winter storm. cregan refuses to lose you.
word count: 5.7k
notes/warnings: karstark!reader, fem!reader (no physical description but reader is referred to as lady stark/wife), hurt/comfort, violence, descriptions of hypothermia, death of a man and an animal but i did my best to not be too descriptive, force feeding (drinking?) depicted as necessary, implied sexual content, cregan has a direwolf bc I SAY SO idgaf if it’s not canon, my depiction of hypothermia is based on reliable sources such as the mayo clinic and reddit asks, mentions of pregnancy
a/n: heavily inspired by this lovely lovely piece by @dreamfyr-e !!!
❅ ❅ ❅
Every Northerner knew: to get caught in a snowstorm was the same as walking into your own grave.
The party had set out from Karhold over a week ago. The visit to your childhood home to see your sister and her new child had lasted three weeks, and while you were excited to meet your nephew and see your family, the ancient castle no longer felt like your home.
A few ravens came to and from Winterfell throughout your time at Karhold. You were never truly that far from your husband if his letters came within four days of him sending it, but that changed little. By the end of your visit, even your sister could see–you were eager to return to what you now called home, to the arms of your Cregan.
“I still don’t believe you when you tell me what he’s like with you,” She mumbled when she was helping you pack the remaining of your belongings, “Times I’ve met him, he’s hardly spoken other than giving his men orders. Always looks like he’s swallowed a lemon.”
“He’s a man of few words, yes,” You conceded, “But he’s always been so gentle with me, Asha. Never raised his voice or his hand.”
She scoffed. “I doubt you would let any man raise a hand against you, even if he is Warden of the North. Remember what the boys used to call you when we were little?”
“That’s true,” You responded, somewhat smugly, “But Cregan’s never given me reason to bring out the ‘Cunt of Karhold.’”
Your route there had been kind to you. This winter had already stretched long and proven brutal, but the months leading up to your visit had been tame. You left Winterfell with the utmost confidence in your safety.
The party rode to the northeast, stopping for one night at Dreadfort, the halfway point between your new home and ancestral one, the weather had calmed and the conditions of the roads had been so favorable that your party arrived at Karhold one day early.
The same could not be said for the return.
The temperature dropped two weeks before you left. A harsh storm came and went during that time, lasting three days and causing you to consider postponing your departure by another week, even if you didn’t want to.
Your safety is paramount, Cregan had written after receiving your letter posing the question, I would not fault you for your caution. I would rather you return to me later than not at all, my love.
But the storm had already gone by then. The Karstark scouts said that roads had been cleared rather quickly. The snowstorm was a fluke, they explained, the weather should return to how it had been of late.
And you listened. The bannermen accompanying you listened. And now you were all about to die.
Visibility was high, the cold bearable, the roads truly in good condition, and you made it to Dreadfort with few issues. Leaving Dreadfort was where things had taken a turn for the worse. Now, two days later, you weren’t sure you’d even see the walls of Winterfell before freezing to death.
The storm had truly come from out of nowhere. That morning, you’d risen from your camp with the reassuring knowledge that you were less than a day’s ride from the northern capital. By that evening, you would be in the comfort of your own bedroom, with a hot bath, a belly full of food, and the wall of warmth that was your lord husband to welcome you home.
Now, the party was falling apart around you. It had become darker as the short winter day drew to a close. The wind had picked up, visibility had dropped with the same dreadfulness of a falling cup you knew would shatter upon impact. It was snowing sideways.
“How far are we, ser?” You yelled to one of your guards, voice muffled against the yowling of the storm. You were squinting to keep your eyes as free from falling snow as possible, but it also meant seeing even less than what you could currently see. Your horses were quickly becoming panicked.
“I’d wager less than two hours, Lady Stark,” He answered, “But we must make haste.”
The group of you—consisting of you and about twenty bannermen—tried your damnedest to rally, to push forward. Home was so close, you could make it if you hurried. Everyone was rattled and on edge, men snapping at each other at the slightest provocation. The horses were jittering, put off by the cold.
You, attempting to use your authority over them all to force them to just go faster. The cold made Winterfell feel even further than it currently was, turning the earth elastic. Pulling it far and taut.
Cregan, we’re coming, you wanted to call, please, let us come home.
And then the tree fell.
The wind, already blowing so hard, gave an even stronger gust. With a terrible crack, and a long, loud groan, a dead tree came down on you all. You gripped the reins of your horse with all your remaining strength, barely managing to pull it away as the trunk came crashing down.
BOOM
The sound echoed across the forest, causing your heart to drop. Even more snow kicked up off of the ground as a result of the impact. You watched at least one man get crushed under the massive tree, his cries silenced by the roar of the wind and the angry crash.
Startled horses scattered, unable to be calmed by their riders. Yours bucked, once, twice, and for the longest second you’ve ever experienced, you thought she would flip, and crush you beneath her.
Instead, she squealed in terror, and turned to run. You watched as the party disappeared into the storm, wind biting at your cheeks and pulling the hood of your cloak back.
“No,” You demanded, yanking on the reins to no avail, “Go back, go back, go back—!”
❅ ❅ ❅
The papers on his desk had been abandoned about half an hour ago. Cregan Stark was pacing the length of the room. He hadn’t spoken since someone had answered his questions, and the advisors were growing anxious at the unreadable look on his face.
“Is the storm expected to stop?” Cregan asked from the desk.
“The clouds are dense, my lord,” The maester said, “I would expect this storm to last till the morrow, at least.”
His scowl deepened. “And no one has heard from my wife’s party. My wife’s party, who should have been spotted by now, per the raven they sent this morning.”
The maester looked down, unable to meet those intense gray eyes. “...No, my lord. There has been no word from the scouts.”
No one could hear it, but everyone in the room could see the heaving of his chest, the flaring of his nostrils, the occasional twitching of his fingers. His energy pushed outwards, pressing against everyone like a weight on their chests.
Cregan Stark did not get nervous. No, Cregan Stark inspired nervousness in others. And yet, now, at the concept of his wife disappearing into the snow, he seemed to be doing both. Even Bear, the Warden of the North’s large, frightening direwolf paused from licking at his black and brown coat to track his master’s movements.
He stopped, before turning to face the men in his study. The entire room held its breath.
“We—”
“Lord Stark, my lord—!”
The door slammed open, and a guard entered the room, panting. He had clearly run from the courtyard, cheeks red, cloak dusted with snow. He was panting heavily, leaning against the doorframe for support. At the interruption, Cregan reared on the young man, angry gaze more wolf than man.
“Erik,” He grunted, “What is the meaning–”
“The party is not f-far,” Erik said quickly, breathless, “But something has gone wrong. One man is presumed dead, two men are missing, and L-Lady Stark—”
All the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room as the man bent over, coughing with overexertion. Suddenly, with a stalking gait, Cregan was crossing the room, almost lunging for him. Some men stood at the sudden movement, but made no attempt to hold him back. Cregan’s arms shot out, gripping him by the shoulders and shaking. Gray eyes flashed with madness, and he paid no mind to the smaller man’s heaving in his face as he got in close.
“What about Lady Stark, boy? Where the fuck is my wife—”
“Her horse–her horse was startled. It ran further into the woods. They—” More coughing, “—they cannot find her.”
The guard fell to the floor as Cregan dropped him. His eyes were wide, his emotions now tangible: heavy, angered panting, matching with the rhythmic rising and falling of his hulking shoulders.
He looked back at his advisors. “Ready my horse and my wolf at once.”
“My lord, you will freeze–”
His tone left no room for discussion. “Prepare a search party at once. And bring me something from her chambers. Bear will need it to track her scent.”
❅ ❅ ❅
The truest darkness lives in the forests of the North. You were living it now, barely able to see anything except for the rough outlines of tree trunks, which went on for miles. Not that you could see them that far.
You couldn’t tell how long had passed. The snow had never let up.
The panic didn’t set in immediately. First, you called for your bannermen. Shouted their names over and over until their names began to sound foreign. Don’t panic, you tried to tell yourself, conserve your energy.
It had gotten you nowhere, body beginning to shiver as you realized you were alone and couldn’t make out the path your horse had dragged you down.
Winterfell is north. Just go north. Which way is north?
The shivering turned painful. Shoulder blades locked stiffly as you hunched into yourself. You could hardly feel your fingers gripping the reins of the horse, even under thick lined leather gloves. You tried to orient yourself, but it proved difficult. Dusk had passed. It was now night. You had no torch or means of making a flame to light your way, the falling snow blocking what little you could see.
Surrounded by trees, with no discernible landmarks or visible light in the distance to guide you further, you wandered the woods with your horse, trying to follow your horse’s tracks back to your party. Even if they were gone, if you could find the fallen trunk, you would know which way to go. If any of them had followed your path, you would run into them, and you could return together.
The minutes stretched into hours, a seemingly endless night suffocating you. The feeling in your nose disappeared first. Where once your cheeks burned from the cold, now the sensation bloomed into nothingness. Blowing hot air into your gloves—a constant shaky hah-hah-hah that might have helped this morning—now did next to nothing to relieve your trembling fingers.
You don’t know when your eyelashes froze, but you only noticed when you took note of the foggy white ring encroaching on your peripheral vision. When you blinked, you heard the softest crunch in the way you could hear yourself swallowing or breathing. You could only assume the same was happening with your eyebrows.
And when you realized your horse was taking you in circles, the poor creature also suffering from the cold, you realized you no longer knew what to do.
The shouts turned to screams. You hadn’t screamed out of fear in years, perhaps not since you were a child. No reason to. This was primal, brewing at your sternum and building up, up, up with every desperate rise and fall of your breath. When the pressure could be held no longer, it escaped you.
Screaming for Cregan, which you knew made no sense. He was even further than your party, but it changed nothing. You screamed and screamed and screamed, until it turned to wailing.
Wailing for your mother, who had died years ago. Who would certainly be of less help than your bannermen or Cregan now, barring divine intervention.
Mind slowly growing foggy and voice going hoarse, you finally admitted it to yourself. You were lost. Well and truly lost.
❅ ❅ ❅
The search party assembled and departed with a quickness that would have made Cregan proud of his men under any other circumstances. Now, however, he could only feel anger, concern, determination.
I’m coming, love, he thought, I’ll not let you get away from me.
His men, armed with torches, extra pelts and blankets tucked in their packs, and flasks of hot mulled wine, set off in the direction your bannermen had said they’d last seen you. Your horse, spooked by a fallen tree, had run southwest in the commotion. Before they’d left, a servant had brought him one of your hairbrushes. He’d let Bear sniff some at the hair caught in the bristles, and knew that as long as they found the fallen tree, the shaggy black and brown direwolf would pick up on your scent.
They rode south. The second they broke into the treeline, Bear sped up. The large creature, at top speed, was faster than the horses, but only in bursts of energy. He seemed to sense Cregan’s desperation.
He ran so fast he disappeared from Cregan’s line of view. The men around him followed the direwolf, trusting the beast’s instinct.
Moments later, a howl pierced the air. When they caught up to Bear, there it was: a long, dead tree trunk, pinning a horse and its rider to the now red forest floor.
“Check to see if he’s alive.” He commanded two men. He began to separate his men into small groups. “You lot are to search for the missing Manderly boy. All of you over here, call for Willas Snow. The rest of you, follow Bear! All of you pair up, spread out, call their names. We will find them. I refuse to leave without my wife.”
He felt as though he were watching someone else take command of his being. Someone who knew his men, commanded his men like he did. But Cregan was hardly inside of his own body. Though he cared for his men—present and missing alike—and knew he would grieve the man crushed by the tree, right now he could not bring himself to care about them. His only thoughts were of you, out in the cold, dark wood.
Somewhere near him, but increasingly far away. There was a pressure growing in his chest, pushing back against the whipping wind, threatening to rise up past his throat and out of his mouth.
You could be hurt. You could be dead. But he would not rest until he saw you with his own two eyes.
Around him, the shouting began. Calling for Petyr Manderly. For Willas Snow. For Lady Stark. But Cregan did not call for either of the men, or for the Lady Stark.
“Y/N! Y/N!”
In the middle of the wood, throat straining as his voice was carried away with the wind, Cregan called for you.
❅ ❅ ❅
When the whispers began, the cold had taken control of your body. The forest seemed to be spinning, the trees duplicating. Even in your delirium, you knew you should not have gotten off of the horse, but at the time you’d thought it was a good idea. You could no longer see her anymore, and you scatteredly wondered if she had gone towards the whispers or succumbed.
Now, you were stumbling through ankle-deep snow, hiking up your stupid gown to trudge through the forest. The cold had passed.
It almost felt pleasant now. The sensation was similar to the night Queen Rhaenyra had sent a crate of Dornish red wine to Winterfell as a gift for your husband’s 24th name day. The great hall had been filled with more dancing than stumbling, and you spent the entire next day vowing to never drink again. That had been at the end of summer. Summer is kind. Autumn is forgiving. Spring with Cregan is so nice. Winter…
And yet, it was still snowing. Still black. But the whispers were getting louder. You couldn’t make sense of them at first, layered and urgent and pleading.
Lady Willas Petys Stark Snow Manderly… Snow Lady Manderly Petyr Willas Stark…
That was not your name. Names. The names of your bannermen who were no longer around you. Petyr, Willas, Jon, Ethan, Brandon… Names names names names names think of names—think of lovely names.
In the distance, an orange beacon appeared. How pretty, you thought, pretty. Pret-ty. My husband is pretty.
You felt drunk, body swaying back and forth as you began to move towards the light—lights? There were two now. Then three. Then a few more.
The whispers grew louder, more urgent. Who were they calling for? He had such a long name, but none of them seemed to know it exactly. Your neck began to sag downwards as you listened to them call for the man with the long name. Petyr Lady Petyr Snow Willas Stark Lady Manderly Snow Lady Lady Stark Lady Lady Lady—
Y/N.
Your neck snapped up, head turning frantically to search for who had whispered your name.
Y/N.
You froze. You knew that voice. The inflection of your name.
It wasn’t a whisper.
“Y/N!”
“C—”
He was here he was here he was here he was here. And if he was here, then—
You watched, almost entranced, as a large black mass bolted out of the dark, barreling into you, tipping you over. You landed on your back in the snow. The snow, which was warm. Hot, even.
Forcing yourself onto your elbows, your gaze landed on Bear. You tried your hardest to keep yourself focused on your husband’s direwolf, but the forest was running circles around you, and your body felt like it was on fire.
When he tilted his snout up, letting loose a howl long and urgent, you barely heard it. This was a dream. This had to be a dream. Any moment now, you would wake, and be in your bed in Winterfell.
As you moved onto your knees, you pulled your gloves off. Your fingers were ablaze and you wanted to pet the beast. Stumbling onto your feet, you held up a hand, mouth gaping as you tried to ensure you weren’t melting from the heat. When you saw you weren’t, you reached for Bear.
“Here! My lord, she’s over here!”
Time slowed to a glacial pace. Your movements dragged as if you were underwater, all sounds muffled and scrambled. If you were underwater, they were above the surface.
You didn’t touch Bear. He moved to the side. A horse skidded to a stop in front of you, the movement lasting years. It took so long that it didn’t even frighten you. All you could do was look up at the angel mounted on the stallion, face lit by an army of torches suddenly surrounding you.
Him.
He unmounted the horse, barking unintelligible orders to the men around him. Something about a missing horse.
Then his eyes landed on you, and you damn near fell over again. When he spoke, you understood what he said. How could you not? It was one of your favorite words, one of your favorite things he called you.
Always with the gentlest tone, no matter the time or place. Against your hair early in the morning, in your ear at your side at supper, against your throat in the middle of the night. The first word to break through the noise, bring you back. To pull you out of the water and allow you to gasp for air.
“Wife.”
You would answer. Yes, of course you would answer. You would always answer when he called. Cregan. Husband. My love.
“C—“
The harsh sound punched out of you, a shaky, croaky kuhhh of a dead woman newly reawakened. His eyes, already alert at the state of you, grew even wider. Immediately, he engulfed you, having to bite back the shock at just how cold your body was. He smoothed a hand over your hair, chest deflating at the reassurance of having him in your arms.
“Y/N,” He rasped, “What happened?”
You couldn’t say. You were just happy he was here. Again, you tried to say his name. “Cuhhh—C-Cre—“
“Yes, yes, sweet girl, I’m here,” He insisted, grabbing you by the wrist and tugging, “We need to get you home now.”
He had never seen you like this. And by the grace of the Old Gods, he would never see you like this again. Slurring your speech, lips and fingers—where were your gloves?—a blueish gray, frost clinging to your brow, your hair, your lashes.
You were manhandled onto the stallion. Quickly, you were growing agitated. A pelt was draped over your shoulders, much to your dismay. He mounted it behind you, before trying to hand you a flask.
“Drink,” He commanded, “‘S warm.”
Deliriously, you shook your head, weakly pushing it away. “S…”
His stern tone dropped lower, now a pleading undertone to it. “Please, love. You must drink this now.”
“Summer.”
He immediately knew what you meant. “No. No, it’s not summer. Byron! Sylas! Sean! On me! We’re returning to the castle. Now.”
His poor wife, delirium turning into distress. You shook your head, brow furrowing. As long as you were upset, you were awake. He swallowed the lump in his throat and uncapped the flask.
“Forgive me.”
A large hand gripped your jaw. The wine was forced down your throat in a manner that had you spluttering with tears running down your face. Cregan grimaced the entire time, mumbling soft apologies and stroking your jaw with his thumb. He tried his hardest to ignore the clench in his chest as your hand weakly trying to tug his own away from your mouth.
You needed warmth. You were already feeling so hot you had removed your gloves. He knew this was one of the final symptoms, had seen naked corpses emerge from melting snow that had gone through similar. That if Bear had found you minutes later, this conversation would not be happening. The hot wine would help. It had to, because he didn’t know what he would do if it didn’t.
In a way, it did help. Upon contact with actual heat, the false blaze in your body evaporated. The pain returned, more intense than ever. When you finished coughing, you felt again the aching in your jaw from your chattering teeth. Your shoulders and upper arms were cramping from how tightly you had drawn in on yourself.
“C-Cregan,” You finally managed, “Hurts.”
He breathed a small sigh of relief. “Good,” He bit out, “As long as it hurts, you’re alive. We’ll deal with the rest later.”
The breakaway party departed. You sagged against Cregan, who did his damnedest to hold you up. You weren’t speaking, but he could feel you shivering through the pelt. Shivering didn’t even feel the proper term. Your body was thrumming, vibrating in a manner he could only call disturbing.
As he watched his direwolf speed up, he wondered briefly if he should have allowed you to ride Bear instead of the horse. Bear would have likely been able to get you to Winterfell faster.
Cregan had ridden Bear. You had ridden Bear. But never for very long. Direwolves were hardly pets, and Bear would let you both ride only for as long as he allowed it, which he wasn’t sure would be long enough to get you back home. And he wasn’t sure how well you’d be able to hold on.
No, the horse was better, he realized as you broke through the treeline. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus. Your small group carried on, and he began to allow himself to feel calmer. You were here. You were alive. You would recover.
Until a few minutes later, when your head started to tilt back against him, lolling back and forth in sync with the horse’s gallop.
“Y/N,” He shouted over the wind, “Y/N!”
Your eyes, unfocused, searched for him. You could vaguely make him out, features dimly lit by the torches of two of the men riding at his side.
Your hand gripped his forearm weakly. “You...”
“Me, what about me,” He said, “You need to stay awake.”
Your face twisted, before sluggishly shaking your head. “Tired, Cregan.”
His heart sank. Any moment now, Winterfell would appear on the horizon. His voice dripped with a rough desperation that pierced through the howl of the wind. “You—Gods, woman, you need to fucking stay awake.”
“I can’t… Want…”
“What do you need? Tell me,” He pleaded, “Think about what you need. Tell me. I’ll get it. Think, Y/N, think! Do not fall asleep.”
He looked up from your face to check the path. In the distance, he could see lights. A sound fell from his mouth, an unintelligible groan of relief, of fear, of rare powerlessness.
“My lord!” One of the men called, “I’ll ride ahead and notify the maester. We must do everything in our power to warm her back up.”
Cregan nodded furiously, nodding his head. “Go!”
The man sped up, and Cregan found himself tugging on the reins to beckon his horse to go faster as well. Full speed in this weather would not do the horses good, especially when they’d been riding in the cold for so long already. But he needed to push. Every second out here was a second too long.
“Almost there, pet,” He cooed, pressing a kiss to the crown of your head, “Home soon.”
“Home,” You murmured in agreement. Your voice sounded so quiet.
He could see the gates. They were opened, a small mass of people huddled together. Anxiously waiting for their lord and lady to come home.
You looked up at Cregan again, and your vision blurred, black spots dancing around you. You needed to tell him. Your eyes fluttered open and fluttered shut.
“Need to tell you—“
His stomach twisted, half expecting he’d need to reject a weak goodbye. When your eyes rolled up in your head, his heart splintered, gray eyes wide as he watched your every fading movement. “Tell me! Tell me anything, everything, Y/N, please.”
As you crossed through the gate, your head lolled to the side, and Cregan’s screaming faded into nothing.
❅ ❅ ❅
How soft everything was.
How cold.
“…Now a matter of when, not if.”
“So she’ll live?”
“Yes, my lord. I consider it nothing short of a miracle that she survived and kept all of her limbs.”
“Gods be good.”
The disembodied voices sounded muffled and far away. Your body remained still as you woke. Your eyes remained closed, your limbs still curled into a ball. You were wearing one of your wool nightgowns. The fabric was lighter than what you’d been wearing earlier, yet your body felt so heavy. Like you were anchored to the bed.
Your muscles ached. Like you had been wound up so tight it would take centuries to unwind you.
The maester’s voice, somewhere in the room, turned worried, then quiet. “There is another matter I came upon during my examination, my lord…”
You couldn’t make out what was said after. You did, however, hear Cregan’s steady exhale. A sharp sound of unexpectedness, a reveal he had not seen coming.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, my lord. I did not realize until after I was sure she was warm enough, but I am positive.”
Your eyes cracked open. The pair was faced away from you, but you could make out Cregan running a hand down his face. The maester had a hand on your husband’s shoulder, squeezing in reassurance.
When Cregan finally spoke, he had hardened his tone again. “Thank you again, Maester Cromwell. You may go.”
“I suspect Lady Stark will be awake before the end of the day. Come find me when she stirs.”
“Aye,” Cregan agreed, “I will do everything in my power to ensure my wife’s recovery.”
He closed the door behind the old man, and turned back to the room. When he saw your eyes, cracked open, tracking his movements, he froze.
You said nothing—there was hardly any energy in you to do otherwise.
“Y/N,” He sighed. He crossed the room, removing his gloves and kneeling at your bedside. A large hand swept atop the crest of your head, before running down to your cheek. You whispered his name at his warmth, trying to press into his rough fingertips.
Here, close to you, you could make out his features. The circles under his eyes were dark, and put quite plainly, he looked as close to death as you were. His long hair was messy, and you could make out a gentle shadow across his jaw and chin. He always preferred to be clean shaven—he had skipped his morning shave.
“I thought you were going to die,” He murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead, “What the fuck happened?”
You opened your mouth, trying to find your voice. After inhaling deeply and trying to clear your throat, it came to you. When you spoke, it hurt.
“Storm caught us off guard…” You winced. “Truly.”
He shook his head, before pressing his forehead to yours. He grabbed one of your hands and clasped it with both of his, grasped as if in prayer, utter devotion. “I have half a mind to lock you in this room and never let you outside again. We thought you were dead, Y/N. We brought you in and nothing we did was warming you up. It took hours.”
“I’m still cold,” You agreed weakly.
Cregan frowned, noting the temperature of your fingers. “Maester Cromwell said that would happen. Your nerves are shot. You’ll feel cold for the next day or so. We’ll run you a hot bath, the servants will stoke the fire, and I’ll have some broth brought up.”
“Thank you,” You mumbled, “You saved me.”
For the first time in hours, maybe even days, he smiled. It was small, but it was for you, and it was all you needed. “I promised to keep you safe, did I not?”
“You did.” You managed to lift your head, pressing your lips to his. The kiss was gentle, reverent, and one of his hands cradled the back of your neck, the other moving down to your stomach.
“Why didn’t you write and tell me,” He urged when you broke apart.
“Tell you…?”
His grip on your stomach tightened. Not enough to hurt—never to hurt. But his fingers splayed enough to reclaim, to show possession. “You’re pregnant.”
Your eyes snapped open, finally moving to place your hand over his. You sighed, the moment stolen away.
“I realized when I was at Karhold. My sister’s maester confirmed it as well. I wanted to tell you myself,” You explained, “See your face when I told you.”
He lowered his head, pressing a kiss to your stomach where his hand had just been, knowing that soon it would swell, that soon everyone would know he’d done his duty as your husband.
He pursed his lips. “I’m trying very hard not to be mad at you right now,” He confessed softly, “All of you should have known better. Should have turned around the second the wind picked up.”
“Turn around to where?” You asked gently, not angry at his sudden outburst. “We were closer to Winterfell than we were anywhere else. We had no choice, Cregan.”
He shook his head again, brow furrowed as he kissed you again. He moved his kisses from your lips, to your cheeks, nose, forehead, and ears. Finally, he buried his face in your neck. You shivered at his hot breath against your jugular.
When he spoke, his voice sounded harder than usual. He only got like this when he was holding back the full weight of his emotions. “Never scare me like that again.”
“I won’t,” You promised, “It’s over now. I’m here, with you.”
Now it was your turn to stroke his hair. “There were others that went missing,” You remembered, “What of them? My horse?”
He pulled away to look at you. His face had returned to the sternness you always expected of him. “She’s resting. Petyr Manderly and Willas Snow are safe. Ser Petyr has lost two fingers from the cold. Ser Willas is still asleep, as far as I’ve heard.”
You nodded. “Thank the Gods,” You whispered, “One death was too many.”
“He’ll be given a proper funeral tomorrow,” Cregan said.
You looked down, moving to rise. “I want to go—“
Cregan grabbed your shoulders gently, trying to press you back into the mattress. “Absolutely not. You are on strict orders to remain abed.”
You raised an eyebrow. “From the maester?”
“From me,” He insisted, “Your lord husband.”
Finally, you smiled. “Ah,” You managed, “ A good thing I never listen to him anyway.”
He was almost relieved at your defiance. You were the most stubborn woman he’d ever met, the spitting image of every southerner’s mental preconception of a bull-headed northern woman.
“You want to pay your respects, wife, I understand. But you are both recovering from near freezing to death and now in delicate condition, carrying our babe. I cannot have you overexerting yourself like this.”
You sat up. He let you, though it looked almost painful to not push you back.
“I will go, but not for long,” You told him. Not requesting, nor commanding. Informing. “The man died escorting me, in our service. I will not miss his funeral. He gave his life—the least I can do is spare a few moments of mine to give his widow my condolences.”
“Fucking hells, woman.” Cregan closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. You did not look away, hardening your gaze.
At last, he relented. “Very well. But you are to stay less than an hour. I will accompany you and carry you back to this room myself if I have to.”
You grabbed his face, cradling his jaw in your cold hands. “Thank you for understanding, Cregan.”
He hummed, kissing the pad of your thumb. “I’ll send for the maester.”
You smiled, glad to finally be home. “Send for some food, too, please. Your son is starving.”
“Or daughter,” Cregan suggested.
Your smile grew wide. “As stubborn as I?”
He gave you another kiss, hands cradling slowly warming fingers. “I would have it no other way.”
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