Trumanblack

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fisherman

Aemond Targaryen x Velayron!Reader

Description: Aemond Targaryen was cruel and ruthless, a Green Prince who fell in love with the Velaryon Ghost.

Warnings: This is AU,, so the dance happens but without Aemond. Smut, P-in-V, the feels for unrequited love but it’s just Aemond being Aemond. Mean!Aemond, cold toward the reader, oral female receiving. Aging up Aemond, he’s around the same age as Laenor/Reader, Pregnancy, mentions of childbirth not too much in detail, I lowkeyyy got carried away with this one. Kind of a slice of life?

Author’s Note: I literally have so many drafts! So I want to clear those out first! I wrote this almost a year ago! Happy Readings!

sometime at the beginning of the dance of the dragon

Location: Pentos

Before Viserys I death, Targaryen Golden Era

──────── Driftmark ────────

The dawn in Pentos never arrived with the sound of trumpets or the screaming of dragons. It came with the rhythmic thrum of heavy ropes snapping against wooden masts and the low, melodic chanting of dockworkers hauling crates of lysene silk. You stood on the stone balcony of the manse, a structure of pale marble that seemed to grow directly out of the sea cliffs. The banners of House Velaryon—the silver seahorse on a field of turquoise—snapped sharply in the salt breeze, a silent declaration of who truly commanded these waters.

You moved through the morning with a quiet, deliberate grace. Your voice was never raised, yet when you walked the long wharves, the chaos of the port settled into an orderly hum. You did not carry a sword; the weight of a ledger was enough to command the respect of captains who had sailed the Seas. They knew the Ghost of Pentos saw every coin, every grain of salt, and every bolt of cloth that crossed her docks.

In the solar, the air smelled of dried parchment and the sharp tang of ink. You sat at a desk of dark ironwood, your fingers tracing the wax seals on letters from Driftmark. Your father’s sprawling, restless script spoke of blockades and brewing storms in the Gullet, of a realm preparing to bleed. You read them with a calm, steady gaze, your expression as unreadable as the horizon.

You dipped your quill and began to write, your hand fluid and sure. You did not draft manifestos or declarations of war. Instead, you coordinated the shipment of winter wheat to the Stepstones and moved gold through the Iron Bank to ensure the Velaryon fleet remained the best-fed and best-clothed navy in the known world. You were the silent engine of their survival, providing the sustenance they needed while refusing to partake in the hunger for the throne.

By midday, you were at the tide line, watching a massive carrack pull into the harbor. The sailors looked down at the lone woman on the shore, clad in simple sea-grey wool with a single strand of pearls at her throat. You were a Velaryon of the sea, anchored by the tides, thriving in a peace you had built with your own two hands.

Soon, The evening mist had begun to roll in from the Narrow Sea, draping the marble spires of Pentos in a soft, grey shroud. You sat on the edge of the stone terrace, your bare feet dangling over the precipice where the garden met the salt-spray.

In all the usual madness of your day you had forgotten it was your nameday, a date you usually let pass with nothing more than a quiet glass of spiced wine and a longer look at the horizon.

The heavy, rhythmic beat of wings had announced your mother’s arrival long before her boots hit the stone. Rhaenys Targaryen did not descend like a conqueror; she landed with the practiced grace of a woman who was born to the sky. Now, she sat beside you, the Queen Who Never Was, looking strangely small without the saddle of Meleys.

Between you sat a cedar chest, its lid thrown back to reveal a dragon’s egg. It was a stunning thing, the scales a deep, iridescent teal that shimmered like the water in the deep trenches of the Gullet.

“Are you okay? Are you eating? You look skinnier—thinner—unhealthy.” She said worried

“I’m fine, mother,” you whispered, your voice barely lifting above the sound of the tide as you reached out to trace the cold, stony ridges of the egg. It felt heavy with a potential you had long ago decided to leave behind.

“I know—your father worries. You know him,” Rhaenys said, her eyes fixed on your profile, searching for a trace of the restless fire that consumed the rest of their house.

“I know. I am fine. I am free. I feel amazing.” You turned to her then, a genuine, soft smile tugging at your lips. There was no bitterness in your isolation, only the profound relief of a woman who had stepped out of a burning room and into the cool night air.

Rhaenys reached out, her hand warm against your shoulder. “Laenor and Laena miss you. They speak of the Ghost of Pentos as if you’ve become a myth they’re afraid to lose.”

“I miss them more,” you admitted, the quiet ache of distance finally surfacing. “And the nephews that Laenor... breeded.”

The smirk that crossed your face was a flash of the twin who used to race him through the halls of High Tide. It was a shared secret, a silent acknowledgment of the truths hidden behind the Velaryon name.

“They are good boys,” Rhaenys said, her voice softening with a grandmother’s fierce pride. “Strong, kind, and clever. You would love them, and I would love for you to meet them. They deserve to know the aunt who keeps the world turning while their parents play at court.”

You looked back at the egg, its teal scales catching the dying light. It was a beautiful tether to a life of fire and blood, but as you watched your merchant ships guided by the Velaryon banners into the safety of the harbor, you knew your power didn't need to hatch to be real.

“Perhaps one day,” you said softly, closing the lid of the chest with a gentle click. “When the winds stay fair and the dragons stay in their pits. For now, tell them their aunt is watching the sea for them.”

The weight of your mother’s silver-threaded cloak was warm against your cheek as you settled into her side, the two of you silhouetted against the vast, darkening expanse of the Pentoshi coast. For a moment, you weren't the Ghost of Pentos or the merchant queen of the Narrow Sea; you were simply a daughter seeking the familiar scent of sea salt and dragon smoke that followed Rhaenys everywhere.

“How are my nieces?” you whispered, the words catching slightly in the humid air. You thought of Baela and Rhaena, fierce and bright, growing up in a world that seemed determined to cage them in one way or another.

Rhaenys tilted her head, resting it atop yours, her hand coming up to cover yours where it lay on your lap. “Great,” she murmured, her voice vibrating with a rare, relaxed warmth. “They miss you more than words can imagine. To them, you aren't a ghost at all. You are a hero—a Lady who bowed to no beast. You always send them gold and sweets, and they think you live in a palace of glass at the edge of the world.”

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, the sound disappearing into the wind. “A palace of glass. If only they saw the ink stains on my fingers and the dust on my ledgers.”

“They see a woman who chose her own horizon,” your mother corrected gently, her grip on your hand tightening. “They see a Velaryon who didn't need a dragon’s wings to fly away from the things that would have broken her. Every time a shipment of Pentoshi honey or Myrish lace arrives with your seal, Baela declares it a bounty from the Sea Goddess herself.”

You smiled, eyes closing as you imagined the girls tearing into the crates you’d spent weeks carefully curating. You sent them the best the Essosi markets had to offer—not just for the luxury of it, but because you wanted them to know there was a world beyond the grim stone of Dragonstone and the stifling politics of the Red Keep.

“They are strong, then?” you asked. “I miss them—I hate to admit I even miss Daemon.”

“Fierce as the fires they were born from,” Rhaenys said. “But they lack your stillness. They haven't learned yet that the quietest heart often holds the most territory and Daemon—“ she laughs for a moment “Daemon is Daemon.”

The two of you sat in silence for a long time, watching the silver seahorse banners ripple above the harbor. In that moment, the dragon’s egg in the chest felt less like a burden and more like a bridge—not to a life of war, but to the family that looked toward the east and saw a beacon of what it meant to be truly free.

As night fell, The silhouette of Meleys became a mere speck against the bruised purple of the dawn sky before vanishing entirely into the clouds. The roar of dragon wings, which usually vibrated in your very marrow, faded until the only sound left was the rhythmic, indifferent lap of the tide against the sea wall.

You stood on the balcony for a long time, the salt spray misting your skin. A deep, hollow ache settled in your chest—the kind that only came when the scent of home departed as quickly as it had arrived.

But as the sun climbed higher, hitting the white stone of your courtyard, you felt the familiar steadying of your heart. You looked down at your hands; they were still, unburdening themselves of the tension that always came with the Targaryen name.

It was safer this way. Here, the only fires were the ones in your hearth and the beacons that guided your ships. Here, no one looked at you and saw a piece on a board or a womb to be traded for an alliance. You were the Ghost, a woman who had successfully untethered herself from a sinking ship.

You turned away from the empty sky and walked back into your solar. The teal dragon's egg sat on the table, a beautiful, stony weight. You didn't reach for it. Instead, you picked up your quill.

The ink was black and wet, a sharp contrast to the dragon fire your mother carried. You began to draft a new ledger for the spring harvest, the scratching of the nib on parchment a grounding, rhythmic comfort. You were sad, yes—you would always miss the brother who shared your face and the sisters who shared your blood—who was now sadly gone—but as you looked out at the bustling harbor flying your father’s banners, you knew you had won a prize they never would.

You had your soul, and it belonged to no one but the sea.

──────── Driftmark ────────

The marketplace of Pentos was a labyrinth of noise—the rhythmic clack of weavers' looms, the sizzle of street food, and the melodic bartering of merchants. Yet, for all the sensory chaos, you felt the silence following you. It was a cold spot in the air, a shadow that didn't move with the sun.

You had felt it for three days. A ripple in the steady water of your life.

You stopped at a stall selling sun-dried figs, your fingers hovering over the woven baskets. You didn't look back, but you saw him in the reflection of a polished bronze platter hanging nearby. A tall, cloaked figure, his movements far too disciplined for a common traveler. He didn't browse; he tracked.

You turned into a narrower alleyway, one that led toward the sea-wall where the crowds thinned and the wind swallowed sound. You heard his boots—the heavy, rhythmic strike of high-born leather on cobblestone. When the salt spray began to mist the air, you stopped.

You shifted slowly, your movements fluid and devoid of the panicked haste he likely expected. Your hand didn't even twitch toward the slender blade at your hip; it remained at your side, relaxed. Your eyes, the deep violet of a calm sea at dusk, met his.

Under the deep shadow of his hood, a single, hauntingly familiar purple eye stared back. The other was hidden, but the tension in his jaw and the scarred line across his face told a story of a boy who had grown into a weapon.

“Do you wish to kill me?” you asked softly.

The words weren't a challenge or a plea.

"Do you wish to kill me?" you repeated, your voice a soft, melodic contrast to the harsh clatter of the nearby market.

He didn't answer immediately. His gaze dropped to your hands, noting they weren't white-knuckled or trembling. You stood with the easy posture of a woman who owned the ground beneath her feet, not a princess hiding from a war.

"You are a difficult shadow to follow, My Lady," he finally said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that felt like velvet over stone. He didn't move to draw a weapon, but he didn't relax his guard either. "Most would be terrified to find a stranger at their heels in a place like this."

"Fear is a very loud emotion," you replied with a small, tranquil smile. "It drowns out the sound of the sea. I prefer the quiet."

You took a slow step toward him, your movements as fluid as the tide. You didn't see a Prince of the Realm; you saw a man who looked like he hadn't slept in a week, his skin pale and wind-bitten.

"You look weary," you whispered, your thumb grazing the edge of his hood. "My mother flies a long way to visit this shore. If you have been sent to watch her, you've wasted your journey. She is already gone."

Aemond felt the air leave his lungs. He had been sent by his grandfather to find a conspirator, a hidden treasury, or a secret army. Instead, he had found a woman who smelled of sea salt and expensive ink, who looked at him not with the terror he was used to, but with a devastating, quiet kindness.

"I was not sent for her," he lied, his voice dropping an octave, though he didn't move his face away from your hand. "I was sent to see what Pentos was hiding."

"And what have you found?" you asked, your eyes searching his.

"A ghost," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips.

"Then follow me to the manse. The wind is picking up, and I find that secrets are much easier to keep over a warm meal." The path up the cliff was narrow and steep, carved into the very face of the white stone. You climbed it with the sure-footed ease of someone who had memorized every jagged edge and smooth pebble, your sea-grey skirts fluttering like a gull's wing in the rising wind. Behind you, the heavy, rhythmic thrum of Aemond’s boots followed. He didn't speak; he simply loomed, a dark shadow against the brilliance of the setting sun.

He was glaring at the back of your head, his hand white-knuckled on the hilt of his sword. He hated this. He was a prince of the blood, the rider of Vhagar, the greatest living weapon in the Seven Kingdoms. He should be over the God's Eye, or raining fire upon the Black Queen’s strongholds. Instead, his grandfather had sent him here, across the Narrow Sea, to stalk a woman who spent her days arguing over the price of peppercorns.

To him, you were a loose thread in the tapestry of their war—a Velaryon treasury that needed to be seized or silenced. He could feel the ancient, simmering heat of Vhagar resting on the distant beach below, a monster capable of turning this entire city into a graveyard of melted glass. One word from him, and you, your ledgers, and your peaceful little life would cease to exist.

You reached the summit and pushed open the heavy oak doors of the manse. The hinges didn't creak; they were well-oiled and silent. Aemond stepped into the foyer, his single eye darting to the corners of the room, looking for the ambush he was certain was coming.

"Where are your guards?" he rasped, his voice echoing off the vaulted marble ceiling.

"I have no need for men with spears," you said softly, walking deeper into the house. You didn't look back to see if he was following; you knew he was. "The sea protects me from my enemies, and the cliffs protect me from the wind. Beyond that, I find that people rarely bother someone who is willing to listen to them."

The house was breathtakingly empty. No servants scurried through the halls; no master-at-arms paced the battlements. It was just you, the salt air, and the sprawling silence. You walked into the kitchen, a room filled with the scent of dried herbs and citrus, and began to light a small fire in the hearth.

Aemond stood in the doorway, his silhouette cutting a sharp, jagged shape against the domestic warmth. He looked entirely out of place—a hawk in a dovecote. His gaze landed on your defenseless back as you leaned over the flame. He could kill you now. It would be a mercy, really, compared to the war that was coming for the rest of your kin.

"You are a fool," he spat, though the venom in his voice felt forced, even to his own ears. "You sit here in the open, flying your father's banners, unprotected. Do you think your name is a shield? Do you think my family will let you sit out the dance while you line your father's pockets?"

"I think," you said, turning around with a wooden bowl of dark, glistening olives in your hands, "that you are very hungry. And I think that if you were going to kill me, you wouldn't be standing in my kitchen complaining about my lack of security."

You set the bowl on the heavy timber table and gestured to the chair opposite you. "Sit. Tell me why a man with a dragon's shadow on his soul has come to find a ghost."

Aemond’s jaw tightened. He wanted to scream, to draw his steel, to show you the terror he was capable of. But as he looked at your steady hands and the quiet, flickering light in your eyes, he found himself pulling out the chair and sitting down. “Why was your mother here?”

"My mother," you said again, your voice a cooling balm to his heat.

"Obviously!" he spat, the word cracking like a whip. "I am not blind. I know who she is. But what was she doing here, in a port that belongs to the Sea Snake? What business does the Queen Who Never Was have with a ghost who claims to want no part in this war?"

You didn't flinch at his tone. You simply reached for the cedar chest, your fingers grazing the teal scales of the dragon’s egg visible through the lid. "It is my nameday," you answered softly. "She came to bring me this. And to bring me the things that matter more than gold or steel."

You looked up at him, your expression peaceful. "She gives me gifts from Laenor and Laena. My sister is dead, yes, and yet my mother talks of her as if she is still alive. As if she is just over the next horizon."

Aemond stopped his pacing, his single eye fixed on the egg. The mention of the dead woman whose dragon he now commanded caused a flicker of something dark and complex to cross his face.

"She speaks of ghosts because she is surrounded by them," Aemond murmured, his voice losing its edge, falling into a low, dangerous rasp. "But why fly all this way for a daughter who refuses to fight? Why waste a dragon's breath on a nameday?"

You didn't stop your work. You sliced a loaf of crusty bread, the rhythmic thud of the knife against the wood providing a steady heartbeat to the room. "Is it? My mother carries her memory like a living thing. In this house, time doesn't move the way it does in King’s Landing. Here, people are only truly gone when we stop speaking their names."

You set the bread down and looked at him, your expression devoid of the judgment or fear he was so accustomed to. "She came because I am her daughter. Not because of a blockade, or a throne, or a council meeting. She came to give me a piece of my family because she knows I will never go back to find it myself."

Aemond leaned forward, the firelight dancing in the depths of his sapphire eye, making it glow with a cold, artificial light. He looked haunted, the weight of his mission clashing with the unsettling peace of your presence.

"She gives you a dragon's egg?" he spat, gesturing toward the chest with a gloved hand. "To a woman who hides in the shadows of Pentos? What a waste of a legacy. A dragon is not a nameday bauble to be kept on a shelf. It is fire made flesh. It is power."

"To you, perhaps," you replied softly, sliding a plate of bread and cheese toward him. You didn't raise your voice, even as he insulted your life. "To me, it is just a stone that reminds me of the sister I lost and the mother who still loves me. I have no intention of hatching it, Aemond. I have no intention of riding."

He stared at the food as if it were poisoned, then back at you. His anger was a shield, but you were refusing to strike it. "You sit here in this silence," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low register, "while your father’s ships prepare for slaughter. You are a Velaryon. You are the Ghost. Do you truly think you can stay 'fine' when the world burns? Do you truly think a dragon won't find you here?"

"A dragon has already found me," you whispered, leaning your hip against the table and meeting his gaze with a steady, unblinking calm. "And yet, here I am. Still fine. Still breathing. You haven't touched your bread, Aemond."

The use of his name, spoken with such soft familiarity, hung in the air like a bridge between your peace and his war. Aemond’s hand, which had been hovering near his hilt, slowly relaxed, his fingers brushing the grain of the wooden table instead. He looked at you, truly looked at you, and for the first time, the Prince who had come to kill a ghost felt like he was the one being haunted.

He looked down at the simple meal, then back at you, his single eye narrowing as if trying to discern a trap. "You speak as if we are old friends. You know who I am, and you know what I represent. My grandfather wants your gold, and my brother wants your head to stop the flow of silver to the Blacks. And yet, you offer me bread."

"I offer you what you need," you replied, your voice remains a soothing hum. "You didn't fly across the sea because you wanted to burn a merchant's house. You came because you wanted to see if the rumors were true—if there was someone of your blood who managed to walk away from the fire and survive."

Aemond stood abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the stone floor. He paced to the window, looking out at the dark cliffs and the distant, rhythmic light of the harbor. "You haven't walked away. You are simply hiding. But the tide is rising, and soon, there will be no shore left to stand on."

He turned back to you, his face half-hidden in shadow. "I should take that egg. I should take you. I should give the Greens the Ghost they so fear."

"You could," you agreed, crossing your arms loosely. "But then you would lose the only place in the world where no one is screaming at you to be a monster. Is that what you want?" Your hand reacting to his sleeve.

Aemond’s reaction to your touch was not a softening, but a recoil. He jerked his arm away as if your fingers were white-hot iron, his face contorting into a mask of pure, sharp-edged loathing. The vulnerability you thought you saw vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory sneer that made the kitchen feel like a tomb.

"Do not presume to speak of what I am," he hissed, his voice cutting through the quiet like a serrated blade. He stepped toward you, using his height to pin you against the heavy timber of the table. He didn't touch you, but the sheer force of his malice was a physical weight. "And do not speak of my name with that pathetic, honeyed tongue. You sit here in your silk and your salt, playing at being a martyr of peace, while you profit from the very blood you claim to abhor."

He looked down at you, his single eye scanning your face with a clinical, detached cruelty. If he found anything about your presence appealing, he buried it under a mountain of spite.

"You asked if I would kill you with her dragon," he murmured, leaning down until his lips were inches from your ear. His breath was cold. "Perhaps. Or perhaps I'll simply leave you here to watch the horizon until the day my brother's fleet arrives to strip this marble from the cliffs. You think you are free because you have no guards? You are not free. You are a pig in a pen, waiting for the butcher to decide the date of the feast."

He straightened up, his gaze flicking to the teal dragon egg with utter contempt. He reached out and slammed the lid of the cedar chest shut, the crack of wood echoing like a gunshot.

"Keep your bread," he spat, turning his back on you to stare out at the darkened sea. "And keep your silence. It won't save you when the fire reaches this shore. I am here to ensure your father’s gold stops flowing to the usurper. If you get in my way, I won't need a dragon to deal with you. I'll do it with my own hands, and I won't feel a shred of remorse for the 'Ghost' I've laid to rest."

He stood there, a jagged silhouette of leather and silver, radiating a coldness that no hearth fire could ever hope to warm.

"You think because I sat at your table that I have forgotten my purpose?" he continued to sneer, his voice dropping to a low, guttural threat. "I didn't come here for a meal. I came to see if the Ghost of Pentos was worth the effort of a dragon's flame. So far, I find you nothing but a coward hiding behind the memory of a sister you weren't there to save."

He stood up straight, looming over you, his leather brigandine creaking. He looked at the dragon's egg with pure, unadulterated contempt.

“I’m perfectly fine.” You smiled with a simple shrug

"You aren't fine," he spat. "You are irrelevant. You think you’re free? You’re just a bird in a cage who has forgotten that the door is only open because I haven't decided to kick it shut yet. I find the smell of this house—of your 'freedom'—sickening."

He turned his back on you, walking toward the hearth as if he couldn't stand to look at your calm expression for another second. "If you have letters for your father, write them tonight. Tomorrow, I may burn you.”

You didn't offer a rebuttal. You didn't plead for your life or defend your father’s honor. You simply stood by the hearth, the warmth of the fading fire at your back, and watched him. His words were designed to draw blood, to make you flinch, to provoke the screaming Targaryen temper he was so familiar with, but you remained as unyielding as the cliffs outside.

Aemond didn't look back. He stalked toward the door, his heavy cloak snapping behind him like a threat. The air in the room seemed to follow him, turning cold the moment he stepped over the threshold and into the darkened hall.

"Good night, Aemond," you whispered.

The parting was so soft it was almost a prayer, drifting through the shadows to catch him just before he disappeared. You saw the slight, momentary hitch in his shoulders—a fracture in his rigid posture—before he vanished into the gloom of the guest wing. He didn't answer. He didn't have to. The sound of a heavy door thudding shut in the distance was the only response you received.

You didn't linger in the kitchen. You extinguished the candles one by one, moving with a practiced, rhythmic calm that refused to be unsettled by a prince’s cruelty. You climbed the stairs to your own chambers, a room that smelled of lavender and the deep, dark scent of the midnight sea.

Once inside, you didn't bolt the door. You had lived your life without locks, and you would not start today, even with a kinslayer under your roof. You sat by the window, watching the distant, rhythmic blink of the lighthouse in the harbor. Down on the beach, far below, the massive, hunched shape of Vhagar was a mountain of obsidian against the starlight, her occasional, low rumble vibrating through the stone of the house.

He was mean, he was cold, and he was dangerous. He looked at your peace and saw a target. But as you laid down in the silence, you knew something he didn't. You had seen the way his hand trembled when you mentioned your sister. You had seen the exhaustion behind the sapphire.

He could threaten to burn your world to ash, but for tonight, he was just a guest in a house that didn't fear him.

The light of the morning was pale and watery, filtering through the high windows of the solar. You stood a few feet away, your toes curling against the cool marble floor, watching the man who had threatened to unmake your world just hours before. On the cushions of the low divan, Aemond looked less like a conqueror and more like a relic of a forgotten age. The harsh lines of his face had smoothed in the half-light, his silver hair spilled across the dark fabric like moonlight on oil.

You watched the subtle hitch in his throat, the way his knuckles whitened where his arms were tucked across his chest. He was a creature of instincts; he had known you were there the moment the hem of your shift brushed the floor.

"You are peaceful in your sleep, Aemond," you whispered, your voice a soft ripple in the morning quiet. "How long do you plan to be here before you kill me?"

"A moon," he answered. His voice was a dry rasp, devoid of the sleep-heavy warmth most men possessed upon waking. His eyes remained closed, the long lashes casting shadows over his cheekbones.

"Well then," you said, turning toward the small kitchenette where the morning’s fruit and bread sat waiting. "You best help around if you plan to spend your time here."

The reaction was instantaneous. His eyes snapped open—the violet one sharp and cold, the sapphire glinting with a sudden, jagged light. He sat up in one fluid, aggressive motion, the cushions shifting beneath his weight.

"I am a Prince," he snapped, the word dripping with an arrogance intended to remind you of the crown you had walked away from. "I am the blood of the dragon. I will not play servant to some Velaryon ghost who has forgotten her place."

You didn't turn around. You simply picked up a pitcher of fresh water, pouring it into a basin with a steady, rhythmic splash. "In this house, there are no Princes. There are only those who eat and those who provide. I have no servants to fetch your water or brush the sand from your boots. If you intend to stay a moon, you will find the silence very hungry indeed if you do not contribute."

Aemond stood, his frame looming large in the small room. He looked at your back, his jaw tight enough to crack. He was used to being served, feared, or fought. Being told to work was a novel insult he didn't quite know how to handle.

"You are bold for someone whose life hangs by a thread," he hissed, stepping toward you until the scent of leather and cold air preceded him.

"And you are remarkably loud for a man trying to hide from a war," you replied, finally turning to face him. You held out a basket of laundry—linens that smelled of lavender and sea salt. "The well is behind the house. I suggest you start there. Unless, of course, the great Prince Aemond is afraid of a little water?"

Aemond followed you down the cliff path, his mood as foul as a gathering storm. He had spent the last hour soaking his fine leather boots and cursing every ancestor who had ever crossed the sea, but the weight of the water bucket in his hand felt heavier than it should have. His palm still burned where your skin had touched his at the well—a soft, steady pressure that had made his breath hitch in a way no dragon-ride ever could.

He grumbled under his breath, a low string of High Valyrian insults aimed at your head, but he didn't turn back. He watched the way you moved ahead of him, your hair caught in the sea breeze, revealing the graceful line of your neck before veiling your face again.

"I wouldn’t need to learn this nonsense!" he snapped at your back, his voice echoing off the white stone. "At any given moment, I could be at the head of a council! I am a prince!"

"I know," you whispered, stopping at the edge of the bustling harbor. You turned to face him, the turquoise banners of the Sea Snake snapping above you. You didn't look at him with the awe a prince expected; you looked at him with a knowing, quiet clarity. "Come, let’s go to the ports. I know that’s why you’re really here. You want to see if I’m smuggling goods, men, gold, or grain to the blacks. To see if I’m rallying Pentos for their cause."

Aemond’s expression shifted, his single eye narrowing until it was a sliver of violet ice. He dropped the pretense of the disgruntled guest, his posture straightening into that of a soldier. He stepped closer, crowding your space, the smell of the salt-tide mixing with the cold iron of his presence.

"You speak of treason very casually," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low vibration. "Do you think that because we share blood, I will look the other way? If I find so much as a single crate of Myrish crossbows destined for Dragonstone, I will burn these docks with you tied to the mast."

"Then look," you invited, gesturing toward the rows of massive carracks and merchant ships. "Walk the line with me, Aemond. Check every manifest. Count every bag of grain. If you are to be my shadow for a moon, you might as well see how a ghost manages her empire."

You began to walk, weaving through the shouting sailors and heavy-laden wagons. Aemond stalked behind you, his hand never far from his sword, his gaze scanning every face and every seal. He was looking for a war, but all he found was the clockwork efficiency of a woman who commanded the sea without ever needing to shout.

"That ship," he pointed out sharply, gesturing to a sleek vessel flying no colors. "Where is it from? What is in the hold?"

"Saffron and silk from Yi Ti," you answered without needing to check your ledger. "It goes to the Free Cities. Not a single blade on board, unless you count the kitchen knives."

He let out a sharp, frustrated breath, hating that you had an answer for everything. He wanted to find a reason to hate you—a reason to be the butcher his grandfather expected—but as he watched you navigate the chaos of the docks with nothing but a soft word and a calm gaze, he found himself increasingly unsettled by the silence you carried.

──────── Driftmark ────────

The first week was a war of attrition, fought not with steel, but with the steady, quiet rhythm of your life. Aemond arrived as a storm, intending to shatter your peace, but he found himself caught in the doldrums of your kindness.

By the third day, his sharp, biting remarks about your "useless" existence began to lose their edge, mostly because they were met with a calm nod and a bowl of warm stew. He spent his afternoons stalking the docks, his hand white-knuckled on his sword hilt, looking for a reason to burn your ships. Instead, he found only the way the sailors bowed their heads to you in genuine reverence—not out of fear of a dragon, but out of respect for the woman who ensured their families were fed.

By the fifth day, the silence of the cliffside manse had stopped feeling like a void and started feeling like a sanctuary. He found himself watching you from the shadows of the hallway, mesmerized by the way you hummed to yourself while organizing ledgers. He hated the way you looked in the moonlight, soft and untethered by the heavy chains of duty that strangled him. He hated that he knew exactly how much sugar you liked in your tea. Most of all, he hated the way his heart skipped a beat when you walked into a room, though he told himself it was merely his warrior's instinct reacting to a threat.

He remained cold. He remained mean. He snapped at you for the way you folded his clothes and sneered at the "pauper’s work" you forced him to do. But every night, when he lay on the cushions in your solar, he found himself listening for the sound of your breathing in the next room, anchored by the very ghost he had been sent to exorcise.

On the seventh day, the air was particularly sweet, smelling of jasmine and salt. You found him sharpening his blade on the terrace, his movements jagged and restless.

“Come! I have a surprise for you, sweet Aemond,” you smiled gently, your voice cutting through his dark thoughts.

Aemond froze at the sound of the epithet. "Sweet Aemond." The words felt like a mockery, a jagged piece of glass wrapped in velvet. In the Red Keep, he was "the kinslayer," "the usurper’s brother," or "the rider of Vhagar." No one had ever dared call him sweet, not since he was a boy clutching a hollow hope for a dragon of his own.

He stood by the window of your solar, his tall, lean frame casting a long shadow over your ledgers. Over the last week, his internal map of you had become dangerously detailed. He knew that you woke before the gulls did; he knew that you took your tea with a sprig of mint; he knew that despite his biting insults, you never once raised your voice to defend yourself. It infuriated him. Every time he snapped at you, expecting a fight, you simply offered him a plate of honeyed cakes or a quiet smile.

"Do not call me that," he ground out, his voice a low, warning rumble. He turned to face you, his hand instinctively gripping the hilt of his sword. "I am not one of your nieces to be pampered with sweets and soft words. I am a Prince of the Realm, and I am here on a mission of blood."

But you were already moving toward the door, your skirts swishing against the floor with a rhythmic, soothing sound. You didn't even look back to see if he was following, a move that grated on his pride because it showed just how little you feared his temper.

"The blood can wait until tomorrow, Aemond," you said over your shoulder, your voice a gentle hum. "The sun is at the right height, and the tide is perfect. Come."

With a sharp, frustrated exhale, he followed. He told himself he was only going to ensure you weren't meeting a spy in the cliffs. He told himself he was merely monitoring a high-value target. He certainly didn't tell himself that he had begun to look forward to the way the sea air caught in your hair.

You led him down a path he hadn't seen yet—not toward the docks, but toward a hidden cove shielded by a natural arch of white stone. The water here was a brilliant, translucent turquoise, still and clear as a mirror.

"What is this?" he demanded, his eye darting to the caves. "Some hidden treasury? A smuggling point?"

"Look," you whispered, pointing toward the center of the cove.

The "surprise" wasn't gold or steel. It was a pod of sea-dolphins, their silver backs breaking the surface of the water in a coordinated, peaceful dance. In the center of the cove, a small, weathered boat was moored, filled with buckets of small silver fish.

"You brought me here... to look at fish?" Aemond hissed, his face contorting with a mix of confusion and mounting rage. "I have a war to win! I have a dragon that could swallow this entire cove! I did not cross the Narrow Sea to play at being a naturalist!"

"I brought you here to see something that doesn't want anything from you," you said softly, stepping closer to him. You didn't touch him this time, but the space between you was charged with the heat of his frustration. "No councils, no grandfather, no oaths. Just the world as it is. Sit, Aemond. Feed them. I promise, the war will still be there when we get back."

He looked at the bucket, then at your face. He looked like he wanted to strike the basket from your hands, but for a fleeting second, the sapphire in his eye didn't look like a cold gem—it looked like a fragment of the very sea you were showing him.

The thought crossed your mind before you could even process. The splash was deafening in the quiet cove, a violent intrusion into the stillness of the water. Aemond went under with a muffled shout of surprise, his silver hair billowing like smoke beneath the surface. When he broke the water, he was a vision of pure, freezing fury. He lunged forward, his movements hampered by the sodden weight of his leathers, and caught you by the waist. His grip was bruising, his fingers digging into your skin with an angry, condescending force that intended to punish you for your insolence.

"You insolent, mindless girl," he hissed, the water dripping from his chin as he hauled you flush against his chest. "I could have you drowned for less. I should take your head for even thinking to touch me."

You didn't pull away. Instead, you let your body go limp in his hold, your hands rising slowly to cradle the nape of his neck. Your skin was cool against his feverish heat. "You’ll be alright, sweet prince—"

"Don’t call me that," he ground out, his breath hitching as you pulled him a fraction closer. The water swirled around your waists, the turquoise depth making the world feel small, private, and dangerous.

"What should you have me call you?" you voiced softly, your eyes searching the turbulent violet of his. "Warrior? Kinslayer? It wouldn’t matter anyways. You’re here to end me at the moon’s end. Why worry over a name spoken by a ghost?"

Aemond didn't answer. The venomous retort died in his throat as his gaze dropped. The seawater had turned your silk shift into a second skin, the thin fabric clinging to every curve. His eye flickered to your lips, then down to your chest, where the cold water had made your nipples peak against the wet green cloth. He felt the sudden, violent thrum of his own pulse in his ears, louder than the crashing surf beyond the archway.

He had come to Pentos to destroy a legacy, but as he looked at you, he realized he was the one being unmade.

He didn't realize how close you both were until the tips of your noses brushed. He was still trying to find a way to be cruel, to find the words to push you back into the sea, but you didn't give him the chance. You leaned in, closing the final inch, and pressed your lips to his.

The kiss was slow and aching, tasting of salt and a deep, buried hunger. It wasn't the kiss of a prince and a victim; it was the collision of two people who had spent their lives in different kinds of exile. Aemond’s hands, which had been poised to shove you away, suddenly slid upward, his fingers tangling into your wet hair with a desperate, possessive growl. He kissed you back with a ferocity that spoke of every insult he’d hurled at you, every cold look he’d given you, and every night he’d spent listening to you breathe.

Aemond’s voice was a ragged, broken thing, caught between the Prince who demanded order and the man who was currently losing his footing in the tide. He tried to pull his head back, to regain some semblance of the cold, untouchable wall he had built around himself, but your tongue darted into his mouth, silencing his protests with a slick, bold heat.

"You think—" he started again, his breath hitching as you pulled away just an inch, only to dive back in. "That kissing me—seducing—"

He was trembling now, the water around you shivering with the tension in his muscles. He wanted to call it a trap. He wanted to sneer at your "merchant’s tricks," but as your lips moved to the sensitive skin of his neck, kissing him with a terrifying, gentle precision, his head fell back against the stone of the archway.

"—me—will stop your—" he tried to finish, his voice dropping to a desperate, broken whisper.

He felt the soft, rhythmic press of your body against his, the wet silk of your shift offering no barrier to the heat of your skin. His hands, which had started as a means to restrain you, tightened around your waist with a bruising, frantic possessiveness. He wasn't holding you back anymore; he was holding onto you as if you were the only thing keeping him from sinking into the dark.

"—end? Stop me from—"

The threat died in the air, unfinished and hollow. He couldn't say the words kill you. Not while your breath was hot against his pulse, not while your hands were tangled in his hair, treating him as if he were something precious rather than a weapon of war.

He let out a low, guttural sound—half-sob, half-growl—and buried his face in the crook of your shoulder. He was a rider of the oldest dragon in the world, a master of the skies, yet here in the shallows, he was completely undone by a woman who didn't even own a sword.

"You are a demon," he rasped against your skin, his teeth grazing your collarbone in a way that wasn't quite a bite but promised something much deeper. "A sea-witch sent to ruin me. You think this changes what I am? What I have to do?"

Even as he said it, he was pulling you closer, his hips searching for yours beneath the water, his resolve dissolving into the turquoise depths of the cove.

He ripped away from you, The water cascaded off him in silver sheets as he tore himself away, the sudden absence of his heat leaving you chilled in the surf. Aemond didn't look back; he marched toward the sand with the rigid, jerky gait of a man fleeing a battlefield he had nearly lost. His chest was heaving, his wet leathers creaking with every aggressive stride.

"I don't think anything, I just want to kiss you," you whispered to his retreating back, your voice carrying easily over the gentle lap of the waves.

He stumbled slightly, his boots sinking into the wet grit of the shore, but he didn't turn. "You are a seductress," he threw over his shoulder, the words jagged and defensive. "It won’t change—it won’t change anything."

He reached the dry sand and spun around, his silver hair plastered to his face, his single eye wide and wild like a cornered animal’s. He looked at you standing there, the green silk clinging to your frame, looking every bit the ghost that haunted his every waking thought. The sight seemed to snap something in him, replacing his fleeting vulnerability with a harsh, commanding bark.

"Come on!" he shouted, his voice echoing off the stone archway. "Let’s get you dried off! Now!"

It was the tone he used for squires and soldiers, a desperate attempt to reclaim the hierarchy that had dissolved in the water. He stood at the edge of the path, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, refusing to come back into the water to help you. He couldn't risk it. He knew now that if he touched you again while the salt was still on your skin, the "moon’s end" would become a promise he’d never be able to keep.

You waded out slowly, the water dragging at your hem, watching him with a serene, unbothered expression that only seemed to infuriate him further. As you reached the sand, he draped his heavy, sodden cloak over your shoulders—not out of chivalry, but to hide you from his own sight.

"Move," he muttered, his jaw set in a hard line as he shoved past you toward the cliff path. "Before you catch a chill and I have to listen to you cough for the rest of the fortnight."

The walk back to the manse was silent, save for the squelch of his boots. He stayed five paces ahead of you, his back a wall of iron, but every few seconds his head would twitch, his eye darting back just enough to ensure you were still there, still breathing, still following him into the dark.

The heavy oak doors of the manse slammed shut behind you, the sound echoing through the empty, marble hall like a gavel. The air inside was cool, but the tension between you was suffocating. You reached out, your fingers grazing the sodden leather of his sleeve, but Aemond lurched away as if your skin carried a plague.

"Do not touch me! Do not!" He snapped, his voice cracking with a frantic, jagged energy. He backed into the center of the foyer, water pooling at his feet, his silver hair dripping onto the floor.

You didn't flinch. You stood your ground, the wet silk of your dress heavy against your legs, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. "Why?" you whispered, the word drifting through the shadows of the hall.

"I am not here to play stable boy!" he roared, his hands trembling at his sides. "To cook and clean and to play in the water! I am a Prince of the House of Dragons! I am the rider of Vhagar! I am here to kill you, to take your head, and to end this pathetic, ghostly game you play!"

In one fluid, lightning-fast motion, you reached to the small of your back. The metallic shink of a blade echoed through the room. You didn't point it at him; you held it out, hilt-first, the obsidian blade catching the dim light of the hallway.

Aemond recoiled, his hand flying to his own sword, his single eye wide with a shock he couldn't mask. He hadn't expected the Ghost to move with such lethal grace. He hadn't expected you to be the one to draw steel.

"Kill me," you said, your voice dropping to a low, steady hum that cut through his panic. You stepped toward him, forcing the hilt of the dagger into his chest until he was forced to take it or let it fall. "Why wait? Why torture yourself for another three weeks? Kill me now, Aemond. Leave my body here for my mother to find when she flies back, or for my father’s sailors to discover when they come for the grain."

You leaned in closer, your heart beating against the hand he held against his chest. Your eyes held his with a devastating, quiet clarity. "Don’t waste your time, sweet Aemond. If you are the monster they say you are, prove it. Put an end to the silence." You whispered as you pushed the dagger to his chest.

Aemond stared down at the dagger, then at your throat, his breathing coming in shallow, ragged hitches. The sapphire in his eye glinted with a desperate, agonizing conflict. He could do it. He could end the distraction, the sweetness, and the strange, terrifying peace you offered. But as the heat of your body radiated through the wet fabric, the Prince who had burned the Riverlands found that he couldn't even lift his arm.

"You think you are so brave," he rasped, his voice trembling as he dropped the dagger. It clattered onto the marble with a lonely, ringing sound. "You think this is a game. It is not a game."

He turned away from you, his shoulders hunched, looking utterly defeated by a woman who hadn't even raised her voice.

But then the sudden movement was a blur of leather and cold rage. His hand clamped around your throat, not to choke the life from you, but to anchor you, his thumb pressing firmly into the divot beneath your jaw. He yanked you forward so violently your toes nearly left the marble floor, and then his mouth was on yours—crashing, desperate, and devoid of any gentleness.

It wasn't a kiss of affection; it was a collision. It was the sound of his iron-clad resolve finally snapping in two.

You gasped softly against his lips, the sound swallowed by the heat of his mouth. Aemond groaned, a low, tortured vibration that rumbled from his chest into yours. He pushed you backward until your spine hit the heavy oak of the manse doors, the impact sending a jolt through your frame. He didn't let go. His fingers remained locked around your neck, his other hand coming up to tangle ruthlessly in your wet hair, tilting your head back to deepen the assault.

"Be quiet," he rasped against your lips, his voice a broken snarl. "For once in your life, be silent."

He was kissing you as if he could pull the peace right out of your lungs and claim it for himself. He tasted of salt, iron, and a frantic, starving hunger that a thousand years of war couldn't satisfy. Every time he pulled back for air, his forehead dropped against yours, his single eye wide and shadowed with a terrifying intensity.

"You think I don't see it?" he breathed, his grip on your throat softening, his thumb now tracing the line of your pulse, which was hammering as fast as a bird’s wing. "I see the peace. I see the world you've built away from the rot of our family. I see it, and I want to burn it to the ground just so I don't have to look at what I'll never have."

He moved his mouth to your ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. "You aren't a ghost. You're a curse. And if I don't kill you at the moon's end, I will be the one who is dead."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his face inches from yours. The sapphire in his eye glinted with a desperate, dark light, and for the first time, the Prince wasn't sneering. He was looking at you as if you were the only shore in a world made of drowning.

You grabbed his hand intertwining in yours, you guiding through the kitchen, your feet slowly moving against the floor. The hallway was a tunnel of shifting shadows as you led him toward the stairs, your damp skirts leaving a trail of dark droplets on the marble. You could hear the heavy, uneven rhythm of his breathing and the faint, metallic clink of his scabbard against his thigh. He was like a leashed predator, snarling at the tether but unable to break it.

When you reached the heavy oak door of your bedchamber, the air changed. The room smelled of dried lavender and the clean, sharp scent of the midnight sea.

Aemond stopped at the threshold, his single eye darting around the room as if he expected a trap, but he found the unmade bed, the soft rugs, the single candle flickering on the nightstand which was more terrifying to him than a battlefield.

"I’m going to be cold tonight," you said simply, finally letting go of his hand. Your fingers left a ghost of warmth on his skin that made him flex his jaw.

"Why would I care?" he snapped, his voice a jagged rasp. He remained by the door, his silhouette tall and imposing, his wet silver hair clinging to the dark leather of his doublet. "I told you, I am not your protector. I am not your husband. I am the man who is meant to ensure you never see another winter."

You didn't answer. You moved to the washstand, your back to him, and began to unlace the sodden green silk of your shift. The wet fabric clung stubbornly to your skin, requiring slow, deliberate movements. The sound of the silk sliding against your shoulders was loud in the silence of the room.

Aemond’s breath hitched. He shouldn't have stayed. Every instinct he possessed told him to turn, to walk out, to fly Vhagar into the clouds until the memory of your scent was scrubbed from his mind. Instead, he took a step forward, then another, until he was standing directly behind you.

He didn't touch you, but the heat radiating from him was a physical force.

"You are doing this on purpose," he hissed, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous vibration near your ear. "You think that if you let me into your bed, the blade will stay in its sheath. You think a Prince of the blood can be bought with a night of comfort."

"I think," you whispered, finally letting the wet silk pool at your waist as you turned to face him, "that you have spent your whole life being a weapon. I am simply offering you the chance to be a man."

Aemond looked down at you, his gaze raking over your shivering frame. The coldness in his eye didn't vanish, but it was joined by a dark, simmering hunger that threatened to consume everything in the room. He reached out, his gloved hand trembling slightly as he hooked a finger under the strap of your shift, pulling you an inch closer.

"If I stay," he warned, his voice a broken growl, "there will be no peace in this bed. Only the storm."

"Then keep me warm, Prince of Blood," you teased, your voice a silken thread that wound around his throat tighter than any noose.

"I am more likely to burn you than warm you," he muttered, but his hand, still encased in its wet leather glove, moved of its own accord. He traced the line of your hip, his touch hesitant at first, then increasingly possessive. He hated how easily you could command him without a single shout. You grabbed his arm.

Aemond let out a sound that was half-snarl, half-surrender as you pulled him down. He landed heavily beside you, the sodden leather of his doublet a stark, cold contrast to the yielding warmth of your mattress. He tried to prop himself up on one elbow, to maintain some shred of the distant, haughty prince, but the proximity was a poison he had already swallowed.

"You are a plague," he rasped, though he didn't pull away when you tucked yourself against his side.

He couldn't help it; his gaze was drawn downward, tracking the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest. The candlelight caught the sheen of moisture still on your skin, highlighting the soft curve of your breasts and the way your damp thighs brushed against his dark trousers. The friction was a slow torture. Every part of him was screaming to maintain his coldness, but the sheer, tactile reality of you—soft, smelling of salt and lavender, and entirely too close—was eroding his iron will.

He looked at you, his sapphire eye burning with a dark, frustrated hunger. "You speak as if this is a game of courtly love. Do you have any idea what I am thinking right now? What I want to do to this peace you treasure so much?"

He rolled over, looming above you, his wet hair dripping onto the pillows. He trapped you between his arms, his face inches from yours. The "Prince of Blood" was gone, replaced by a man who looked like he was starving.

"If I lay with you," he whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips, "I will not be gentle. I do not know how to be. I am a creature of teeth and fire. Is that truly what you want in your bed, ghost?"

“Take these off," you whispered, your voice a silken command that cut through the frantic thrumming of his heart. You reached up, your palms cupping his face, pulling him down until his forehead rested against yours.

Aemond felt his resolve shatter. The sheer, unadulterated softness of your touch was a sensation he had never known—a devastating contrast to the cold steel and bitter duty that had defined his life. A sharp, physical ache of yearning surged through him, so intense it nearly brought him to his knees. He moved with a desperate, jerky haste, yanking off his sodden clothes and casting them aside until the Prince was stripped bare, leaving only the man trembling in the candlelight.

He lunged back onto the bed, hovering over you with his pulse leaping in his throat. "This is not a surrender!" he hissed, his voice a jagged rasp of denial even as he pressed his heat against your cool skin. "Nor am I sheathing my blade! I still have a mission, Ghost. I still have a duty to the crown!"

But his actions betrayed every word. His hands, though shaking, found the curves of your body with a starving possessiveness. He looked down at you, his sapphire eye burning with a dark, tormented light, terrified of the way you were making him feel—as if for the first time in his life, he wasn't a weapon being aimed, but a man being found.

"Do not think this changes what I am," he breathed against your lips, his fingers tangling in your hair as he prepared to lose himself in the very peace he had sworn to destroy.

He hovered over you, his skin hot and radiating a feverish energy that made the air between you hum. He looked down at you, his single eye wide and searching, filled with a terrifying, raw yearning he had spent his entire life suppressing. He had been taught to take what he wanted through fear and fire, but your softness was a different kind of battlefield—one where his usual weapons were useless.

"I will still do what must be done," he rasped, his hands coming up to frame your face, his thumbs pressing into your cheeks with a bruising intensity. "I will not let you ruin me. I will not let you turn me into a coward."

But even as he spoke the threats, he was lowering himself, his chest finally meeting yours in a shock of skin-to-skin contact that drew a sharp, guttural groan from deep in his throat. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you as if it were the only air left in the world.

He didn't know how to do this—how to want someone without wanting to destroy them—and the confusion made him bite at your shoulder, a sharp, possessive nip that left a mark.

"You have hexed me," he whispered against your skin, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left for the war to sit between you. "You are a ghost, and you are pulling me into the grave with you. Tell me you know what you’ve done."

He looked up then, his sapphire eye burning with an agonizing heat. He was waiting for you to mock him, to tell him he had already lost—but he was also waiting for you to pull him back down into the kiss that had started his undoing.

You guided him with a devastating patience, your hands sliding down his spine, urging him to settle into the heat. As a soft, broken moan escaped your lips, his rhythm shattered. He abandoned the slow pace, his hips driving into you with a sudden, frantic speed that stole the air from your lungs.

"Aemond—" you gasped, your fingers digging into the muscles of his shoulders.

"Don’t call for me!" he snarled, though the command lacked its usual bite. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, scorching bursts. "Don’t moan for me—like some—"

The insult died in his throat. He couldn't finish it. He couldn't call you a harlot or a spy when your heartbeat was drumming against his own, a steady rhythm of life that mocked his obsession with death. He was drowning in you, and the more he fought the current, the deeper he sank.

He slowed, not because he wanted to, but because he was overwhelmed. He pressed his forehead against yours, his silver hair a curtain that shut out the rest of the world. His single eye was open, staring into yours with a look of pure, unadulterated agony.

"I hate you," he whispered, his voice cracking as he thrusted again, slower this time, deeper, feeling every inch of the friction. "I hate how you look at me. I hate that you aren't afraid."

He gripped your wrists, pinning them to the pillows above your head in a display of dominance that felt more like he was clinging to a mast in a hurricane.

"You are nothing but a means to an end," he ground out, his voice a jagged rasp as he forced himself into you with a punishing, shallow rhythm.

But you didn't flinch. You arched your back, the movement dragging his hips deeper, forcing a guttural, choked sound from his throat. You moaned, a long, shivering sound that vibrated through his chest, and his eyes blew wide.

"Aemond—" you gasped, your legs hooking around his waist to pull him flush against your core. He breathing was now a ragged groan as the friction of your wet heat became too much to bear. His pace became frantic, a desperate, uncoordinated pounding that abandoned all pretense of a "mission."

He let go of your wrists, his hands diving beneath your back to haul you upward, dragging your breasts against the scars on his chest. He bit your shoulder, his teeth sinking in just enough to draw a sharp cry from you, which he drank in like wine. He was shaking now, his movements heavy and wet, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the quiet room.

"I will burn you," he hissed against your skin, his thrusts reaching a fever pitch, deep and jarring. "I will take everything you are."

"Then take it," you whispered, your voice broken and breathless.

"Look at you," he sneered, though his voice was thick, losing its sharp edge to the heat of the room. "The Ghost of Pentos, reduced to a panting, moaning mess for a kinslayer."

He thrusted again—a hard, jarring slide that made your head toss back against the pillows. You let out a high, broken cry, your fingers scratching uselessly at the bedsheets. The sound seemed to goad him. He didn't slow down; he accelerated, his hips working with a cold, mechanical precision that sought to overwhelm you.

"Is this what you wanted?" he hissed, leaning down until his damp hair brushed your cheeks. He watched your eyes flutter, watched your lips part as you gasped his name again. "Does the war feel far away now? Does the blood on my hands matter while I’m inside you?"

You couldn't answer. You were a symphony of soft, desperate sounds, your body arching instinctively to meet every punishing drive. Your skin was slick with a mix of sea salt and sweat, glowing in the dying candlelight. Each time he pulled back, nearly slipping out, you made a small, wounded sound of protest that made his jaw lock in a frantic effort to stay detached.

"Aemond—please—" you whimpered, your legs tightening around his waist, dragging him back into the depths of your heat.

"Silence!" he commanded, though he was the one trembling. His hands traveling down to grip your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs until he surely left bruises. He began to drive into you with a deeper, more rhythmic violence, his breathing coming in ragged, ugly hitches.

You are nothing," he lied, his voice breaking as he buried himself to the hilt, holding there for a long, pulse-pounding second. "You are just a body. A place to wait out the moon."

But he didn't pull back. He began to move again, faster now, his face contorting with a pained, desperate need that was anything but cold.

Aemond tried to pull his head back, to maintain that sliver of distance that allowed him to pretend he wasn't being consumed, but you wouldn't let him. You reached up, your fingers digging into his hair and cupping his jaw, forcing his face down until he had no choice but to look at you.

"Don’t stop—please," you whimpered, the sound vibrating against his lips as you pulled him into a kiss that tasted of salt and desperation.

The "Prince" finally shattered. The cold, calculating rider of Vhagar vanished, replaced by a man who was drowning in a sea of his own suppressed desire. Aemond let out a guttural, primal sound—a choking moan of surrender that was muffled by your mouth. His hands flew from your hips to your hair, his fingers tangling ruthlessly in the strands as he abandoned all pretense of a measured rhythm.

He lost control.

The movements became frantic, a blurring, heavy friction that made the bed frame groan against the stone wall. his thrusts becoming deep, jarring, and unrelenting. His single eye was wide, blown out and glazed with a terrifying intensity as he watched your face shatter into the heights of pleasure.

"You... you curse..." he gasped, the words barely intelligible over the sound of his ragged breathing and the wet slap of skin.

The tension in his body reached a breaking point. His muscles turned to iron, his back arching as he let out a choked, pained cry. He drove into you one last time, burying himself to the absolute hilt as he came, his whole frame convulsing in a violent, prolonged release that left him sobbing for air against your neck.

He collapsed onto you, his weight heavy and honest, his heart hammering like a trapped bird against your chest. The coldness was gone, burned away by a fire that Vhagar herself couldn't have sparked.

The silence that followed was heavier than the storm of a few moments ago. You sank back into the pillows, your body feeling like liquid gold, every muscle humming with a weary, satisfied ache. Your eyes were heavy, the lids fluttering shut as you drifted in the afterglow, feeling the lingering heat of his skin against yours. In that hazy, half-light of the chamber, you felt safe—more at peace than you had been since he arrived.

But the shift beside you was sudden and sharp.

Aemond pulled away as if the bed had turned into a nest of vipers. He rolled to the edge, his bare back to you, his spine a rigid line of scarred ivory in the moonlight. The frantic, desperate lover was gone, replaced instantly by a man drowning in the icy waters of his own regret.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his head hanging low, silver hair veiling his face. His breath was still coming in shallow, jagged hitches, but now they were born of panic rather than passion.

He stared at his hands—the hands that had held you with such starving possessiveness—and felt a wave of nausea.

What have I done?

He was a Prince of House Targaryen. He was the protector of the realm, the rider of the greatest beast alive, the iron-willed brother of a King.

He had been sent here to bring a ghost to heel, to secure gold and eliminate a threat. Instead, he had been unmade in a pool of silk and sweat. He had surrendered his dignity to the very woman he was meant to judge.

The shame was a physical weight, more suffocating than any armor. He thought of his mother’s face, of his grandfather’s cold expectations, and of the blood he had spilled to prove his strength.

All of it felt tainted now, softened by the touch of your hands.

"Go to sleep," he ground out, his voice a low, bitter rasp that didn't hide the tremor in his tone. He didn't look back at you. He couldn't. If he looked at you, he might see the pity in your eyes, or worse—the same sweetness that had ruined him.

He reached for his discarded breeches, his movements jerky and filled with a quiet, simmering self-loathing. He wouldn't stay in this bed. He would find a corner of the room, or the hard stone of the floor, anything to distance himself from the warmth that threatened to turn his heart into a traitor.

Aemond stood abruptly, the sudden movement causing the bed to groan. He didn't even have his boots on yet, but he stood tall, his pale skin gleaming with a light sheen of sweat that he now seemed to loathe. He snatched his breeches from the floor with a violent tug, his jaw set so tight it looked as if it might shatter.

"Wait—Aemond—" you started, sitting up slightly, the sheets falling away from your shoulders.

"Don’t!" he barked, spinning around to face you. His single eye was wild, the sapphire glinting like a shard of ice in the dark. He looked at you—truly looked at your tangled hair and the flushed skin he had just been worshipping—and his face twisted into a mask of pure, defensive cruelty.

"I told you!" he hissed, his voice trembling with the effort to remain cold. "You were just a body! A convenience of the flesh! Do not mistake a moment of... animal necessity for something more."

He shoved his legs into his trousers, nearly stumbling in his haste to put a barrier between his skin and yours. He was breathing as if he had just run a league, his chest heaving. "I am a Prince with needs! You happened to be here, in this house, in this bed. Any woman would have served the same purpose."

It was a lie so transparent it hung in the air like smoke, but he clung to it like a shield. He couldn't admit—not to you, and certainly not to himself—that he had felt more in the last hour than he had in his life time. To admit that would be to admit defeat.

"You are still a target at the moon's end," he spat, his fingers fumbling with the laces of his clothes. "The sun will rise, and I will be the Prince I was born to be, and you will still be the ghost I was sent to haunt. Nothing has changed!"

He turned his back on you again, unable to maintain the glare.

──────── Driftmark ────────

The sun had not yet crested the horizon, leaving the manse in a bruised, violet twilight. You rose with a quiet, practiced grace, the cool morning air a sharp contrast to the lingering heat under the sheets. You didn't look toward the corner of the room where Aemond had spent the night—hunched in a chair or paced into a corner, guarding his pride like a wounded animal.

You dressed in a simple, heavy linen gown, the fabric scratchy and honest. Your heart felt heavy, but your resolve was like iron. You had offered him a sanctuary, a piece of your peace, and even the intimacy of your body, and he had met it with the only language he knew: vitriol and denial.

Fine. If he wanted to be the Prince of Blood, you would let him be alone in his royalty.

You moved through the manse with a ghost’s silence. You didn't start the tea for him. You didn't set a plate of honeyed bread on the table. When you passed him in the hallway—he was already up, leaning against a stone pillar with his arms crossed and his eye fixed on the floor—you didn't even turn your head.

Aemond’s head snapped up as you walked by. He looked wretched; the dark circles under his eye told of a night spent in a war with his own mind. He opened his mouth, perhaps to deliver another biting remark about your "needs" or his "mission," but the words died when you walked right past him as if he were nothing more than a shadow on the wall.

He followed you into the kitchen, his boots heavy and loud against the marble, a stark contrast to your bare feet. "Where are you going?" he snapped, his voice scratchy and tired.

You ignored him. You picked up a basket and a small paring knife, heading toward the garden.

"I am speaking to you!" he growled, stepping into your path. He looked down at you, his jaw tight, waiting for the sweetness, the "sweet Aemond," the soft smile that usually diffused his anger.

You looked through him. Not at him, but through him, as if he were made of glass. You stepped around him without a word, the hem of your skirts brushing his boots. You wouldn't give him the satisfaction of your voice. You had given him everything the night before, and he had called it a "necessity."

Aemond froze, his hand half-extended as if to grab your arm, but he pulled it back, his fingers curling into a fist. The silence you offered him now wasn't the peaceful kind he’d grown used to—it was cold, vast, and deafening.

"Speak to me—" he started, trying to wrap his voice in the iron authority of a prince, but the end of the sentence cracked, his voice dropping into a register of raw, unvarnished desperation.

You didn't stop your work. You knelt among the lavender, the scent rising around you as you clipped a few stalks for the morning’s wash. Your movements were fluid and indifferent.

"Why?" you asked, your voice as level as the horizon. "If you are to kill me—then there is no need to share conversation or—warmth, as you so kindly put it."

Aemond stopped a few feet away, his hands twitching at his sides.

"I am a Prince of the Realm," he ground out, though the title sounded hollow even to his own ears. "I do not take orders from the woman I am meant to execute."

"Then don't," you replied, finally standing and turning to face him. You still had the soft look, that beautiful face that made him weak. You began to walk past him, the basket tucked against your hip.

"Don’t walk away from me!" he shouted, the command snapping through the air, though it was hollowed out by that desperate plea that had preceded it. “Please!”

The word hung in the air, naked and jarring. Please. It was a word that didn't belong in Aemond’s vocabulary, a word he had likely crushed out of his soul the day he lost his eye and gained a dragon.

You stopped, but you didn't turn around. The morning sun was just beginning to hit the garden, casting his long, jagged shadow over the lavender at your feet. You could hear his breathing—heavy, ragged, and entirely too fast for a man who claimed to be in control.

"I cannot be 'sweet' Aemond," he whispered, the admission sounding like a confession of a crime. "If I am soft, I am dead. If I love, I am weak. You... you made me forget that for a night. And when the sun came up, I realized I had left my armor in the dirt."

He moved to stand in front of you, forcing you to look at him. His sapphire eye was clouded, the cold brilliance replaced by a dark, swirling confusion. "I did not mean to call you... just a body. I said it because I was afraid of how much I wanted to stay in that bed. I was afraid that if I didn't push you away, I would never find the strength to leave."

He looked down at your quiet, steady face, his jaw working. "Speak to me. Mock me if you must. Tell me I am a coward or a fool, but do not look through me as if I have already burned this house down. I still—I still want to be here.”

Your head cocked to the side, “is this your way of saying sorry?”

Aemond’s face went through a violent series of contortions. His brow furrowed, his jaw tightened, and for a moment, he looked as though he might snap at you again just to reclaim his dignity. The word "sorry" was a foreign tongue, a peasant’s plea, something beneath the blood of the dragon.

He looked away, staring intensely at a cluster of rosemary as if he could set it on fire with his mind.

"I am a Prince," he repeated, though the iron had left his voice, leaving it thin and brittle. "We do not... we do not offer apologies like common merchants over a bad trade."

"I do not know how to do this," he he continued , his hand reaching out and—this time—actually grazing your cheek with the backs of his knuckles. His skin was still hot, but the touch was hesitant, lacking the bruising force of the night before. "I do not know how to be in a house where the walls don't scream of duty. I am... sorry... that I tried to make you feel as small as I felt."

You only made a sound to acknowledge his statement.

"Does that satisfy you?" he asked, a tiny flicker of his usual bite returning to his tone, though it was softened by the way he refused to pull away from your personal space.

You smiled, “It does sweet Aemond, you surrender far sooner than I thought.” You teased.

You leaned in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his mouth that tasted of the morning air and the night's lingering heat. "Come now! We have to go to the market. It will be a long day, my sweet fire, and you are going to help me."

Your finger traced a slow, deliberate line up to the nape of his neck, tangling in his silver hair. The reaction was instantaneous; his hand shot out, his fingers locking around your waist with a possessive, bruising grip that pulled you flush against his chest once more.

"I am a Prince of the Realm," he reminded you, his voice dropping into that familiar, icy drawl, though the way he looked at your lips betrayed him. "I do not play porter for common merchants."

You didn't flinch at his tone, instead tilting your head back to meet his gaze with a spark of mischief in your eyes. "Then you are in luck," you whispered, "because I am anything but common."

"You are a menace," he rasped, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip through the linen. "You expect me to walk among the rabble? To carry baskets of grain like a beast of burden? If my brother or the Hand saw me now, they would think I’d been drugged by a Pentoshi sorceress."

"Perhaps you have been," you teased, stepping back just enough to make him feel the loss of your heat. "But the sun is up, and my 'needs' involve the market. If you want to be treated like a Prince, you can stay here and brood in the silence. If you want to be with me... you’ll carry the honey jars."

──────── Driftmark ────────

The market was a cacophony of shouting vendors and the heavy scent of roasted spices, but Aemond moved through it like a ghost of war, his hand never leaving the hilt of his sword. He loathed the press of the "common rabble" against his fine wools, his eye darting with lethal suspicion at anyone who dared step too close to you.

Long fingers rested there loosely, almost lazily—but the readiness beneath the gesture was unmistakable. The blade was not decoration. It was a promise. One he looked prepared to keep at the slightest provocation.

His single eye moved constantly.

It flicked from face to face, from the shadowed mouth of an alley to the shifting bodies of strangers brushing too close. Suspicion lived in every movement of him, sharp and alert, as if he expected a dagger to appear from the crowd at any moment. More than once a careless passerby stumbled too near, their shoulder grazing yours in the tight press of the street.

Each time it happened, Aemond’s reaction was immediate

The faintest tightening of his jaw. A slow turn of his head. That pale eye narrowing with a dangerous, icy patience.

The offenders felt it without understanding why. One man faltered mid-step beneath that gaze, suddenly eager to look elsewhere. A woman clutching a basket of figs hurriedly veered away, murmuring apologies to no one in particular. Something about him unsettled the crowd, some quiet instinct warning them that this was not a man to jostle lightly.

He loathed this place.

It was written plainly in the tight set of his mouth and the cold disdain that lingered in his expression. The crush of bodies irritated him, the unwashed press of the smallfolk brushing against the fine weave of his dark cloak as though they had any right to stand so close. The noise grated against his senses, a relentless pounding of voices and movement that made his patience wear thin.

But the greatest offense, it seemed, was how near they came to you.

Each time someone pushed too close, Aemond shifted almost imperceptibly, his tall frame angling just enough to block the path between you and the rest of the world. It was subtle—most would not notice it—but his body placed itself between you and the crowd with an instinctive certainty that left no room for question. A silent wall of steel and restrained violence.

A merchant shouted loudly beside you, waving a bundle of dyed cloth in the air, his elbow nearly knocking into your arm as he tried to capture the attention of passing buyers.

Aemond’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword.

Not enough to draw it.

But enough that the man noticed.

The merchant’s voice faltered mid-sentence as he glanced up, meeting that pale, unblinking eye staring down at him with quiet, murderous disapproval. Whatever argument he had been shouting died instantly in his throat. He stepped back without a word, clutching his cloth bundle to his chest as if it might shield him from whatever cold fury lingered in the prince’s gaze.

Aemond said nothing. He rarely needed to.

"There she is," a voice chuckled, thick with a familiarity that made the hair on the back of Aemond’s neck stand up. A broad-shouldered merchant, a man whose sheets you had once shared in the long months before the Prince arrived, leaned across his counter. He didn't just look at you; he devoured you with his eyes, his gaze lingering on the curve of your throat. "I was beginning to think you’d traded our fun for that silver-haired ghost following you around. Come here, let me see if you still smell like jasmine."

He reached out, his hand bold and reaching for your waist—the very place Aemond’s hand had been all morning.

Aemond didn't just intervene; he exploded.

With a snarl that sounded more like Vhagar than a man, Aemond lunged. He caught the merchant’s wrist mid-air, the sound of bone snapping under his gloved grip echoing over the chatter of the crowd. Before the man could even scream, Aemond had his dagger unsheathed, the obsidian edge pressed so hard against the man’s jugular that a bead of dark blood welled instantly.

"You dare touch what is mine?" Aemond hissed, his voice a terrifying, vibrating whisper that felt like a blade. The sapphire in his eye was a cold, demonic fire. He leaned in until his nose brushed the merchant’s, his face a mask of lethal, unhinged possessiveness. "You speak of her as if she were a common whore. She is my wife. She is a Princess of the Blood in everything but name, and you are a maggot crawling in the dirt."

"I—I didn't—" the man wheezed, his eyes bulging with terror.

"If you ever look at her again—if you even dream of her—I will peel the skin from your frame and hang it from your own stall," Aemond growled, his hand tightening on the man’s throat until his face turned purple. "She belongs to me. Body, soul, and every breath she takes. Do you understand, or shall I carve the realization into your chest?"

He threw the man back into his jars of cinnamon and cloves, the glass shattering like ice. Aemond didn't wait. He grabbed your arm, his grip bruising and frantic, and practically dragged you through the dirt paths toward the manse.

The walk back was a blur of his white-hot fury. He was vibrating with it, his breath coming in ragged, jagged bursts.

"My wife?" you whispered, your heart hammering at the sheer intensity of his claim.

"Shut your mouth!" he roared, spinning on you the second you cleared the manse gates. He slammed the heavy oak doors shut with a violence that shook the walls. "You think this is funny? You stand there and let that... that peasant handle you? To speak of bedding you in the open street? I should go back and burn the entire district to ash!"

You made it to the manse, he stomped in letting go of your arm.

He paced the foyer like a caged dragon, his silver hair wild, his hands shaking as he gripped his own hair. "You are mine! Do you understand me? You are not to be touched, you are not to be looked at! I don't care who you were before I arrived—that woman is dead! You are under my shadow now, and if I find one more man who thinks he has a claim to you, I will make the Stepstones look like a summer festival!"

You didn't shrink away. You stood there, watching the Prince of Blood unravel over the mere thought of another man’s hand on you. You smiled softly, a slow, knowing curve of your lips that only seemed to make his blood boil more.

"You’re smiling?" he rasped, stalking toward you until your back hit the door. He loomed over you, his chest heaving against yours, his jealousy a physical, suffocating heat. "You find my rage amusing, Ghost?"

Your hands slid up his chest, feeling the frantic, erratic thrum of his heart through his doublet. “Wife?” you whispered against his lips, your voice a silken needle under his skin. “You called me your wife after one night? After only one spice trader?”

You didn't wait for his retort. You pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, then another to the sharp line of his jaw. You felt his breath hitch—that sharp, jagged intake of air that signaled his internal walls were crumbling again.

“I said it to silence the cur!” he hissed, though the venom was gone, replaced by a desperate, suffocating heat. He tried to pull his head back, to look down at you with the coldness he’d spent a lifetime perfecting, but you followed him, peppering small, wet kisses along his throat.

“You claimed me, Aemond,” you teased, your teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below his ear. “In front of the whole world. My sweet, jealous Prince.”

“I am not... I am not jealous,” he lied, his voice breaking as his hands found your waist. His grip was still bruising, still possessive, but the anger was rapidly being swallowed by a different kind of hunger. “I simply will not have my property insulted by a man who smells of cumin and sweat.”

“Property?” You laughed softly, a low, melodic sound that made his pupils dilate until the violet of his eye was almost entirely black. You kissed him again, deep and slow, your tongue teasing the seam of his lips until he groaned, a low, pained sound of pure surrender.

He shoved his hands into your hair, tilting your head back so he could look at you with an intensity that felt like a brand. “Yes,” he rasped, his forehead dropping against yours. “Mine. If I must be haunted by you, then no other man shall even look upon the Ghost. I have stuck my cock in you! You are simply mine now!”

He slid down your body, his knees hitting the cold marble with a dull thud. His hands, still trembling with the remnants of his rage, gripped your thighs, pulling you toward the edge of his patience. He began to kiss you through the heavy linen of your gown, his mouth hot and demanding, his teeth catching on the fabric as he searched for the heat beneath.

“Aemond—” you gasped, your fingers digging into his silver hair as the friction of his tongue through the cloth sent a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

He didn't answer. He couldn't. He was a man possessed. He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, lifting it high to expose you to his singular, burning gaze. The shift was hiked up, leaving nothing but the thin barrier of your smallclothes, which were already damp from the sheer proximity of him.

He didn't wait. He pressed his face into the apex of your thighs, his nose dragging against your sensitive skin before his mouth found you. He kissed you right through the material, a deep, suctioning press that made your knees buckle.

“Oh—” you whimpered, your head slamming back against the oak door as your body arched into him.

He let out a muffled growl against your skin, his hands sliding up to cup your buttocks, holding you steady as he devoured you. He was being intentionally rough, intentionally thorough, as if he could drink the memory of any other man out of your blood. The cold Prince was gone; there was only this—the wet, rhythmic sound of his devotion and the way he looked up at you, his sapphire eye dark and unhinged, watching the way you came apart in his hands.

“You are mine,” he rasped against the damp fabric, his breath scorching. “Tell me. Tell me who you belong to.”

Aemond didn’t give you the chance to answer. He was done with words, done with the linen barrier that dared to keep him from what he had claimed as his. With a violent, single-handed tug, he ripped the center seam of your smallclothes, the silk fluttering to the floor like a fallen flag.

He groaned at the sight of you—glistening, swollen, and completely exposed to his singular, starving gaze. He didn't hesitate. He buried his face against you, his tongue lashing out with a broad, rhythmic stroke that made your toes curl into the marble. He wasn't gentle; he was a predator at a feast, his tongue swirling and deep-diving into your heat while his thumbs pried you open even wider.

"Aemond—ah! Aemond!" You shrieked, the sound echoing off the high vaulted ceilings of the foyer. Your hands were frantic in his hair, alternately pulling him closer and trying to find purchase on his shoulders as the world dissolved into white heat.

He looked up at you for a split second, his face smeared with your cream, his sapphire eye burning with a terrifying, carnal pride. "Look at me," he commanded, his voice a guttural rasp. "Remember this when you think of that merchant. Remember who owns the breath in your lungs."

He went back down, his teeth grazing your clit with a sharp, calculated nip that sent a violent tremor through your entire frame. You were a sobbing, moaning mess, your back drumming against the oak door as he used his tongue to mimic the act of his cock, driving deep and then flicking upward until you were hovering on the very edge of a shattering peak.

His fingers joined the assault, two of them thrusting into you with a bruising, relentless pace that matched the lashing of his tongue. He was relentless, punishing you for every second you hadn't been his, for every man who had ever looked at you before he arrived.

"Please—Aemond—now—" you begged, your hips bucking uncontrollably against his mouth.

He let out a muffled, triumphant sound against your thigh. He didn't stop until he felt the first violent clench of your climax. He drank in your release, his tongue working frantically to catch every drop of your surrender, his hands holding you so tight he would surely leave the ghost of his fingerprints on your skin for days to come.

He stayed there for a long moment, his forehead resting against your damp inner thigh, his chest heaving as he stared at the floor. The Prince of Blood was on his knees, covered in you, looking utterly destroyed by his own conquest.

His kiss was focused on your clitoris with a punishing, rhythmic devotion that had your head snapping back against the oak door, your breath hitching in ragged, broken sobs. You were dangerously overstimulated, your nerves frayed to the point of screaming, but he wouldn't let you drift away.

"Who do you belong to?" he demanded, his voice a muffled, guttural growl against your thighs. He looked up for a fleeting second, his face flushed with a terrifying, carnal pride. "Who? Tell me, you fisherman’s daughter!"

"You!" you shrieked, your fingers tangling in his silver hair, alternately pulling him closer and pushing him away as the pleasure became too much to bear. "Only you!"

He let out a sharp, triumphant sound, his teeth grazing you in a way that made your entire frame convulse. He pried your legs even wider, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh of your hips to anchor you.

"Say I’m your husband!" he commanded, the words coming out as a desperate, jagged rasp."Say it!"

"You are—you are!" you sobbed, your voice echoing through the vaulted stone foyer. Your knees buckled, and you would have slid to the floor if not for his crushing grip. "My husband! My Prince!"

The admission seemed to snap the last thread of his restraint. Aemond rose from his knees in one fluid, violent motion, his breath coming in scorched gasps. He didn't lead you to the bed; he didn't even move you from the door. He simply unfastened his leathers, his cock thick and pulsing with a frantic heat.

He hoisted you up by your thighs, his hand gripping your ass tightly, his spread your ass cheeks and drove himself into you with a single, brutal thrust that buried him to the hilt. You gasped, the air leaving your lungs as he fucked you, with an intensity that made the heavy doors rattle on their hinges.

Aemond’s facade didn't just crack; it disintegrated. The man who prided himself on being an untouchable weapon of war was now a shuddering mess of raw, bleeding emotion. He hammered into you with a rhythmic, jarring desperation, his hips slamming against yours with raw possession.

He pulled back just enough to see your face, his hands shaking as they cupped your cheeks, his thumbs smearing the tears and sweat across your skin. His eye was wide, wet, and filled with a terrifying, vulnerable light you had never seen before.

“Look at me, please,” he begged, the word sounding like a sob as he drove deep, his cock pulsing inside you. The command was gone, replaced by a starving, hollowed-out need. “Tell me I’m your sweet Aemond. Tell me I’m your sweet husband. Tell me—please.”

He was sobbing for the validation, his forehead crashing against yours.

“Aemond… my sweet Aemond,” you gasped, your voice breaking as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him into the crook of your shoulder.

“Say it again,” he rasped, his eyes fluttering shut as he buried his face in your hair, his movements becoming frantic and uncoordinated. He was coming apart, his climax hitting him with the force of a physical blow. “Tell me I’m yours. Tell me you won’t let them take me back to the war.”

“You’re—you’re stuck with me.” You whimpered

He let out a long, pained cry as he came, his whole body stiffening as he spilled into you. He held you there, pinned against the door, his chest heaving as he wept silently into your neck—a Prince of Blood finally surrendering to the ghost he was meant to kill.

Aemond stayed buried inside you, his weight heavy and grounding, but the air around him was already beginning to crystallize back into ice. He was retreating into the safety of his titles, his fingers curling into the wood of the door behind your head as if trying to find his grip on reality.

“That was—that was weakness,” he whispered, the words brushing against your lips like a confession of a sin. His nose grazed yours, his breathing still shallow and erratic, but his tone was regaining that sharp, defensive edge. “I am—I am not weak.”

“I know,” you breathed, your hands softly stroking the damp silver hair at the base of his neck.

“You are but a ghost,” he murmured, though he didn't pull away. He said it as if he were trying to remind himself that you weren't real, that this house wasn't his home, and that the warmth between your thighs was just a fleeting trick of the light.

“Yes,” you sighed, the sound echoing the bittersweet truth of your existence in his world. “I am but the Ghost of Pentos.”

“I am a prince,” he insisted, his eye finally opening to search yours, looking for a challenge, for an insult, for anything that would justify his return to the cold.

“I know,” you whispered back, leaning forward to press a gentle, feather-light kiss to his lips. It wasn't a kiss of passion, but of understanding—a quiet acknowledgment of the boy hiding behind the crown.

“A moment of weakness,” he whispered one last time, his eyes fluttering shut as he leaned his forehead against yours.

“Yes my dear husband—so weak.” You whispered softly, “So weak.”

──────── Driftmark ────────

The few week that followed was a strange, silent dance of domesticity and denial. Aemond remained a storm cloud in human form—grumpy, sharp-tongued, and perpetually scowling at the "insignificance" of your daily chores. Yet, for all his complaining, he never left your side.

He helped you pull the fishing nets, his fine leather gloves ruined by salt and scales, hissing about the indignity while his strong arms did the work of three men. He sat in your kitchen, peeling vegetables with the same lethal precision he used to sharpen his blade, muttering that a Prince of the Blood should be commanding armies, not dicing onions. But every time you brushed against him, he would lean into your touch with a subtle, desperate hunger, his "coldness" melting for a split second before he remembered to be a monster again.

On the final evening, the sun dipped low, painting the Pentoshi coast in shades of bruised gold. Aemond stood by the window, his silhouette sharp and lonely.

“I must return to King’s Landing,” he whispered, the words sounding heavy, as if they were made of lead.

“You must,” you copied his tone, teasing him softly as you leaned against the doorframe, watching the way the light caught the silver of his hair.

He turned his head slightly, his sapphire eye fixed on you with an unreadable intensity. The "moment of weakness" from the foyer hadn't truly ended; it had just settled into the marrow of his bones. He looked at you—his ghost, his wife of shadows—and for a moment, the Prince was gone.

"The moon has turned," he said, his voice dropping to a low, jagged rasp. "I have a crown to defend and a brother to keep on a throne. I cannot stay in this dream forever."

He walked toward you, his boots clicking rhythmically on the stone until he was towering over you. He reached out, his gloved hand cupping your jaw with a possessive, territorial grip. "But do not think for a moment that you are free of me. I am leaving a mark on this place. I am leaving Vhagar’s shadow over your roof."

He leaned down, his breath warm against your ear. "If I return and find another man has even dared to stand where I have stood... I will burn this entire city until only the two of us are left in the ashes."

“Come back to me, soon—or I will have to find you and I am better at accomplishing my goals, husband.” You whispered

Aemond’s hand tightened on your jaw, his thumb dragging across your lower lip with a pressure that was both a caress and a claim. At the word husband, a flicker of something raw and untamable flashed in his eye—a mixture of the pride he tried to kill and the devotion he couldn't hide.

"You threaten a Prince?" he rasped, his voice dropping into that dangerous, low vibration that usually preceded a kill. But as his gaze searched yours, he saw the steady, mocking spark of your resolve. He knew you weren't afraid of his dragon or his blade; you were the only thing in the world that saw him clearly, and that made you the most dangerous creature he had ever encountered.

"I am better at accomplishing my goals, husband," you whispered again, your breath hitching as he pulled you closer, his chest a solid wall of leather and heat against yours.

"Then you had best stay within these walls and wait for the shadow of wings," he hissed, his lips hovering a hair's breadth from yours. "Because if you come to King’s Landing, I will have no choice but to lock you in the highest cell of the White Sword Tower, just so I can be sure the world hasn't stolen you back."

He kissed you then—one final, brutal, and desperate seal of his claim. It tasted of salt and the bitter regret of a man who was leaving his heart behind in a city he was supposed to have conquered. He broke away abruptly, the cold mask slamming back into place as he adjusted his cloak, his silver hair catching the first light of the moon.

"Do not test my patience, wife," he warned, walking toward the balcony where the wind was already picking up. "I will return. And when I do, I expect a better welcome than a lecture on spices."

He stepped out into the night, a low whistle escaping his lips. A moment later, the very foundation of the manse shook as the Great Hoar, Vhagar, let out a truncated roar that vibrated in your very teeth. Aemond didn't look back. He couldn't. He mounted his beast and rose into the sky, a dark, jagged silhouette against the stars, heading back to a war that suddenly felt very cold and very small compared to the warmth of the woman he had left behind.

─────The Halls of the Red Keep ─────

Moons later, back at King’s Landing

Before Viserys I death, Targaryen Golden Era

The heavy silence of the Small Council chamber was a world away from the roar of the Pentosi surf, yet to Aemond, the air here felt thinner, colder—devoid of the salt and heat that made him feel alive.

Grandfather was still talking. Something about the Triarchy, something about grain tithes and the mounting cost of the iron-clad defense of the Gullet. Aemond didn't care. His gloved hand moved with agonizing slowness, rising to his face. He hooked his thumb beneath the leather of his index finger, pulling the glove off with a sharp snap of tension.

His bare fingertip rose, trembling almost imperceptibly, until it hovered just over his lower lip.

He didn't touch it yet. He just felt the phantom heat of it. There, on the right side, was the jagged little ridge—the "knick" you had carved into him with his own blade. It wasn't a clean scar; it was a rough, raised seal of ownership.

One flesh.

He finally pressed his finger against the scar, his nail catching on the uneven skin. The sensation sent a jolt of electricity straight to his gut, a sharp, visceral memory of the way you had looked in the moonlight, blood smeared across your chin, your eyes wild with the same ancient hunger that lived in his marrow. He could almost taste the copper. He could almost feel the weight of your body pressing him into the cold, wet sand, the way you had spread yourself open to take every bit of the man the world called a monster.

One heart.

You were astride him, a vision of moonlit silk and lethal intent. Aemond’s large, calloused hands were buried beneath you, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass, spreading you wide and pulling you down onto him with a desperate, rhythmic violence. He was thrusting upward, his hips snapping with a hunger that seemed bottomless, seeking the very hilt of his pleasure within you.

"Please," he whimpered, the sound lost in the salt-spray. He looked up at you, his sapphire eye blown wide, glassy with a mix of agony and worship. "Make it real. Cut the world away."

With a hand that didn't tremble, you reached into the leather sheath at his hip. You pulled out the Valyrian steel dagger he always carried—the blade he used for his enemies, now turned toward his own salvation. The steel caught the moon’s reflection, a silver sliver of death between you.

You didn't hesitate. You pressed the edge of the blade to your own lower lip, feeling the sharp, cold sting as you drew a thin line of crimson. Then, you leaned down, the tip of the dagger grazing the air between your mouths before you pressed the cold steel to his lip. You sliced just enough to let the blood well up, dark and heavy.

Aemond didn't flinch. He let out a low, guttural groan, his hips bucking harder beneath you, his fingers bruising your skin as he held you open to receive him.

You dropped the dagger into the sand and crushed your mouth to his. The taste was metallic and hot—a chaotic mixture of salt, spit, and the copper tang of Targaryen blood. You bit into his wounded lip, deepening the cut, and he returned the favor with a feral desperation, his teeth sinking into your skin as if he wanted to consume you entirely. 

The crash of the waves seemed to pause as the blood met, the copper heat of it sealing the seam of your lips. Aemond’s hands were shaking now, his fingers digging into your hips with a strength that would leave bruises shaped like his devotion. He was open to you—completely, terrifyingly undone—his body shuddering as he pulsed inside you, his rhythm frantic and seeking.

He pulled back just an inch, his lip glistening with the dark crimson of your shared wounds. His sapphire eye was wet, burning with a feverish, holy light as he stared up at you through the silver curtain of his hair.

"Say it," he choked out, his voice a raw, broken rasp. "Bind me, before the world finds us. Say the words."

As you leaned down, your sweat-slicked skin sliding against his, you pressed your forehead against his. You could feel his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, desperate for the cage you offered. Together, your voices rose over the roar of the tide, a shared breath of salt and iron.

“One flesh,” you whispered against his bleeding mouth.

“One heart,” he groaned, his hips surging upward, burying himself as deep as the earth would allow, his eyes closing in a spasm of pure, agonizing bliss.

“One soul,” you both breathed, the Valyrian weight of the vow settling over the beach like a shroud of dragonfire.

“Now and forever.”

The moment the final word left your lips, Aemond let out a sound that was less a man’s cry and more a soul being fractured and reset. He buckled beneath you, his climax hitting him with the force of a physical blow, his head snapping back into the wet sand. He clung to you, his arms wrapping around your back to crush you against him, his face buried in the crook of your neck as he sobbed with relief.

"Aemond?"

The voice was sharp. Impatient.

Aemond’s hand dropped instantly, his face snapping back into a mask of terrifying, porcelain-smooth indifference. He looked across the table at his mother, Alicent, whose eyes were red-rimmed with worry, and then at Otto, who was watching him with a calculating, narrow-eyed gaze.

"You seem... distracted, my Prince," Otto remarked, his quill pausing over a scroll. "Is the wound from your 'skirmish' in the East bothering you? Perhaps the Grand Maester should provide a salve for your lip. It looks inflamed."

Aemond’s jaw tightened, the muscle leaping in his cheek. He felt the secret pulse of the blood-bond beneath his skin, a hot, rhythmic drumming that seemed to mock the stagnant air of the Red Keep.

"The wound is healing exactly as I intended, Grandfather," Aemond said, his voice a low, jagged rasp that silenced the room. He leaned back, his sapphire eye catching the light with a predatory gleam. "It requires no salve. Some marks are meant to stay."

He felt the heavy weight of the Valyrian steel dagger at his hip—the same blade that had tasted both your blood and his. He wondered if you were standing on the cliffs now, looking toward the West, feeling the same pull of the chain that bound him to your feet.

This was the agonizing space between the vow and the reality. This was the time when he had to leave the "Ghost" behind to return to the den of vipers, long before a cradle ever sat in the corner of your manse.

The Red Keep felt like a cage of cold stone. Aemond moved through the halls like a wraith, his presence so icy that even the Kingsguard lowered their eyes as he passed. He was back in the blacks and greens of his station, the leather of his doublet stiff and suffocating compared to the loose linen he’d worn while pinned beneath you on the sand.

He was a man divided.

In the evenings, when the sun dipped low and painted the Blackwater in hues of bruised purple, he would find himself in the highest balcony of the White Sword Tower. He wouldn't go to the brothels. The very thought of a stranger’s hands on his skin made his stomach turn with a violent, possessive revulsion. He had been marked by Valyrian steel and ancient blood; he was no longer available for the common hungers of men.

He stood in the shadows, his thumb tracing the jagged, healing knick on his lip. It was his only tether to sanity.

“I am not a fool,” he whispered to the biting wind, his voice a jagged rasp. “I do not love a phantom. I do not ache for a woman who belongs to the sea.”

But the lie tasted like copper and salt. He missed the way you would bite back. He missed the way you laughed at his brooding, stripping away the Prince until only the man remained. He missed the silence of Pentos, where he wasn't a kinslayer or a monster—he was simply yours.

He would never admit it to his mother, who looked at him with such pride. He would never admit it to Aegon, who would only mock the "softness" of his brother.

The shadows of the bedchamber were long and suffocating, the only light coming from the dying embers in the hearth. Aemond lay stripped to his waist, the fine silk sheets tangled around his legs like a snare. He looked like a fallen god, his pale skin glowing in the firelight, but his face was twisted in a grimace of pure, unadulterated longing.

His hand was closed around himself, his knuckles white as he moved with a slow, agonizing friction. It wasn't the easy release he used to find in the brothels; it was a ritual of torment. Every slide of his palm was an attempt to conjure the memory of your touch, the way your thighs had felt gripping his waist, the way you had looked down at him while you both bled.

He squeezed his eye shut, his breath hitching in his throat.

“Gods—wife,” he whispered, the word a ragged, forbidden prayer against the crook of his arm.

He could almost feel the phantom weight of you on top of him. He could almost smell the salt and the crushed herbs on your skin. His hips buckled upward, a sharp, desperate thrust into the empty air of the room, his teeth sinking into his scarred lower lip until he tasted the faint, metallic ghost of that night on the beach.

He thrust his hips up, his spine arching off the bed as he chased the ghost of your friction. He could almost feel your hands spreading him open, your fingers digging into his skin, claiming every inch of his royal blood for your own. The memory of your teeth sinking into his shoulder, claiming him like a beast claims its mate, made his cock throb with a painful, relentless heat.

He was whimpering now—the "One-Eyed Terror" reduced to a shaking, sweating mess in the dark. He wanted to feel the sting of your nails raking down his back. He wanted the copper taste of your kiss to drown out the rot of this city.

"Wife... gods, please," he choked out, his pace becoming frantic, his knuckles white in the moonlight.

He was picturing the way you looked right before the end—the way your face shattered with pleasure, your body tightening around him like a vice, dragging the soul right out of his chest. He buckled, his legs shaking as he surged one last time, his voice breaking into a loud, pained cry that echoed off the cold stone walls.

"I miss you!" As he came, the release was a violent, shuddering explosion that left him gasping for air, his heart hammering against his ribs like a war drum. He slumped back into the silks, his chest heaving, the cooling sweat on his skin feeling like ice. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, his hand still twitching against his thigh.

He was the Protector of the Realm, the rider of the largest dragon in the world, and yet he was nothing more than a starving man haunting his own bed. He had been marked by a ghost, and the mark was burning him alive.

The cold water of the basin hadn't been enough to wash away the scent of his own desperation. Aemond had moved like a man possessed, saddling Vhagar under the cover of a storm that the guards mistook for a natural tempest. The flight across the Narrow Sea was a blur of freezing wind and stinging spray, his heart beating a frantic rhythm against his ribs: Need you. Need you. Need you.

But when he arrived at the manse, the silence was a physical blow. The house was empty. The bed was cold.

He waited. For hours, he paced the small stone kitchen like a caged predator, the moon rising higher and fueling the dark, toxic brew of his emotions. He had spent moons starving for you, rotting in that gods-forsaken capital, touching himself until his skin was raw while imagining your mouth on his. And you? You were simply gone.

Then, the click of the latch.

The door creaked open, and the scent of the sea rolled in—fresh, cold, and undeniable. You moved through the threshold, humming a soft, haunting tune that he recognized from the night of your vows. You were carrying a heavy barrel of fish, your sleeves rolled up, your silver hair messy and windblown. You looked radiant, healthy, and entirely unbothered by the absence that had been killing him.

Aemond stepped out of the shadows, the hearth-light catching the sapphire in his eye like a spark in a tinderbox.

"Where have you been?" his voice was a low, terrifying rasp, jagged with the months of suppressed silence.

He didn't wait for an answer. He moved across the floor in three long, predatory strides, his boots thundering against the stone. He kicked the door shut behind you with a deafening bang and shoved you back against it, his hands slamming into the wood on either side of your head.

"I have been rotting in King’s Landing," he hissed, his face inches from yours, his breath hot and smelling of salt. "I have been waking up in the dark reaching for a ghost. I have been spending my nights with my hand on myself, whispering your name like a dying man!"

His gaze dropped to your mouth, to the scar on your lip that he had helped carve. His jealousy was an oily, suffocating thing. Who had seen you today? Who had helped you with the fish? Who had looked at the woman who belonged to him?

"And I come back to find you humming?" he growled, his hand moving from the door to your throat—not to hurt, but to claim, his thumb pressing firmly against your pulse. "You look as though you haven't missed me for a second. You look as though my blood hasn't been screaming for yours every night."

The crash of the barrel was the only sound in the room, fish scattering across the stone floor like silver coins, but neither of you looked down. Your voice—that soft, breathless whisper—sliced through his rage like a hot blade through ice.

“Husband. Husband?”

The word hit him harder than a physical blow. Aemond’s chest heaved, his hand still firm against the column of your throat, but his fingers trembled. Hearing you say it—actually hearing the title he had been obsessing over in the cold silence of the Red Keep—sent a violent jolt of electricity through him.

"Don't call me that unless you mean it," he rasped, though his grip softened, his palm sliding up to cup your jaw with a bruising, desperate tenderness. "Don't use that word to quiet me when I’ve been half-mad with the hunger for you."

His sapphire eye searched yours, looking for the reflection of the same torment he’d endured. He wanted to see that you were haunted, too. He wanted to see that the bed had been too big, the nights too quiet, and the air too thin without him.

"I have spent every hour of every day since I left feeling like my heart was being dragged behind Vhagar on a chain," he confessed, his forehead dropping to thud against yours. He was shaking, the "Prince of Blood" finally crumbling under the weight of his own devotion. "I didn't come here for a greeting. I didn't come here for your humming."

He tilted your head back, his thumb tracing the scar on your lower lip, the one that matched his own. His gaze was dark, predatory, and utterly shattered.

"I came for the woman who bit me on the sand. I came for the only person who knows I’m not a monster, but a man who belongs to her." He let out a low, pained groan, his body crushing yours against the door, his hips pinning you there with a possessiveness that left no room for breath. "Tell me you’re mine. Tell me you’ve been starving for this as I have."

“Gods! If I saw—if I saw Vhagar! I would’ve ran to you—I would have run here! I—”

The frantic explanation died in your throat, drowned out by the roar of your own blood. You didn't finish the sentence; you couldn't. You reached up, your hands tangling into the silver silk of his hair, and pulled his head down with a desperation that matched his own.

You cut yourself off by crashing your mouth against his.

It wasn't a soft greeting. It was a collision of salt, hunger, and months of suppressed agony. You kissed him with the ferocity of the storm he’d just flown through, your teeth grazing his lower lip—right where the scar lived—seeking the metallic tang of the blood-bond you’d shared on the beach. You tasted the cold air of the Narrow Sea on him, but beneath it was the familiar, intoxicating heat of Aemond—the man who belonged to you.

Aemond let out a sound that was half-growl, half-sob against your lips. His hands, which had been pinning you to the door, suddenly shifted, grabbing your waist and lifting you off your feet until your legs instinctively wrapped around his hips. He shoved you harder against the wood, his mouth devouring yours as if he were trying to swallow your very soul to keep it safe inside him.

"Mine," he growled into the kiss, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. "Say it. Say you're mine."

He didn't wait for the words. He began to move, his hips snapping forward to grind against you through the layers of your clothes, his hands roaming over your back with a frantic, bruising possessiveness. The "Prince of Blood" was gone, replaced by a man who was drowning and had finally found his shore.

The word "husband" left your lips like a broken prayer, a soft, trembling sound that seemed to shatter the last of his iron resolve. You clung to him, your fingers digging into the leather of his doublet, your face pressed into the heat of his neck as the scent of him—smoke, rain, and old blood—overwhelmed your senses.

“Just stay, husband,” you whimpered against his skin, the vibration of your voice sending a shudder through his massive frame. “Please—husband, just stay. Please.”

Aemond’s breath hitched, a jagged, agonizing sound caught in his throat. He squeezed his eye shut, his forehead thudding against yours as he anchored you to the door. For months, he had been the stone-faced executioner of the Greens, a man of ice and duty, but here, under the weight of your plea, he was nothing but a man starving for a home he wasn't allowed to keep.

"You don't know what you're asking," he rasped, his voice cracking with a vulnerability that would have horrified the Small Council. He pulled back just enough to frame your face in his large, shaking hands, his thumb brushing over your wet cheek. "If I stay, I am a deserter. If I stay, they will come for us with fire. They will try to take you from me to punish my weakness."

His gaze dropped to your mouth, to the scar that bound your souls together. His jealousy, his rage, his pride—it all dissolved into a singular, desperate need.

"But gods," he breathed, his sapphire eye burning with a terrifying, absolute devotion. "To wake up beside you... to never hear my name called by a herald again... I would give up the throne. I would give up Vhagar. I would give up the world just to be the man who cleans those fish for you."

He didn't pull away. Instead, he collapsed into you, his weight heavy and honest, his arms wrapping around your waist as he buried his face in your hair. He was a Prince of Blood, but in this moment, he was just your husband.

The wood of the door groaned behind you as Aemond’s weight crushed you into it, his body a frantic, unyielding machine of muscle and desperation. He was buried deep within you, his cock a thick, throbbing anchor that seemed to reach for your very heart. He moved with a violent, rhythmic friction, his leather doublet scratching against your skin as he drove himself into you again and again, as if he could sew your bodies together and never have to pull apart.

“Aemond, please,” you whimpered, the sound breaking against his ear as your legs locked tighter around his waist, pulling him in until there wasn't a sliver of air left between you. “Don't go back. Let the world burn without you. Let them have their throne... just stay. Stay in me. Stay here.”

Aemond let out a jagged, animalistic sound—a sob that turned into a growl. He reached down, his fingers digging into the sensitive flesh of your ass, spreading you even wider to take the full, punishing length of his thrusts. Each surge was a confession, his hips snapping forward with a primal hunger that made your vision blur.

“I can’t,” he gasped, his teeth grazing your shoulder, biting down until you cried out in a mix of pain and pleasure. “Gods, wife... you’re so tight... you feel like home. I’m starving for you. I’ve been dying for months.”

He pulled back just an inch, only to slam back home with a wet, heavy thud that made the scattered fish on the floor vibrate. He was shaking, his sweat dripping onto your chest, his sapphire eye fixed on yours with a terrifying, religious devotion.

“Stay,” you pleaded, your voice a ragged thread as you felt your climax beginning to coil deep in your belly. “If you love me, if I’m your wife... don’t leave me with just a ghost. Stay and put another babe in me. Stay and be a father. Please, husband... please.”

At the word babe, Aemond’s control shattered. His pace became frantic, a blurring, slippery friction that made your breath catch in a series of high, desperate hitches. He gripped your hair, tilting your head back so he could see the marks he was leaving on you.

“I want to,” he choked out, his voice breaking as he surged one last time, his entire body going rigid. “I want to fill you until you can’t walk... until you’re heavy with my name... until I’m nothing but a memory of a Prince.”

He let out a long, pained cry as he came, his release a hot, staggering flood that seemed to go on forever. He slumped against you, his head falling into the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he sobbed with the pure, agonizing weight of a man who had found his soul only to realize he had to leave it behind again.

──────── Driftmark ────────

The transition from the heat of the night to the cold clarity of morning was jarring. You stepped into the kitchen, the ache in your thighs a lingering reminder of his desperation, fully expecting to find the bed empty and the skies filled with the sound of departing wings.

Instead, there he was.

The "Prince of Blood" was gone, replaced by a man wearing the very thing he’d sworn was beneath him—a thin, sea-green linen tunic that clung to the broad span of his shoulders. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing the corded muscle of his forearms, now splattered with brine and scales. He looked like a man of the coast, a man who belonged to the salt and the spray, if not for the lethal, rhythmic precision with which he handled the blade.

His back was to you, his posture stiff and unyielding. The domesticity of the scene was undercut by the sheer, freezing frost of his tone.

"If I am to stay, I must say you mustn't keep the home so!" he snapped, not even turning to look at you. His voice was a whip-crack of his usual cold authority, masking the vulnerability of the night before. "The fish were everywhere. A disgrace. One would think a 'Ghost' could at least manage a broom."

He slammed the knife down through a silver spine, the sound echoing in the small room. He was trying to reclaim his mask, trying to pretend that he hadn't whimpered into your neck or begged you to bind him. He was gutting those fish as if they were his enemies in the Gullet, his jaw set in a hard, jagged line.

But his ears were pink, and the way his hand trembled slightly as he reached for the next fish betrayed him. He wasn't truly angry at the mess; he was angry at how easily he had succumbed to the life he wasn't supposed to want.

"Sit," he commanded, finally casting a sharp, sapphire glance over his shoulder. It was a kingly order delivered in a fisherman's rags. "I have made a mess of the floor, and I'll not have you slipping on it while I'm forced to play servant especially while you carry my son.”

Aemond froze, the knife hovering dangerously over a half-gutted sea bass. The moment your arms cinched around his waist, he stiffened, his instinctual armor of ice clashing with the liquid heat of your body pressing against his back.

When your lips found the sensitive cord of his neck, he let out a low, involuntary moan. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated surrender that he immediately followed with a sharp, huffed breath of self-loathing. He squeezed his eye shut, his knuckles whitening around the hilt of the knife, his head tilting back just a fraction to give you better access even as his mind screamed at him to remain the Prince.

“The green suits you, husband,” you whispered against his skin, your breath hitching as you felt the frantic, heavy thud of his heart against your forearms.

"It is a rag," he rasped, though his voice lacked any real bite. He sounded like a man fighting a losing battle against his own skin. "It is a fisherman's shroud. I look like a commoner from the docks of Spicetown."

Despite his words, he didn't pull away. He leaned back into you, his weight settling against your chest, his breathing turning shallow and uneven. The "Cold Prince" was melting, his resolve dissolving into the sea-green linen he had claimed to hate.

"You are doing this on purpose," he muttered, a shudder running through him as you sucked a mark into his throat—a mark that wouldn't be hidden by a high collar. "You are marking me again. How am I to walk through the streets of Pentos looking like he was mauled by a sea-cat?"

He dropped the knife with a dull clatter and turned in your arms, his hands—still damp and smelling of salt—finding your waist to pull you flush against him. His eye was dark, swirling with a mixture of shame and a bottomless, aching love.

"I am a mess of scales and brine," he whispered, his forehead dropping to rest against yours, "and you are a witch who has turned a dragon into a lapdog. If I stay another hour, I fear I shall never be able to hold a sword again without wishing it were a fishing net."

──────── Driftmark ────────

9 moons later — birth of Sea Snake

Aemond moved with a slow, rhythmic grace that still felt like a miracle to behold. He stepped toward the cradle, his large frame casting a shadow over the fussing babe. Little silver-haired fingers clawed at the air, desperate for the solid strength they had come to know as safety.

"Patience, little sea-snake," Aemond murmured, his voice a low, vibrating hum that seemed to settle the child instantly.

He lifted the boy, his calloused hands—hands that had once burned cities—cradling the babe with a terrifyingly gentle precision. He tucked the child into the crook of his neck, the sea-green linen of his tunic bunching under the babe’s tiny, grasping fists. A small, private smile rested on Aemond’s lips, though his brow furrowed as he looked down at his son.

"Husband!" your voice drifted in from the garden, bright and commanding. "Bring Corlys to me! The sun is perfect for him, and I need help with these herbs!"

Aemond stiffened for a fraction of a second at the name, a shadow of his old, princely pride flickering in his sapphire eye. He stepped to the doorway, the babe resting contentedly against his chest.

"Must you call him that?" Aemond called back, his tone a mix of feigned exhaustion and lingering stubbornness. "Corlys. It tastes of Driftmark and old salt. I still say he looks like a Daeron. Or an Aerys. A name with a bit of fire in the marrow, not just... driftwood."

You looked up from the dirt, your hands covered in rich, dark soil, a mischievous glint in your eyes that made his heart skip a beat.

"You can name the next one!" you shouted back, laughing as you wiped a smudge of dirt onto your cheek. "But this one is mine, and he is a Corlys! Now bring him here before I name the hound Aegon just to spite you!"

Aemond let out a huff of a laugh—a real, grounded sound that would have been unrecognizable to anyone in King's Landing. He looked down at the boy in his arms, whose eyes were wide and curious.

"You hear that?" Aemond whispered, nuzzling the babe’s silver temple. "Your mother is a tyrant. A beautiful, ruthless tyrant. And apparently, she is already planning to populate this entire coast with little ghosts and princes."

He stepped out into the sunlight, the "Prince of Blood" fully surrendered to you and he is now the “Fisherman's Husband”. He began moving towards you with the only crown he ever truly wanted resting against his shoulder but the moment soon dissolved. Aemond’s smile didn’t just fade; it turned to pure ice.

The babe, sensing the sudden spike of lethal tension in his father’s posture, let out a soft, confused whimper and clutched tighter at the sea-green linen of Aemond's tunic. The peaceful morning in the garden was instantly shattered by the arrival of a messenger bearing a seal of dark wax—a three-headed dragon, but stamped with the distinct, arrogant flourish of Dragonstone.

Aemond’s sapphire eye fixed on the parchment in your hand, burning with a sudden, vicious fire.

Daemon Targaryen. The Rogue Prince. The man whose ghost had haunted Aemond’s entire youth. A dark, ugly jealousy—born from a lifetime of being compared to the man, and a sudden, sharp protectiveness over you—reared its head.

"Op—open it" Aemond instanced, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous rasp that belonged to the Red Keep's executioners. He shifted your son in his arms, the boy squirming against his rigid chest, sensing the dangerous current vibrating through his father.

You sighed softly, brushing your hands against your skirts to rid them of the garden soil, your calm a stark contrast to his rising storm.

With a steady hand, you broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. Aemond loomed over your shoulder, his breath hot and sharp against your ear, his eye scanning the elegant, slashing script of his uncle.

To my clever sister,

The realm sings of a great tragedy. They say the One-Eyed Prince is dead, drowned at the bottom of the God’s Eye. Yet, I find myself doubting the waters. Your father misses you terribly, the girls miss you, and Luke and Jace can’t wait to finally meet you and see the peace you’ve built. Your mother who visits you often has yet to stop speaking about her namesday visit.

But, I have my suspicions, sweet girl. I suspect a certain 'dead' prince may be nesting in your hidden manor, hiding from the fire he started. You always did have a way of doing the unexpected.

Bring him. Consider this an invitation to a family dinner at Driftmark, far away from the toxic reach of the Greens. Let us see if the fisherman's life has softened his edge.

—D.

Aemond let out a sharp, trembling breath, a sound that was half-laugh, half-snarl. The jealousy that had flared at Daemon's name twisted into something far more complex—a mixture of profound shock, lingering paranoia, and a bitter taste of his own past.

"A family dinner," Aemond hissed, his knuckles whitening where he held your squirming son. "He writes to you with the familiarity of a lover, speaks of my death as a joke, and invites the 'Ghost' to sit at a table with Lucerys and Jacaerys. The very boys who took my eye. The boys whose inheritance I swore to burn."

He stepped in front of you, forcing you to look at him. His face was a mask of cold, pale fury, but beneath it, his sapphire eye was frantic.

"He knows," Aemond whispered, his jaw tight. "The Rogue Prince knows I am alive, and he teases you for keeping me like a pet. Tell me, wife... did you look for his shadow in the sky before I came to your bed? Does he think he can simply invite the rider of Vhagar to break bread with the Blacks as if we are common cousins sharing a tavern?"

The cold, defensive armor Aemond had thrown up instantly began to fracture. His sapphire eye darted down, fixed on the place where your swelling belly brushed against him. The sudden reminder of the new life growing between you—another bond, another anchor tying him to this soil—stilled the frantic, violent rhythm of his heart.

“You’re dramatic,” you whispered, clutching the underside of your stomach.

Aemond’s jaw worked, a muscle leaping in his cheek as he tried to maintain his icy, princely glare, but the sheer absurdity of his jealousy was crumbling under the warmth of your touch.

“I’ve never once thought of another man," you continued, your gentle smile disarming him completely. "You were made for me—by the gods.”

A low, defeated breath escaped his lips. He looked down at the letter from Daemon, then back to you, the dark flush of embarrassment creeping up his pale neck. He hated how easily you could unmake him. He hated that with a single smile, you could turn the feared Prince of the Greens into a foolish, paranoid boy.

"The gods have a twisted sense of humor, then," Aemond rasped, though his voice had lost its lethal edge, returning to that quiet, gravelly friction. He carefully shifted the squirming Corlys to one arm, using his free hand to reach out. His long, elegant fingers—still stained with the dark soil of the garden—pressed flat against your swelling stomach, feeling the faint, miraculous warmth through the fabric of your skirts.

"Daemon plays his games," he murmured, his eye narrowing slightly as he stared at the parchment in your hand, though the fury was gone, replaced by a deep, calculating wariness. "He dangles the heads of my enemies before me and calls it a family dinner. He knows what Luke took from me."

He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot and redolent of the morning air. The frost was still there in his posture, but his touch against your belly was fiercely gentle, possessive, and protective.

"I am a monster to them," Aemond whispered, his sapphire eye locked onto yours. "But if the gods made me for you, then I will be whatever creature keeps this house safe. Let Daemon whisper his jests across the sea. You are mine. This boy is mine. And the babe beneath your hand is mine."

He pulled back slightly, his chin tilting up with a trace of that stubborn Targaryen pride. "We are not going to Driftmark. If the Sea Snake wishes to see his namesake, he may sail here. But I will not sit at a table with the boy who stole my eye and pretend we are brothers."

"You don’t decide that husband—we go and you will be good," you countered, your voice a soft but unyielding tide. "No one is asking for peace just for a moment of—solitude."

Aemond let out a sharp, incredulous breath, a low sound that was half-scoff and half-groan. He looked at you as if you had truly lost your mind.

"Solitude?" he repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerous, frost-nipped whisper. "You want me to find solitude at a table with the Rogue Prince? You expect me to sit across from Lucerys Strong and politely ask him to pass the salt with the very hand that dug my eye from my skull?"

He stared at you, waiting for you to see the madness of your request. But your gentle smile didn't waver. It was the same smile that had tamed his fury in the gardens, the same smile that reminded him he was no longer a weapon to be pointed at a battlefield.

Slowly, the rigid tension in his shoulders began to bleed out, though he maintained his cold, brooding scowl. He looked down at your squirming son in his arms, then back to the unmistakable curve of your belly. You were entirely defenseless against the monsters of the world, yet you stood before him completely unafraid of the wolves across the sea—because you knew you brought the fiercest wolf with you.

"You are a tyrant," Aemond rasped, leaning down until his lips almost brushed yours, his breath hot and defensive. "A beautiful, merciless tyrant. My mother raised me to burn my enemies, and my wife commands me to sit at their table and 'be good.'"

“But you’ll be good, won’t you.” You smiled

His hand remained pressed firmly against your swelling stomach, his long fingers splayed protectively over the life growing inside you. He let out a defeated, resentful sigh, the last of his fiery protest dying in his throat.

"If a single one of them looks at you with malice—if Daemon so much as breathes a jest about our son's name—I am not answering for the consequences," he warned, his sapphire eye flashing with a cold, protective promise. "But I will go. For you. And for a moment of this... wretched solitude. I will sit at the table with Lucerys Strong.”

"Lucerys Velaryon," you corrected, your voice cool and steady as you held his gaze.

Aemond’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. He let out a low, mocking hiss through his teeth. "He can call himself a Velaryon until the sea swallows the world, wife, but the mirror does not lie. Nor does the blood he spilled."

"The blood is in the past, Aemond," you said softly, taking a step closer so the curve of your belly pressed firmly against his hip. "The war has taken enough from everyone. Look at our son. Look at the life we are building here. Do you want him raised on stories of old debts and stolen eyes, or do you want him to know he has a family?"

Aemond looked down at the boy squirming in his grip, his sapphire eye softening for a fraction of a second before the frost hardened over it again. "A family? Daemon is a viper. My cousins are the brood of a usurper. If I walk into High Tide, I am walking into a cage."

"It is not a cage if my father holds the key," you countered, reaching up to lay your hand over his on your stomach. "Corlys would never allow harm to come to us. Not to his namesake, and not to the father of his grandchildren. Daemon knows this. This invitation... it is a test, yes, but it is also a concession. They are acknowledging you are alive, and they are offering a truce. For me. For the children."

Aemond remained silent for a long moment, his chest rising and falling in sharp, jagged breaths. He hated how logical you sounded. He hated that your words made sense even when every instinct in his Targaryen blood screamed at him to fly Vhagar to Driftmark and turn the castle to ash.

"A truce," he repeated, the word tasting like poison on his tongue. "And what happens when I look across the table and see the boy who maimed me? Am I to smile? Am I to toast to his health?"

"No," you said, a small, knowing smile touching your lips. "I expect you to be exactly who you are—proud, terrifying, and utterly untouchable. But you will be civil. You will show them that the Prince of Blood found something more valuable than a throne."

He stared at you, his pale face illuminated by the morning sun, his expression a complex battlefield of lingering resentment and profound, helpless devotion.

"You demand too much of me," he whispered, though his hand turned beneath yours, his fingers interlocking with your own over your swelling belly. "You ask a dragon to forget how to bite."

"I am asking my husband to protect his family," you murmured, tilting your chin up. "Can you do that?"

Aemond leaned down, his forehead resting against yours with a heavy, resigned sigh. "I would kill the world for you," he rasped against your skin, his voice thick with a dark, protective warmth. "Sitting at a table with bastards is a lesser torture, I suppose. But if Daemon pushes me, wife... I make no promises."

“Yeah?” You whispered with a giggled “No promises huh?”

He sighed looking away, “I’ll be good.”

[perkqularkreashions]

Would u ever write for jeyne arryn too?

Yes! This is new one fs! Along with Arthur Dayne—I’ve never seen people request for them. I gotchu!!

[perkqularkreashions]

heyy!

I’ve recently come across your work and you’re a wonderful writer! If your requests are open, may I ask for an Arthur Dayne x reader? It really doesn’t matter what trope, I’ll take anything. Reader can be from any house, but I think it’d be interesting to see a Dornish (Arthur) and northern pairing. I haven’t really seen many fan fics about him, so I’d actually fall on my knees if you wrote it (if you want to, ofc). I know he’s not a well known character, so if you don’t want to write for him I’ll accept that, too.

In any case, thank you so much for writing so many amazing fics!🫶 Your work is greatly appreciated

Ooouuuuuuu you got my wheels turning! I’ll reply back when it’s posted!!

[perkqularkreashions]

S3 coming up so more Cregan pleaseeeee 😔

Doing more Stark men! I got a lot of request for Ned, Robb, Jon, and Cregan

[perkqularkreashions]

can we PLEASE get a part 2 to girl made in riverrun 🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹🥹

It’s on the way :D

[perkqularkreashions]

Screeeeaming for more ‘Girl Made in Riverrun’!!!!

I’ve been working on it for the last couple weeks along with other stories! I recently had a baby which is why I’ve been MIA but I’m back and have plenty of time! ◡̈

[perkqularkreashions]

MYSTICAL…MAGICAL?

Pairing: Eddard Stark x Mean!Cold!Lannister!Reader

Description: AU - You’re Tywin’s daughter, spending time in the North with your best friend, Lady Manderly, after Robert’s Rebellion, you slowly fall for him, Eddard Stark.

Warning; MDNI (18+), explicit smut (P-in-V), time skip, mentions pregnancy, mentions childbirth, lowkey cliffhanger?? Uncharacteristically soft Lannister!mother, cannon description of Lannister featured on reader.

𓃭 ───────── 𓃭

Robert’s Rebellion End

283 AC - Winterfell

The heavy oak rafters of the Great Hall vibrated with the rhythmic thud of standard-issue northern boots. All around, men and women spun with a frantic, unrefined energy, their tankards colliding over splintering trestle tables while ale slopped onto the rushes below. They drummed their palms against the wood, a deafening accompaniment to the raucous folklore howling from their throats.

You sat perfectly rigid, your spine a straight line of pure Casterly Rock defiance amid the chaos. Your face remained a mask of sheer, unyielding boredom as you stared blankly at the swirling crowd.

Every loud cheer felt like a personal affront. You hated this place. You hated the cold, you hated the damp, and most of all, you hated this crude display they called a victory celebration.

Beside you, Lady Manderly leaned in, her shoulders shaking with a light laugh as she nudged your elbow. "Stop that," she chided softly, her eyes bright with the evening's merriment. "Take the scowl off your beautiful face and just enjoy the air for once."

"It is sickening," you hissed back, your jaw tightening until it ached. You didn't bother turning your head to look at her. "The entire room smells of stale ale and desperation."

"It smells of life," she countered, waving a hand toward the center of the hall. "Look at them. They survived a war. Let them dance."

Your eyes drifted past the spinning smallfolk, tracking a specific movement near the high table. Catelyn Tully was gliding gracefully through the steps of a traditional dance, her laughter light and painted across her flushed cheeks. But her gaze wasn't on the musicians. It was fixed entirely on the quiet center of the room: Eddard Stark.

The Lord of Winterfell sat with a heavy goblet in his hand, his gray eyes steady, observing his people with a solemn pride. He looked every bit the dour northern beast—untamed, unpolished, and entirely out of place in the grand tapestry of the Seven Kingdoms. Yet, the Tully girl looked at him as if he had hung the stars.

"She looks ridiculous," you muttered under your breath, curling your fingers tightly around the stem of your untouched wine cup. "Chasing after a wolf who looks as though he'd rather be burying a corpse than celebrating a victory."

Lady Manderly sighed, her amusement fading into a look of mild pity. "He is the hero of the hour. And she is trying to find joy in a match that was forced by tragedy. You could learn a thing or two from her resilience."

"Resilience? It looks closer to delusion," you snapped, finally cutting your sharp gaze toward her. "A Lannister does not pretend to find warmth in a frozen wasteland, nor do we paint smiles on our faces to please men who smell of wet hound."

From across the hall, as if sensing the sheer malice radiating from your corner, Eddard Stark shifted. His dark head turned slowly, away from the dancing Tully girl, until his somber gray eyes locked directly onto yours. He didn't smile. He didn't nod. He merely watched you, his expression as unreadable and cold as the Wall itself.

You didn't break the stare. Instead, you tilted your chin up, letting the firelight catch the proud golden gleam of your hair, letting him see every ounce of the contempt you held for his precious North.

"Careful," Lady Manderly whispered, noticing the sudden tension between the two tables. "The Quiet Wolf has sharp teeth, and you are bleeding hostility."

"Let him bite," you replied, your voice dropping to a dangerous, icy purr as you held the Stark lord's gaze. "I assure you, he will find a Lannister is far too bitter a meal to stomach."

You narrowed your eyes, the warmth of the hearth doing nothing to melt the frost in your glare. Across the crowded hall, the Lord of Winterfell still hadn't broken his gaze.

"He won't stop looking," you snapped, your voice cutting through the din of the music as you leaned toward your companion.

Lady Manderly followed your line of sight, a knowing, mischievous grin spreading across her face. She giggled, nudging your shoulder with entirely too much familiarity. "Then go speak to him! He is unmarried, the papers haven’t been signed for Lady Tully.”

"I would rather die a thousand agonizing deaths," you hissed, the words dripping with all the venom a lioness could muster.

Yet, despite the revulsion twisting your stomach, your eyes drifted back across the room against your own volition. Eddard Stark hadn't shifted an inch. His somber gray gaze remained anchored to yours, heavy and unblinking. For a split second, a strange, traitorous flutter bloomed in your chest—a sudden, sharp spike of heat that had absolutely nothing to do with anger.

You ripped your eyes away instantly, your cheeks burning with a sudden flush that you desperately hoped she would mistake for the heat of the fire.

"You're blushing," Lady Manderly teased, her voice a delighted whisper. "The great Lannister facade is cracking over a bit of northern grit."

"The air in here is suffocating, nothing more," you retorted, your knuckles turning white as you gripped your chalice. "If he continues to stare at me like a starved hound, I will have my guards teach him some southron manners."

"He is the Warden of the North, my lady. I doubt your guards would make it past the threshold," she replied, her smile fading into a softer, more curious expression. "Why does he bother you so much? He hasn't even spoken a word to you."

"His very existence is an irritation," you muttered, refusing to look back toward the high table. "He sits there like a monument of misery, yet everyone bows to him as if he's a god. It's pathetic."

"Perhaps he is just curious," she offered gently. "It is not every day a golden lion wanders so far into the wilderness."

"Curiosity is for the weak," you said, tilting your chin up to regain your composure. "And I have no intention of satisfying his."

The roaring chaos of the feast had finally wilted into a quiet, hollow hum. Servants moved like ghosts through the shadows of the Great Hall, their brooms sweeping away the trodden rushes and discarded bones. The smell of roasted meat had turned cold, replaced by the bitter sting of dying tallow candles and the damp draft whispering through the high stone arches.

You walked with a stiff, measured stride, though your progress was severely hindered by the heavy weight of Lady Manderly clinging to your arm. She stumbled beside you, her cheeks flushed a bright, undignified crimson as she dragged you toward the center of the emptying room.

"See? Look!" she slurred, her voice echoing too loudly against the high stone walls. She stopped, swaying on her feet as she gestured wildly to the empty space near the hearth. "I will get Lord Cerwyn to marry me. I will look him right in his eye."

"You can barely keep your eyes open, let alone look a man in them," you remarked coldly, trying to pry her fingers from your silk sleeve.

She ignored your protest, grabbing you by both shoulders with a clumsy, sudden grip. "I will tell him: 'Take me, my lord!' Just like that." She giggled, a breathless, wild sound, before releasing you to spin in a slow, unsteady circle.

"If you say that to him, he will assume the winter chill has finally rotted your brain," you said, crossing your arms over your chest to shield yourself from the draft.

She stopped her spinning, her laughter subsiding into a teasing, knowing grin as she stumbled back toward you. "And what of you, then? You won't even look at a man unless he sits on a throne."

"I demand standards. A concept you seem to have forgotten after your third cup of arbor gold," you countered, tilting your chin up to maintain your dignity despite her pulling at you.

"Oh, please." She laughed, waving a dismissive hand close to your face. "You’ll marry some southern lord that your Lord Tywin forces you to marry. Some dull, wealthy lordling from the Reach who will lock you in a tower of gold."

Your breath hitched slightly, the cold truth of her words striking a chord you preferred to keep buried deep beneath your pride. "A tower of gold is still warmer than this frozen wasteland," you replied, your voice dropping to a sharp, defensive hiss.

"At least a northern husband would keep you warm," she teased, taking another clumsy step backward. "But your father will have you sold to the highest bidder before the year is out, and we both know it."

"Silence," you commanded, the Lannister pride flaring hot in your chest as you glared at her. "You speak of things you do not understand."

She looked down, her brow furrowing in sudden, tragic realization as she tilted her empty tankard upside down. "Ah. It's gone," she mumbled, her eyes widening. Before you could stop her, she turned on her heel and began to scurry away, heading back toward the shadowy alcoves where the remaining kegs were being guarded.

"Wait here, please!" she called over her shoulder, her voice echoing in the rafters.

"Don't you dare leave me—" You cut yourself off, exhaling a sharp, irritated sigh through your nose. Despite your better judgment, you stayed put.

You turned your back to the massive iron-ringed doors of the hall, wrapping your arms tightly over your chest to ward off the encroaching chill. The silence of the room deepened.

You didn't hear a single footstep, nor did you feel the shift in the air, but an instinct—a sudden, prickling heat at the back of your neck—made you look over your shoulder. You didn't turn around fully, keeping your posture guarded as you glanced backward.

It was Eddard Stark.

Your jaw clenched instantly, the muscles locking tight. He stood a few paces away, his heavy fur cloak shifting slightly as he stopped.

"You're staring," you said, your voice cutting through the quiet like a shard of ice.

"You're scowling," he countered smoothly. He didn't sound angry; his voice was just a deep, low rumble that seemed to vibrate against the stones as he took a deliberate step closer.

"If you stopped staring, perhaps you wouldn't notice what my face is doing," you snapped, finally turning your head a fraction more to glare at him out of the corner of your eye.

"Perhaps," he said, pausing just outside your personal space. His gray eyes searched your face, entirely unbothered by the venom dripping from your words. "Though a face like that is rather hard to miss in a room full of celebration."

"If you came over here to lecture me on northern hospitality, Lord Stark, save your breath," you retorted, fully turning to face him now, your chin held high. "I have no desire to partake in your crude victory dances."

"I did not ask you to dance," Ned replied quietly, his hands resting on the pommel of his sword. "I merely wondered why a lady of Casterly Rock looks as though she would rather swallow glass than breathe our air."

"Because your air is foul, and your company is worse," you said, stepping closer to close the gap between you, refusing to let him intimidate you with his height. "You look at me as if I am an intruder."

"You are an intruder," he said, a ghost of a sharp, knowing smile touching his lips. "But that does not mean you are unwelcome."

You gathered your fine silk skirts in one tight, angry fist, stepping forward to march right past him. "Thank you for the welcome, Lord Stark, but you can keep it, I would rather be anywhere else" you said, throwing the words over your shoulder like a curse.

"You walk away quickly for someone who claims to fear nothing here," his voice rolled after you, low and steady.

You paused, your boots halting against the stone. You didn't turn back, but your spine went rigid. "I do not fear you, nor your wilderness. I am simply bored of it."

"Then why stay in the hall?" Ned asked. You could hear the faint rustle of his leather brigandine as he turned to face your back. "The courtyard is empty. The gates are open. Yet you linger where the music was loudest."

"I was waiting for Lady Manderly," you snapped, finally pivoting around to glare at him, your silks rustling around your ankles. "An obligation of courtesy. A concept I doubt a wolf understands."

"We understand loyalty," Ned countered, taking a single, slow step toward you. "And we understand when someone is hiding behind a sharp tongue."

"I hide behind nothing!" you hissed, stepping closer to him, your chest heaving with a sudden flare of temper. "I am a Lannister. If I despise a place, I say it. If I despise a man, he knows it."

"And do you despise me, my lady?" he asked quietly, his gray eyes locking onto yours with that same infuriating, unblinking intensity.

The question hung heavily between you in the vast, drafty space of the emptying hall. Your breath hitched, that strange, traitorous flutter returning to your chest, hotter this time.

You swallowed the sudden warmth down, forcing your features back into a mask of pure disdain.

"You are nothing to me but a minor inconvenience, Lord Stark," you whispered, the lie tasting like ash on your tongue.

Without giving him the satisfaction of another word, you turned on your heel and swept out of the Great Hall, leaving the Quiet Wolf alone in the shadows of his own castle

𓃭 ───────── 𓃭

The heavy oak door of your bedchamber shut with a resounding thud that rattled the iron hinges. You threw the bolt forward, the sharp clack of metal signaling a desperate attempt to lock out the rest of Westeros—and the man who ruled it.

You paced the length of the room, your fine leather slippers clicking against the cold stone floor. Why did you feel this way? It was entirely unacceptable. You gripped the edge of the dark wooden vanity, staring at your reflection in the polished silver mirror. Your cheeks were flushed, your breathing shallow. Why couldn’t you stop thinking about those stupid, solemn gray eyes? The unruly dark hair that defied the neatness of southron courts? Even the slight, powerful lean in his stance as he challenged you—it all clung to your mind like the stubborn northern frost.

You pushed the thoughts away, gripping your fists until your nails bit into your palms.

"I will not be plagued by these treacherous thoughts," you said aloud to the empty room, your voice trembling slightly before you forced it into a brittle sneer. "This is purely the wine."

You let out a sharp, mocking laugh at your own expense, shaking your head as you walked over to the washbasin. "Yes. The Arbor Gold was poured entirely too freely tonight. A Lannister does not lose her mind over a dour provincial lord who looks as though he combs his hair with a combat dagger."

You splashed cold water onto your face, hoping the freezing sting would shock the heat out of your skin. But as you wiped your face with a linen towel, your eyes drifted toward the narrow arched window. Out there, past the courtyard, the ancient stones of Winterfell slept under a blanket of stars. He was out there. Probably still standing in the shadows of the Great Hall, or walking the battlements with that same quiet, heavy stride.

"He is nothing," you whispered fiercely to the dark room, unlacing your bodice with aggressive, jerky movements. "A minor lord of a frozen wasteland. Father will arrange a match with someone of actual consequence."

Yet, as you finally crawled into the heavy furs of the bed, the mattress felt entirely too large, and the silence of the room felt entirely too loud.

𓃭 ───────── 𓃭

The harsh, grey morning light filtered through the narrow window of your chambers, doing little to ease the prickling irritation beneath your skin. You sat stiffly before the vanity, staring at your reflection with an intensity that made the young northern maid behind you visibly nervous.

"Please make it neat," you snapped, your voice sharp enough to cut the heavy morning air. "The braids must be done up today. I will not look unkempt."

"Yes, m’lady," the girl murmured, her fingers trembling slightly as she picked up the bone comb.

You watched her through the mirror, your eyes tracking the simple, practical twist of her own hair. A sudden, unbidden thought flashed through your mind—the image of Catelyn Tully gliding through the hall, effortless and perfectly suited to the environment. The Tully girl gathered attention by simply existing, drawing eyes without even trying. Your jaw tightened.

"Is that the style that northerners wear?" you asked, turning your head just enough to look at her directly.

"No, m’lady—"

"I would like to try the hairstyle," you spoke up quickly. Too quickly.

The words left your mouth before your pride could intercept them, and a sudden wave of mortification washed over you. What are you doing? If your father, Tywin Lannister, saw you acting this way—altering your very appearance to fit into a provincial fortress—he would have your head. A Lannister dictates the room; she does not adapt to it. Yet, the thought of those steady grey eyes seeing you looking like a displaced southron outsider again pricked at your vanity.

The maid paused, blinking in surprise, before nodding quickly. "As you wish, my lady."

Her hands proved far more deft than you anticipated. She worked meticulously, transforming your thick, golden locks into an intricate, cascading masterpiece. The top and sides of your hair were pulled back into an elaborate tapestry of woven plaits, crowns of delicate, intersecting braids that gathered at the back of your head. Long, slender accent braids trailed down from the crown, frames for your face, while the rest of your hair fell in deep, tumbling waves down your back. To complete the look, she threaded tiny, glinting gold beads throughout the woven crown and along the length of the smaller braids, catching the morning light like drops of dew frozen in a golden web.

It was undeniably northern in its structure—heavy, elaborate, and wild—yet the golden beads maintained a distinct air of Lannister opulence.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, your heart doing another one of those treacherous, unpredictable flutters. It looked beautiful. It looked intentional.

"Will there be anything else, m'lady?" the maid asked softly, stepping back.

"No," you replied coldly, masking your internal turmoil as you stood up and smoothed your gown. "That will be all."

You swept into the Great Hall, the heavy silk of your skirts rustling softly against the stone floor. Your eyes immediately found Lady Manderly, who was already bright-eyed and entirely recovered from the previous night's excesses.

She smiled brightly the moment she caught sight of you, a small giggle escaping her lips as she hurried over and grabbed your arm. "You’ve risen!" she cheered, squeezing your elbow affectionately, though sarcasm dripped in her tone. "It’s great to have you as a best friend!"

"What did I do to earn that title?" you asked, your voice maintaining its usual cool, guarded edge.

"I asked you to stay in the hall, and you were completely gone when I got back!" she snapped playfully, rolling her eyes.

"You took too long," you lied smoothly.

In truth, you had every intention of being there when she returned, but the memory of the Quiet Wolf's piercing stare had driven you from the room. As if summoned by your thoughts, your eyes drifted across the expanse of the hall, tracking until they landed directly on Eddard Stark. He was seated at the high table, listening intently to one of his bannermen. From this distance, you allowed yourself a private, unblinking moment to simply look at him—admiring the sharp line of his jaw and the quiet command he held over the room without ever raising his voice.

Lady Manderly began dragging you toward the benches, chatting aimlessly, but your focus remained anchored to the Lord of Winterfell.

Suddenly, your jaw clenched, a cold spike of irritation piercing through your chest as Lady Catelyn Tully made her presence known. She glided to Eddard's side, her posture radiant, offering him a gentle, painted smile as she leaned down to speak to him.

"She moves like a bird trying entirely too hard to impress a hunter," you muttered under your breath, your fingers tightening into fists at your side.

"Who?" Lady Manderly asked, pulling you down onto the bench beside her. She glanced up, her eyes darting between the high table and your face. "Ah. Lady Catelyn. They look well together, don't they? A perfect match for the North."

She watched your face, laughing slightly.

"If your definition of perfect is entirely dreadfully dull, then yes, I suppose they are," you snapped, tearing your gaze away to look at the breakfast spread before you, though you had suddenly lost your appetite.

"You are exceptionally bitter this morning," Lady Manderly observed, leaning in closer. Her eyes widened slightly as she truly took in your appearance. "And... wait. Your hair. Is that a northern crown braid?"

Your heart did a small, dangerous thump against your ribs. "It is a practical style for a drafty castle," you said quickly, your voice dripping with defensive ice. "Nothing more."

"With gold beads?" she teased, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "It looks beautiful. Very... regal. I wonder if a certain wolf will notice the sudden change in weather."

“They are having another festive night! Who knows how long this celebration will last,” Lady Manderly said, seamlessly changing the subject as she clasped her hands together. “But tonight, I will find the courage to dance with Lord Cerwyn. I swear it.”

You stopped listening. Your world narrowed to the high table, where Catelyn Tully’s pale hand moved to rest gently on Eddard’s cloaked shoulder. You watched, rigid, as the Lord of Winterfell instinctively leaned his head a fraction closer to her touch, his stark demeanor softening just for a second.

Sickly romance in the air, you hissed to yourself, the bitter thought burning in your throat. Beside you, Lady Manderly remained entirely oblivious, her eyes locked onto Lord Cerwyn across the room as she continued rambling on about her grand plan to win his attention.

“It is a good one,” you agreed automatically, giving a empty nod without really hearing a single word she said.

As the hours bled away, the night churned into a frenzy. The music swelled louder and more lively than the previous night, the frantic thrum of the drums and pipes echoing off the stone walls. You sat entirely alone at the long table, a solitary golden figure watching the swirling chaos of the floor.

Catelyn and Eddard moved gracefully through the crowd, while a flushed Lady Manderly was finally spinning alongside Lord Cerwyn. In the midst of her dance, your friend caught your eye and flashed a brilliant, triumphant smile. You offered her a curt, subtle nod of approval, and her smile only grew brighter.

Left to the quiet of your own mind, a dark, unfamiliar venom began to fester. What does she have that I don’t? you thought, your eyes tracking the Tully girl. I can smile. I can be appealing.

Yet, as soon as the thought formed, the bitter reality of your past crept in. You thought about the southron lords who had tried to court you at Casterly Rock—the wealthy heirs, the decorated knights. None of them had ever worked out.

An unbidden memory surfaced, sharp and wounding. You could practically see your father, Tywin Lannister, standing in his solar, pinching the bridge of his nose in sheer frustration. "You cannot run off every lord in Westeros just because you are cold," his stern voice echoed clearly in your mind. "Pretend to be appealing, if only for the sake of your house."

Your jaw clenched at the memory. You weren't broken; you simply refused to bow to men who did not deserve you. But watching the Quiet Wolf look at another woman with such easy comfort made the ice in your veins feel dangerously brittle.

The chaotic swirl of the Great Hall seemed to blur into a dull hum as Eddard Stark suddenly turned his head, his movement cutting through the frantic energy of the dancers. He caught your gaze.

Your breath hitched, trapped in your throat as you stared back at him across the crowded room. That strange, volatile feeling rose in your chest again, hotter and more demanding this time, threatening to crack the icy armor you wore so carefully. You couldn't tear your eyes away. Your gaze traced the rugged contour of his face—the steady, solemn depth of his eyes, the surprising softness of his lips beneath his trimmed beard, and the dark, untamed strands of his hair falling loose over his shoulders. He looked entirely like the wild land he ruled, and for a terrifying second, you found it utterly magnetic.

Realizing you were staring with a vulnerability that terrified you, you violently wrenched your eyes away, forcing your gaze down to the ringed surface of your goblet. Your heart hammered against your ribs like a caged beast, your knuckles turning white as you gripped the silver stem.

"Everything alright?" Lady Manderly asked, breathless and flushed as she stumbled back to the table, her dance with Lord Cerwyn finally ending.

"Perfectly fine," you lied, your voice a sharp, tight whisper as you desperately willed the sudden heat in your cheeks to fade back into the shadows.

You downed the rest of your drink, the strong, fermented burning of the northern ale cutting a sharp path down your throat. It did nothing to soothe the sudden, chaotic warmth twisting inside you, but it gave you a momentary shield—a reason to keep your head tilted back, your eyes fixed on the raftered ceiling rather than him.

You set the empty chalice down against the heavy oak table with a deliberate, sharp clack.

"My word," Lady Manderly gasped softly, fanning her flushed face with a hand as she slid onto the bench beside you. "I did not think a lady of the West could drink like a mountain clansman."

"When the company is tedious and the air is drafty, one must find warmth where she can," you replied smoothly, your voice returning to its familiar, razor-sharp precision despite the rapid thumping of your heart. You kept your gaze trained rigidly on your companion, refusing to let your eyes drift even a fraction of an inch back toward the Lord of Winterfell.

"Well, it seems to have given you some color at least," she teased, leaning her chin on her palm to look at you. "For a moment there, you looked as though you had seen a ghost."

"Only the ghost of my own patience," you snapped, smoothing down the front of your fine silk gown with elegant, decisive strokes. "Now tell me of your Lord Cerwyn. Did he manage to speak a coherent sentence, or does he merely grunt in time with the music?"

Lady Manderly let out a bright, melodic laugh, completely delighted by your biting wit. "He speaks perfectly well, I’ll have you know! He told me my steps were as light as the first snowfall."

"How delightfully uninspired," you remarked, tilting your chin up as a servant approached to refill your chalice. "A standard northern compliment. I suppose next he will tell you your eyes are as bright as a polished broadsword."

"And what would you prefer he say?" The deep, low rumble of a voice cut through the air behind you, shattering your composure instantly.

You froze, your fingers tightening around the edge of the table before you slowly turned your head.

Eddard Stark stood just a step away from the bench. He had left the high table entirely unannounced, his imposing figure cloaked in heavy, dark furs that smelled faintly of winter air and woodsmoke. His gray eyes were fixed on you, unblinking and intensely focused.

Lady Manderly gasped softly, quickly sliding off the bench to curtsy. "Lord Stark."

"Lady Manderly," Ned acknowledged with a respectful nod, though his gaze never truly left your face. "I believe Lord Cerwyn is looking for you near the hearth. He matches your enthusiasm for the music."

Taking the very obvious hint, your companion shot you a wide-eyed, panicked look of excitement before bowing her head. "Of course, my lord. Excuse me." She scurried away, abandoning you once more to the wolf.

"Is it a habit of yours, Lord Stark, to frighten off my companions?" you asked, your voice a sharp, dangerous purr.

"I did not think a Lannister could be frightened so easily," Ned replied quietly, taking half a step closer. His eyes tracked the golden beads woven into your hair, a faint, unreadable twitch touching the corner of his lips. "And I merely offered her a path back to the dancing."

"And what are you offering me? More tedious riddles?" You crossed your arms, your jaw clenching as that traitorous flutter bloomed in your chest again. "If you came to mock my choice of attire, save your breath."

"I did not come to mock you," he said, his tone softening into something steady and grounding. "The braids suit you. They make you look less like a captive bird and more like... someone who belongs here."

"I belong in the West," you snapped too quickly, your pride flaring hot against the sudden compliment. "In the warmth. Not in a drafty hall surrounded by people who celebrate a bloody victory with the grace of wild boars."

"Yet, here you are," Ned countered, his quiet voice easily piercing through your defenses. "Watching the room as if you want to be a part of it, but too proud to take the first step."

"I have no desire to partake in this unrefined nonsense," you hissed, stepping closer until you could see the dark flecks in his gray eyes. "And I certainly do not need a solemn northern lord analyzing my desires."

"Perhaps not," Ned murmured, his gaze dropping briefly to your lips before locking back onto your eyes. "But you have been bleeding hostility across my hall for three nights, my lady. I merely wanted to know if the wolf had truly done something to offend the lion, or if you simply prefer the taste of your own venom."

You let out a sharp, breathless laugh, your chest heaving slightly as you held his stare. "Your very presence is an offense, Lord Stark. You sit there so quietly, pretending to be a monument of duty, while everyone else dances to your tune."

"I do not ask them to dance," he said, a ghost of a real smile appearing on his face. "I only watch. Much like you."

"We are nothing alike," you whispered fiercely, though the sheer proximity of his warmth was making it harder to breathe.

"No," Ned agreed softly, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword as he leaned down just a fraction closer. "We are not. But that does not mean we cannot find a common ground. Even in the frost."

You didn’t have a retort. For the first time in your life, the sharp, defensive armor of your words completely failed you. Your chest tightened so fiercely it felt as though the breath had been stolen straight from your lungs.

You stood up too quickly, the sudden movement causing your bench to scrape harshly against the stone floor. The sharp noise drew a few eyes, including Catelyn Tully’s; she watched you from the high table, her brow furrowing with quiet, elegant curiosity.

You narrowed your eyes, screaming at yourself inside your own mind. Say something! Anything! But you couldn't. His eyes were just too grey, too deep, anchoring you to the spot like a ship caught in a freezing sea.

Unable to bear the heat of his proximity for another second, you spun on your heel and marched past him. But you only made it two steps before you heard the heavy rustle of his furs as he shifted. Your boots halted against the stone, and against your better judgment, you stopped and looked over your shoulder.

He hadn't let you escape. Eddard had moved with a quiet, lethal swiftness, his shoulder now hovering incredibly close to yours, blocking out the rest of the crowded hall.

"You're insufferable, Eddard," you breathed, the words slipping out sharp and desperate.

That is all you have? Gods! you scolded yourself internally, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

He didn't flinch at your tone. Instead, his grey eyes locked onto yours, dark and unreadable, as he stepped even closer. Slowly, deliberately, he began to circle you, his movements cautious but entirely unyielding. You didn't retreat; your body moved instinctively with his, turning just enough to keep him in your sight, the tension between you pulling as tight as a bowstring.

Before you could utter another threat, his large, calloused hand slid firmly against your waist.

The heat of his palm burned through the fine silk of your gown. Your breath hitched, and your fingers flew down to grab his wrist, your grip tightening over his leather bracer as if you could pull his hand away. But you didn't push him. You just held him there, staring up at him as the noise of the Great Hall completely faded into nothing.

Ned leaned down, his breath brushing the shell of your ear, his voice dropping to a low, rough whisper that made your knees turn to water.

"I like the way you say my name. Say it again,” he murmured, pulling back just enough so that you were forced to look directly into his eyes. Those damn grey eyes—so deep and unyielding, like the ancient winter stone beneath your feet.

Your heart battered violently against your ribs. Say something! your mind screamed, desperate to reclaim the sharp, untouchable dignity of a Lannister. But your throat felt entirely parched, your usual venom evaporating under the steady heat of his gaze.

"You are a fool, Lord Stark," you managed to breathe out, your voice trembling slightly despite your best efforts to make it a weapon.

"That isn't what you called me a moment ago," Ned replied, his grip on your waist tightening just a fraction, anchoring you against him. He didn't look angry; he looked entirely captivated, a quiet intensity burning in his gaze that made the rest of the crowded, roaring hall disappear.

"I called you insufferable," you countered, tilting your chin up, trying to find your footing as your fingers still clung tightly to his wrist. "And I meant it. you stand there expecting me to simply bend to your will."

"I expect nothing from you," Ned said softly, his thumb tracing a slow, warm line through the silk of your gown. "Except the truth."

"The truth is that I belong in the South," you whispered fiercely, your eyes darting down to his lips before snapping back to his grey gaze. "My father would see us both ruined for this."

"Let him try," Ned whispered back, his face leaning in closer until your breaths mingled in the cool air of the hall. "Say my name again."

You forced your fingers to unclench from his wrist, tearing yourself out of his grasp with a sharp, ragged breath. You took a definitive step backward, creating a desperate gulf of cold air between your bodies before your resolve could completely dissolve. Without giving him another syllable, you spun on your heel, your golden-beaded braids whipping over your shoulder as you swept away from him and toward the heavy arched exit.

Your boots practically flew over the stone floor. Your mind was a furious tempest, scolding your own weakness with every step you took into the chilly, dark corridors of the castle. You are a Lannister, you reminded yourself fiercely, your teeth grinding together.

You do not tremble for a northern barbarian. You do not let a wolf touch you. You cursed his arrogance, you cursed his quiet confidence, and you cursed the way he had effortlessly seen right through your mask.

But gods, beneath all the pride and the carefully cultivated frost, you loved it.

You loved the dangerous, electric thrill of his hand on your waist. You loved the rough, low gravel of his voice when he whispered in your ear, demanding a vulnerability no southron lord had ever been brave enough to seek. You pressed a hand against your ribs, trying to ground yourself, but the phantom warmth of his touch still burned through your silk gown, refusing to let you freeze again.

In the center of the Great Hall, Eddard Stark stood perfectly still for just a single, suspended moment. Across the room, Catelyn Tully stared at him, her gaze heavy with a sudden, quiet realization as she watched the tension radiating from his frame. But Ned didn’t look back at her. Breaking his solemn posture, he turned on his heel and walked after you.

You hadn’t made it far down the dim, drafty corridor. The sound of his purposeful, heavy footsteps echoed against the stone, giving you only a second's warning before his hand clamped firmly around your arm, halting your escape.

You spun around, your breath catching in your throat as he stepped directly into your personal space. He looked at you with an intensity that burned right through your defenses. Before you could snap a retort, his large, calloused hand moved up, his fingers cuffing your jawline and tilting your face up to force your gaze to meet his.

“Say my name again,” Ned commanded, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrated right against your skin. His thumb brushed against your cheekbone, the contrast of his heat against your icy skin making your chest tighten dangerously. “I will not release you until you say it.”

Your pride flared, a desperate instinct to fight back, but looking into those deep, unyielding grey eyes, the words melted away. Your fingers curled into the heavy fabric of his furs, not pulling away, but anchoring yourself to him.

“Eddard,” you breathed out, the name slipping from your lips like a confession. His thumb brushed against your lower lip.

What are you doing! You thought, your lips gently pressed against the pad of his thumb. You pulled away quickly, you continued your trek to your chambers.

𓃭 ───────── 𓃭

The a few days later, the godswood was choked with a thick, suffocating silence. You found him beneath the heart tree.

Lord Eddard Stark knelt in quiet prayer, the pale bark of the weirwood towering above him like a bleeding sentinel. Snow drifted lazily through the ancient canopy, settling softly upon his broad shoulders, yet he made no move to brush it away. He looked entirely carved from the landscape itself.

“You,” you said, your voice sharp enough to slice through the morning damp.

He turned slowly at the sound of your voice, rising from the frozen earth with his usual measured grace. “My lady.”

“You did some witchcraft on me,” you demanded, marching into the clearing with your jaw clenched tightly.

His brow furrowed, his solemn grey eyes blinking in genuine confusion. “What?”

“Do not play coy with me, Eddard.”

“I did no such thing,” he replied, his deep voice entirely level.

“You did.”

“I assure you, I did not.”

You folded your arms tightly across your chest, your fine Southron silks completely unsuited for the frost, though your pride kept you from shivering. “Then explain it.”

“I would,” he said evenly, taking a single step toward you, “if I knew what it was.”

You began pacing in front of him, your boots snapping twigs beneath the snow, irritation evident in every line of your posture. “I have not slept properly in days.”

He listened without interruption, his gaze tracking your frantic movements.

“You keep appearing in my thoughts,” you snapped, throwing your hands up in a rare display of fractured composure. “I find myself wondering whether you’ve eaten. Yesterday, I saw a heavy wool cloak in the armory and thought it looked warm enough for you.” The words left a bitter, unpalatable taste in your mouth, forcing a sharp breath from your lungs. “I despise this.”

Eddard regarded you for a long, quiet moment, the wind rustling the red leaves above his head. “…That does not sound like witchcraft.”

“It is.”

“It sounds more like concern.”

“It is not.”

“It does.”

“I have never concerned myself with another person in such a manner,” you hissed, stopping your pacing to glare at him.

“Perhaps,” he offered, his voice softening just a fraction, “you simply care.”

You let out a harsh, disbelieving scoff. “I am a Lannister.”

“I noticed.”

“We do not… do this.”

“What is ‘this’?”

You gestured wildly between the two of you in sheer frustration. “This persistent, suffocating awareness of another person. It is distracting. It is entirely inconvenient.”

The faintest, maddening smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. You pointed an accusing finger straight at his chest. “There. You smiled.”

“I did.”

“You are pleased.”

“I find your accusation amusing.”

“It is not amusing!”

“No?”

“You have bewitched me,” you whispered fiercely, taking a step into his personal space, “and now you stand here mocking my suffering.”

“I fear you give me too much credit, my lady.”

You huffed, tearing your gaze away from his lips. “My brother once told me the North is full of old, dark magic.”

“My brother says many things,” Ned replied quietly.

“So does mine.” A heavy silence settled between you again, broken only by the low whisper of the wind through the bare, frozen branches.

Then, Eddard took a deep breath, brushing the accumulation of snow from his dark leather gloves. “If it eases your mind,” he said, his grey eyes locking onto yours with that same terrifying intensity from the night before, “I believe I have been similarly afflicted.”

You frowned, your chest tightening. “…Afflicted?”

“I’ve found myself wondering whether you’ve broken your fast,” he confessed, his stance shifting just slightly closer to yours. Your expression didn't change, but your heart began a frantic rhythm. “You dislike the morning cold,” he continued, his gaze drifting down to your lightly clad shoulders, “so I nearly had another set of northern furs sent to your chambers.”

You simply stared, entirely speechless.

“And yesterday,” he admitted, looking almost sheepish as he rubbed the back of his neck, “I heard someone laugh brightly in the courtyard. I found myself disappointed when I turned and saw it wasn’t you.”

You felt something deep in your chest tighten so fiercely it ached. Your knuckles whitened beneath your folded arms. “…Gods.”

“I suppose we’re both cursed,” he said.

“No,” you countered quickly, desperately trying to reassemble your crumbling armor. “You have clearly conspired against House Lannister. This is a political assault.”

For the first time since you’d arrived in this wretched, beautiful frozen fortress, Eddard Stark laughed. It was a quiet, warm sound that seemed to banish the winter chill entirely. You frowned at him, utterly vexed. “I fail to see what is humorous.”

“I know.”

“And stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Smiling.”

“I’ll try,” he murmured, though the spark in his eyes told a different story.

You sighed heavily through your nose, gathering your skirts to turn back toward the path. “…Very well.”

“What now?” he called after you.

“If this is not witchcraft,” you muttered over your shoulder, already marching swiftly toward the safety of the stone castle, “then I fear the alternative is far more dangerous.”

When you heard his soft, rumbling chuckle follow you through the trees, your fingers dug into your palms. It had to be magic. It was the only explanation that protected your pride.

"Stop laughing, Eddard!" you shouted back, refusing to look at him.

The crunch of his heavy boots against the frozen snow grew louder, closing the distance before you could even clear the edge of the clearing. A sudden, firm grip clutched your arm, spinning you around to face him.

“I hate when you walk away from me,” Eddard whispered, his breath pluming in the crisp morning air as he stared down at you. “Stop.”

Your chest heaved, your hands pressing against his leather-clad chest to keep some semblance of distance between you. “Stop what?”

“Walking away from me,” he said, his voice dropping into a fierce, low register that brooked no argument. His hands moved from your arm to rest firmly on your hips, holding you in place against the winter wind. “I cannot have my wife moving away from me at every turn.”

The air left your lungs all at once. The world seemed to tilt beneath your feet, the stark white of the godswood spinning around you.

“Your what?” you choked out, your regal Lannister composure entirely shattering as you stared at him in utter disbelief.

“Eddard—”

“Yes,” he whispered, his grip tightening on your hips just enough to pull you flush against him. The sheer, solid heat of his body radiated through the layers of your silk gown, completely defying the biting frost of the godswood.

“You speak of madness,” you managed to breathe out, though your voice lacked its usual icy venom. Your fingers instinctively curled into the thick fur of his collar, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “My father would never allow it. He has plans for me—matches that involve thrones and golden fortresses, not a drafty castle in the middle of a frozen wasteland.”

“Let him have his plans,” Ned murmured, his grey eyes locking onto yours with an unyielding intensity that made everything else melt away. He leaned down, his face mere inches from yours, his breath warm against your lips. “I am the Warden of the North, my lady. I do not ask your father for his permission to keep what is already mine.”

Your jaw slackened slightly, a breathless shudder running through you. “You are incredibly arrogant for a quiet man.”

“And you are incredibly stubborn for a woman who is currently holding onto me for warmth,” he countered, a genuine, soft smile finally breaking across his rugged features.

He leaned in a fraction closer, his forehead resting gently against yours. “You belong to me.”

Before you could formulate another biting retort, his lips pressed against yours, effectively stealing the remaining breath from your lungs.

The kiss was heavy, deep, and entirely consuming—a sudden contrast to the quiet, disciplined man he pretended to be in the Great Hall. His hands slid up from your hips, his fingers tangling firmly into the intricate northern braids at the back of your head, tilting your face up to drink you in.

His finger tighten on your hair, yanking them more. Forcing your lips to part under his mouth.

The kiss turned feral in an instant, completely shattering the illusion of the quiet, honorable lord. His tongue slid into your mouth, deep and possessive, claiming you with a raw hunger that made your knees instantly buckle.

He caught you against him, his other hand sliding down from your ass to cup. He pulled you closer your pelvis hard against his stiffening length. A soft, helpless whimper was caught in your throat, entirely swallowed by him as he drank you in, his mouth moving over yours with a slick, heavy heat that left you completely breathless.

He dragged his lips away from yours just an inch, his teeth nipping sharply at your bottom lip before trailing down the sensitive skin of your jaw. His breath was ragged, hot, and heavy against your neck as his hands gripped you tighter, pinning you flush against his chest.

"I want to drag you into the snow and lift these fine silks around your waist," he growled against your skin, his voice a low, filthy purr that made a sudden, wicked heat coil deep in your core. "I want to feel you wrapping those legs around my hips, taking all of me beneath the winter sky until you are crying my name to the old gods."

He pressed his lips to the racing pulse point at your throat, his touch softening as he brought his hand up to cup your flushed cheek, his grey eyes burning into yours with absolute certainty.

"You are going to be my wife," he murmured softly, his lips brushing yours once more in a tender, lingering promise. "And I will spend the rest of my days keeping you warm."

“That will never happen,” you said weakly, the words lacking any of their usual Lannister venom as you clutched at the heavy fur of his cloak. Your breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, the fierce heat of his sudden declaration still echoing in the quiet spaces of the snowy woods.

Eddard smiled, a genuine, soft expression that entirely transformed his rugged features, before pressing his forehead gently against yours.

"It will," he murmured, his deep voice carrying the absolute weight of a northern vow against your lips. "Your father may wield gold, my lady, but he does not rule the winter. I am not letting you go back south.”

His fingers clamped tight around your throat, squeezing just enough to steal your breath as he yanked your hips flush against his. "You can try to leave, you can try to deny what I've said, you can delude your mind into thinking you will leave at the end of this celebration," he growled, his lips brushing yours with a punishing, breathless friction, "but I will hunt whatever progression, whatever guard that will take you away from me—and I will ruin you until you can't even remember how to stand without my hands holding you up."

The thick, hot weight of his cock pulsated rhythmically against your lower belly, grinding demandingly through the thin fabric of your clothes. He let out a low, ragged growl at the friction, his fingers tightening on your throat to tilt your face up as he pressed his erection even harder against you, leaving no room for you to breathe, let alone escape the hard promise of what he was going to do to you.

The crunch of approaching footsteps broke the quiet, and Lady Manderly rounded the snow-dusted hedges, her expression a mix of relief and utter confusion.

"There you are! I've been looking everywhere," she said, letting out a breathless laugh as she brushed a stray curl from her face. "Are you okay? What did you see out here that led—"

Her words died in her throat. The laughter vanished from her eyes as Eddard Stark stepped into view from behind you. Without a single word to your companion, his large, warm hand slid possessively over the curve of your waist, pulling you back against his chest for just a second. He leaned down, his lips pressing a slow, deliberate kiss to your forehead before his breath brushed the golden braids near your ear, nipping at your ear lobe before moving back to the top of your head.

"I will be waiting," he murmured into your hair, his voice low and full of a quiet, unyielding promise.

He released you, giving Lady Manderly a respectful but entirely unbothered nod as he swept past her, his heavy fur cloak billowing in the winter wind as he walked back toward the castle.

The silence stretched for three agonizing seconds before Lady Manderly practically exploded, her eyes wide as saucers. "What the hells happened in four fucking days?!"

"I don't know! I don't fucking know!" you cried out, your hands flying to your face as the sheer weight of what you had just done finally crashed over you.

The icy Lannister composure you had cultivated your entire life was completely gone, replaced by a raw, spiraling panic. "I—my father is going to kill me. Jaime... Cersei... gods, they will all think I've completely lost my mind! Tyrion!”

"Calm down!" she yelled, grabbing you by your shoulders and shaking you gently, though a wild, shocked smile was fighting its way onto her face. "Take a breath and talk to me! What happened out here?!"

"He kissed me," you choked out, your voice dropping to a panicked whisper as you gripped Lady Manderly’s forearms. Your mind was racing, a chaotic blur of golden lions and grey wolves clashing violently in your head. "He... he grabbed me. Right here. In the snow. And he said—gods, he said he’s going to make me his wife."

Lady Manderly’s jaw dropped so low you thought it might unhinge completely. "The Quiet Wolf said what?"

"He told me he wouldn't let me go back south," you said, pacing a tight, frantic circle in the snow, your fine silk skirts dragging through the slush. All the fierce pride that usually guarded your tongue had dissolved into sheer, unadulterated terror. "He said he doesn't care about my father's plans. He called me his sweet lioness, and then he... he looked at me as if I already belonged to him."

"And what did you say?" she gasped, stepping into your path to halt your pacing, her fingers clutching your shoulders. "Tell me you didn't spit in his face. Tell me you didn't threaten to have Lord Tywin bring an army to burn Winterfell to the ground."

"I told him it would never happen," you whispered, looking back toward the path where his heavy footsteps had left deep impressions in the snow. Your chest tightened, a betraying warmth blooming in your throat despite the freezing wind. "But I said it weakly. I couldn't even force the venom into my own voice. I just stood there and let him press his forehead to mine like a fool."

Lady Manderly let out a sharp, breathless squeal, a hand flying over her mouth to muffle the sound.

"You're in love with him."

"I am not in love with him!" you hissed, your eyes snapping to hers, flashing with a desperate spark of your usual fire. "I am a Lannister! We do not fall in love with dour, provincial lords who smell of winter and leather. I am supposed to marry a king, or a warden of the south, or someone who actually understands the value of a bath and a gold dragon!"

"Then why are your cheeks as red as a Tully banner?" she teased, "And why did you let him kiss your forehead just now in front of me without taking his hand off your waist?"

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. The cold air stung your skin, but it did nothing to cool the flush burning from your neck up to your brow. "Because he is insufferable. He does this... this thing with his eyes. Those damn grey eyes. They look right through me, as if all my anger is nothing but a transparent lie."

"It is a transparent lie," Lady Manderly laughed softly, her tone turning gentler as she pulled your hands away from your face. "For four days, you have scowled at the walls, at the food, and at the music. But every time he looked at you, you stopped breathing. I saw it. The whole hall saw it."

"Tyrion will mock me until the end of my days," you muttered, the thought of his arrogant smirk making your stomach twist. "And Cersei... Cersei will think I’ve surrendered myself to a barbarian just to spite her. But Father..." You swallowed hard, the phantom image of Tywin Lannister's cold, judgmental stare looming over you. "Father will see it as a betrayal of our house."

"Lord Tywin is hundreds of leagues away," she reminded you quietly, stepping closer to shield you from the wind. "But the Warden of the North is right here. And it sounds to me like the wolf has already marked his territory."

"He hasn't marked anything," you snapped, though the memory of his rough, wicked whispers against your skin made a sudden, heavy heat coil deep in your stomach. You pulled your cloak tighter around your shoulders, your golden-beaded braids shifting against the dark fabric. "If he thinks a few bold words and a kiss in the godswood are enough to tame a lioness, he has vastly underestimated my house."

"Oh, I don't think he wants to tame you at all," Lady Manderly smiled, linking her arm through yours to guide you back toward the castle. "I think he likes the bite."

“It’s witchcraft! It’s barbaric!” you snapped, your boots striking the flagstones with furious precision as you entered the covered walkway.

“It’s love—”

“Will you shut up!” you snapped, spinning around to glare at her so fiercely she actually took a half-step back. “Do not use that wretched word in my presence.”

“We can lie to your father,” she offered, completely unfazed by your outburst as she caught up to your frantic pace.

You stopped dead in your tracks, turning a look of pure, unadulterated disbelief upon her. “Are you just willfully dumb, or do you just like to irritate me? One does not simply lie to Tywin Lannister and live to tell the tale!”

“We can say you’ve decided you wanted to stay longer for some political reason—until we figure out whatever is going on between you two,” she said, a brilliant, entirely too-cheerful smile breaking across her face. She reached out, patting your arm with infuriating calm. “Calm down!”

“Calm down?” you hissed, your voice dropping to a dangerous, vibrating whisper as you looked around to ensure no passing guards or servants were within earshot. “You want me to calm down when a northern savage has effectively upended my entire life in less than a turn of the moon? If my father catches wind of this, he will have me dragged back to Casterly Rock in chains of gold.”

“Then don't let him catch wind of it yet,” Lady Manderly reasoned, her eyes dancing with the sheer thrill of the conspiracy. “Write to him. Tell him the winter roads are treacherous. Tell him you are securing an alliance. Tell him anything, but give yourself time.”

“Time for what?” you demanded, though your heart gave a traitorous, heavy thud against your ribs at the mere thought of staying. “Time to let him look at me with those ridiculous grey eyes until I completely forget who I am?”

“Time to see if the wolf can actually catch the lioness,” she whispered with a wink, pulling you along toward the warmth of the keep.

“You are—gods—I simply cannot deal with you right now,” you muttered, tearing your arm from hers.

You practically fled down the corridor, retreating to the sanctuary of your chambers. You slammed the heavy door, threw the bolt, and refused to leave for the rest of the evening, willfully ignoring the bells that chimed for supper. The thought of facing the Great Hall—of watching Eddard, or worse, watching Catelyn Tully watch him—made your stomach twist into knots.

Hours bled into the night until the castle grew quiet. A sudden, firm knock on your door shattered the silence. Before you could even demand who it was, the heavy iron latch clicked. The door swung open, and Eddard Stark stepped into the firelight. He had a quiet, heavy grace about him, his dark hair damp from the encroaching night mist.

“You missed supper,” he said, his deep voice filling the small room instantly.

“I am not all that hungry,” you lied, keeping your back to him as you stood by the hearth, your fingers gripping the stone mantle.

“I miss your cold presence in the hall,” Ned murmured. He closed the distance between you with a slow, deliberate stride, the rustle of his leather brigandine tracing his movements.

“Don’t flatter me, Lord Stark,” you snapped, though the heat of his proximity was already making your pulse race. “I am sure Lady Catelyn was more than happy to fill the silence in my absence.”

Ned stopped just inches behind you. He didn't touch you, but his warmth radiated through the space between you, a silent command that forced you to turn and face him.

“Let her fill whatever silence she pleases,” Ned whispered, his grey eyes darkening as they locked onto yours, stripping away every ounce of your Southron defiance. He reached out, his large, calloused hand gently but firmly cupping the side of your neck, his thumb resting right over your frantically beating pulse. “She is not the one who haunts my thoughts. She is not the one I want.”

Your breath hitched, your hands instinctively coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the heavy, steady thud of his heart beneath the leather. “Eddard... you cannot say these things to me. I am a Lannister. We are meant to be enemies. We are meant to be careful.”

“I am done being careful with you,” he growled softly, leaning down until his lips brushed against yours with a agonizing, slow friction. The romantic tension between you pulled so tight it felt as though the very air would snap. He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. “Hear me, sweet lioness. Your father can claim the West, and the King can claim the South. But I am yours. Every piece of me. And I will defy the world before I let another man touch what belongs to the North.”

“Why are you so sure of this?” you whispered, the question breaking from your throat before your pride could weaponize it into a venomous remark.

He didn’t answer with words. Eddard silenced you instantly, his mouth crashing down onto yours with a heavy, feral intensity that obliterated any lingering thoughts of resistance.

The kiss was unvarnished and stripped away the image of the stoic, honorable Lord of Winterfell. His hand slid from your neck, his fingers clawing into your hair to tilt your head back as his tongue forced its way past your lips, deep and possessive.

He pinned you back against the edge of the heavy wooden vanity, his broad frame crowding yours until you could feel the hard, rigid length pressing boldly against your thighs through the thin fabric of your shift. Your fingers dug frantically into the thick leather, your head falling back as he dragged his mouth down to bite sharply your throat, his hands sliding down to grip your hips and lift you flush against him. A soft, breathless whimper escaped you, completely undone by the raw, unbridled hunger of the wolf.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his chest heaving, his grey eyes dark and utterly consumed as his thumbs stroked your bruised, wet lips.

Finally he answering your question,"Because you belong in my bed," he growled softly, the gravelly edge of his voice vibrating against your skin. "And because you tremble for me just as fiercely as I do for you."

Your breath caught in your throat, a desperate, shuddering gasp leaving your mouth as Ned suddenly gripped your waist and lifted you completely onto the edge of the heavy wooden vanity.

He stepped deep between your thighs, his large, calloused hands sliding down to grip the bare flesh of your ass through the parted folds of your shifted silks. With a sudden, powerful surge of control, he lifted you higher, guiding your legs to wrap tightly around his hips as he carried you into the shadows of the bedchamber, pressing you down into the heavy, dark furs of the mattress.

Before you could even draw breath to protest, the dynamic shifted. You found yourself pulled up, your silk shift pooling around your waist as he guided you to sit astride his lap, pinning you on top of him.

He lay flat on his back beneath you, but there was no illusion of who held the reins. His hands immediately flew to the bare flesh of your ass, his thick fingers digging in deeply, anchoring you over him with an unyielding, bruising grip.

"Move for me, sweet lioness," he growled up from the darkness of the pillows, his grey eyes burning like hot ash in the firelight.

Your breath hitched as you felt the raw, thick heat of his desire pressing relentlessly against your opening. You tilted your hips, a breathless whimper escaping your lips as you began to slide down his length, the friction agonizingly slick and intense. The sensation was overwhelming, a sudden, heavy fullness that made your core ache with a desperate, coiled tension.

But as you tried to find a rhythm, Eddard's hands tightened on your hips, completely halting your movement. He took control from the bottom, his powerful fingers lifting you up and pulling you down against him with a heavy, merciless force. He dictated every slide, every agonizingly slow friction, driving his length deep inside you until your head fell back.

"Eddard—gods, please," you cried out, your fingers clawing frantically into the muscle of his chest, your skin flushing a deep, brilliant crimson as the pleasure threatened to pull you under.

"Look at me," he commanded softly. "Tell me again. Whose wife are you?"

"I... I am a Lannister, I am—" You tried to claw back your pride, but he shifted his hips beneath you, driving up so deeply that a high, fractured gasp was ripped from your throat.

"You are my wife," Ned growled, his grip turning possessive and fierce as he set a brutal, driving pace from below, forcing you to ride him through the sheer, blinding storm of his control. "Say it. Let the old gods hear you."

"I am yours," you sobbed out, completely undone as your climax began to fracture through your veins, your body tightening violently around his length. "I am your wife, Eddard... I will be your wife."

A dark, triumphant groan tore from his chest at your words, his hands gripping your ass to lock you flush against his hips as he finally let himself unravel beneath you, filling you with a thick, scalding heat that left you both trembling in the quiet of the winter night.

The heavy, musky heat of the bedchamber was thick with the scent of woodsmoke and slick, tangled skin. You slumped against his chest, your breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches, but Eddard wasn't finished with you. Before the aftershocks of your climax could even fade, his large, rough hands shifted from your hips, sliding lower to clamp fiercely onto your ass.

His fingers dug in deep, bruisingly possessive, reminding you instantly that he still held complete control from beneath you. With a sudden, powerful upward surge of his hips, he drove his thick length back into your dripping core, burying himself inside you until you let out a sharp, fractured gasp against his neck.

"Eddard—" you choked out, your hands clawing frantically at the furs beneath his head as he set a renewed, merciless pace. He didn't just slide you up and down; his hands manipulated the flesh of your cheeks, lifting you up and pulling you down hard against his thrusts, grinding your pelvis flat against his until the friction was blinding.

Then he moved one hand, it traveled up slowly up your sweat-slicked stomach. His calloused palm cupped your breast, the rough skin sent a jolt of electricity straight to your lower abdomen. He squeezed the soft, heavy mound firmly, his thumb rolling over the hard, aching nipple with a deliberate, crude friction that had you throwing your head back.

"You feel so fucking tight around me, my sweet lioness," he growled "Look at how you take all of me."

He pumped up into you with a heavy, wet rhythm, his fingers working your breast mercilessly, pinching and rolling the nipple until you were sobbing into the quiet room. The contrast of his rough, unpolished northern strength against your fine Southron skin was entirely indecent, stripping away every ounce of the proud lady you pretended to be.

You were completely undone, riding him wildly as his hand on your ass dictated every deep, stretching plunge, driving you both toward a second, even more volatile ruin.

The slick, heavy friction between your bodies echoed in the quiet room, a scandalous soundtrack to the absolute ruin of your Lannister dignity. He didn't allow you a moment to recover. His hand remained clamped tightly on your ass, his thick fingers sinking and molding you to him as he tilted your pelvis to stretch you even wider around his length.

With every deep, upward surge of his hips, his calloused palm still worked at your breast with a crude, heavy possessiveness. He squeezed the soft weight of it, his fingers twisting and pinching the swollen nipple until a high, needy whimper was ripped from your throat.

"You're soaking wet for me," Ned growled, his voice a low, filthy rumble against your ear as he drove himself up into you, bottoming out so hard the breath left you entirely. "Look at what the wolf does to you. Every time I touch you, you open up just for me."

"Eddard—gods, stop talking," you gasped, your fingers digging frantically into his broad shoulders as your hips began to roll instinctively against his, desperate for the friction. Your pride was entirely gone, burned away by the raw, unbridled hunger of his touch.

"No," he growled, his teeth biting sharply into the junction where your neck met your shoulder, marking you as his over and over again. His hand on your ass lifted you high, dragging you slowly down the entire thick length of him before slamming his hips upward to meet you. "I want you to hear it. I want you to remember the weight of me inside you when you try to look at me across my hall tomorrow."

He accelerated the pace, his grip on your flesh turning entirely merciless. His thumb flicked over your aching nipple in a brutal, rapid rhythm that matched the wet, heavy pounding of his hips. The pleasure was too much, too sharp, fracturing your vision into a blur of firelight and dark furs. Your inner muscles clamped desperately around him, convulsing in tight, rhythmic waves as your second climax began to tear through you.

Ned let out a dark, feral groan, his fingers digging bruisingly deep into your ass as he felt you tighten around him. He stopped guiding your movements and simply pinned you down onto him, driving his hips up in short, heavy, punishing thrusts that filled your core completely, riding out the storm of your release until he finally unraveled inside you with a violent, shuddering shudder.

The heavy, wet sound of your joined bodies finally slowed to a halt, leaving only the sound of your fractured, ragged breathing echoing into the rafters of the chamber. You collapsed completely against his broad chest, your forehead resting against the damp skin of his shoulder, your entire body trembling with the aftershocks of the release. The musky, sweet scent of your shared heat hung thick in the air between the heavy furs.

Eddard didn't release his grip on you. His large, calloused hands remained heavy and possessive, resting flat against the curve of your ass, keeping you firmly pinned astride his lap so you couldn't pull away from his fading length.

His chest heaved beneath you, his heart a frantic, wild hammer against your ribs. He buried his face in the golden tangle of your hair, his lips brushing the sensitive skin behind your ear as his breathing slowly began to steady.

"Say it," he murmured, his voice a low, rough gravelly whisper that still carried the raw edge of total possession.

You let out a soft, exhausted groan, your fingers weakly curling into the dark furs beneath his head. "I already told you what you wanted, Eddard... I am your wife."

"Not that," Ned whispered, his hands squeezing the soft flesh of your ass just tight enough to make your breath hitch, reminding you that even in the quiet aftermath, he wasn't done with you

His thumb finding your highly sensitive clit and delivering a firm, deliberate stroke that made your entire body twitch.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice thick and rough against your ear.

You gasped, your hips instinctively arching into his touch as his thumb rolled over the aching peak again, melting the last remnants of your famous Lannister steel. "Please... I'm looking."

"The cold, untouchable lioness," he murmured, his gaze locking onto yours as his thumb maintained a slow, torturous rhythm that kept you hovering right on the edge of a clean break. "Tell me who owns you."

"You," you whimpered, your fingers clawing at the sheets, all your usual calculated restraint burning away under his touch. "Only you."

He paused the movement, pressing down just hard enough to make you whine in desperate need. "Not enough. Call me your husband."

“I have called myself your wife already!” You whimpered

“Not enough!”

"Say it anyway," he growled, resuming the heavy, relentless friction of his thumb until your breath shattered and your composure completely disintegrated. "Say it."

"My husband," you choked out, arching helplessly into his hand as the sudden, overwhelming release took you all over again. "You're my husband."

Your heart gave a traitorous, violent thud.

A low, deeply satisfied hum vibrated in his chest at the words. Ned closed his eyes, his grip softening into something fiercely protective as he pulled you down flat against him, wrapping his broad arms around your back and sealing you into the safety of his warmth against the biting northern night.

𓃭 ───────── 𓃭

15 Years Later

298 AC (After Conquest)

 The heavy furs of the master bedchamber did little to stifle the mounting exhaustion of King Robert’s impending arrival. As you stood by the hearth, mentally cataloging the endless preparations, a pair of calloused hands slid around your waist. Eddard drew you back against his broad chest, his beard scratching softly against your shoulder as he pressed a warm, lingering kiss to the side of your neck before slowly licking your neck.

With a sharp huff, you shoved his chest, twisting out of his embrace. "Stay away from me, you barbarically horny wolf!" you snapped, smoothing down your gown with rigid dignity.

Ned blinked, a rare, amused twitch tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Me?"

"Yes, you! Seven children, Eddard. Seven!" You gestured toward the window, where the chaotic sounds of the courtyard echoed. "I have single-handedly populated this entire frozen fortress. Your dirty little wolves offer me absolutely no peace."

Ned stepped closer, his dark eyes gleaming with quiet warmth. "They are your children, too, my love. Most of them have that bright Lannister gold in their hair to prove it. Robb, Tybolt, Sansa, Rickon, Jamie. All blonde in some way.”

"Do not try to charm your way out of this," you countered, pointing an accusing finger at him. "Only my sweet Bran and little Jamie have any sense of decency. The rest of them—Robb, Tybolt, Sansa, Rickon, even my wild Arya—are entirely insolent. They take after their father."

"Arya has the Stark look, I'll grant you," Ned chuckled, reaching out to catch your hand, his thumb rubbing soothingly over your knuckles. "But that fierce pride? That is pure lioness. You can hardly blame me for the traits they stole from you and the things you allow her to do.”

“Excuse me?” You said slightly amused

“She only has that wild look because her mother allows her to run rampant through our halls,” Ned murmured, his lips brushing your neck once more before he finally relented and pulled back. He wore a quiet, knowing smile. “Cutting her hair... gifting her a sword for her name day. I thought Catelyn Tully was going to faint right into the rushes when she saw the girl swinging steel.”

At the mention of the Tully woman, your posture stiffened. "She is a wanderer who seems to ghost herself in my halls," you snapped, crossing your arms. "Every name day, and every anniversary of your brother Brandon’s death, there she is, lingering in Winterfell. One would think she was the one who married the Wolf."

"She is a friend to my family—"

"That is irrelevant!" you cut him off, raising your chin. "My daughter asked for a sword, and I simply provided. Nothing is too great or too small for my children. But that does not excuse Arya's arrogance and wildness—a trait she inherits entirely from you, Eddard Stark!" You pressed a sharp finger firmly against his chest.

Ned chuckled, his large hand coming up to gently clasp your wrist, though he didn't pull your hand away. "She gets her arrogance from her mother. The very same mother who forced Ser Jaime to ride all the way to Winterfell just to knight our girl."

The memory of it was so vivid, it seemed to paint itself across the quiet, firelit stone of your bedchamber.

Years ago, you had been sitting by the hearth, drawing a silver-backed brush through Arya’s thick, dark hair. It was the deep, shadow-brown of the North, looking so much like her father’s. Watching her squirm, she had reminded you so intensely of the stories of Brandon Stark—wild, untamed, and entirely chaotic.

"Mother," Arya had spoken slowly, her small voice breaking the quiet. Ned had looked up from his ledger at the desk, watching the two of you. "Why do you keep your hair so long? Why do you look so beautiful with yours, when I look like... well, like Father?"

Ned had shifted in his seat, opening his mouth to offer some gentle, fatherly reassurance, but you had simply raised a hand to silence him.

"Hair is not honor, sweet girl," you had whispered, your fingers gently tilting her chin up. "It grows back. Character does not. Speak your mind. What is truly troubling you?"

Arya had swallowed hard, looking down at her lap. "I don’t want my hair long anymore. I can’t be knighted with long hair. It gets in my eyes when I train."

Ned had immediately intervened, stepping toward the hearth. "Arya, it is customary for ladies to keep their hair long and tended. And ladies cannot be—"

Before he could finish his lecture on northern propriety and usher her off to bed, you had reached for the heavy shears on the vanity. With a swift, decisive grip, you gathered Arya’s dark locks and sheared them off in one clean, merciless chop, leaving her with a short, jagged, boyish cut.

Ned had stopped dead in his tracks, his jaw dropping as his eyes darted from the dark tresses sliding across your lap to the absolute look of fierce triumph on his daughter's face. He let out a low, defeated groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. "By the old gods..." he muttered, knowing right then that there was absolutely no controlling the two lionesses in his house.

Within the following moons, the Golden Lion himself had arrived. Jaime had stood in the Great Hall, his gilded armor looking entirely out of place against the grey stone of Winterfell, bickering fiercely with you while Ned watched in dry amusement.

"You're the only bloody knight I trust with my daughter!" you had snapped, stepping right into his space.

"You don't even have a proper master-at-arms to train her!" Jaime had shot back, gesturing wildly.

"Did you ride all the way to the bloody North just to ask if I had a damn master-at-arms?" you snapped, punching his armored shoulder hard enough to make the metal clang.

Jaime had winced, rubbing his arm. "I am not knighting a Stark."

"You're not knighting a Stark," you had hissed, leaning close enough that he could see the dangerous Lannister fire in your eyes. "You are knighting my daughter. And you will knight her."

When the day finally came, the Great Hall of Winterfell was thick with a tense, stunned silence. The northern lords lined the long tables, their faces twisted in deep scowls, muttering heavily into their horns of ale at the sheer absurdity of the spectacle. Standing near the hearth, Lady Catelyn Tully sat rigid, her hands tightly clasped in her lap, her lips pressed into a thin, pale line of absolute disapproval. She looked as though she might faint from the sheer, unladylike impropriety of it all.

But you stood tall beside Ned, your chin raised high as your brother, Ser Jaime Lannister, stepped forward in his brilliant, gleaming Kingsguard armor.

Arya knelt before him, her boyish haircut exposing her small shoulders, her dark eyes shining with an unyielding intensity. With perfect, solemn grace, Jaime drew his magnificent sword, the steel catching the firelight as he tapped her left shoulder, then her right.

"In the name of the Warrior, I charge you to be brave," Jaime's voice rang out, carrying an unusual weight of respect through the rafters.

The moment the sword was sheathed, the silence broke—not from the grumbling lords, but from the front row of the family gallery.

"That was so bloody cool!" little Jamie—Ser Jaime's young namesake—burst out, his bright dirty blonde hair bouncing as he jumped up and down, clapping his hands wildly. “Me next! Uncle Jamie! Me next! Me! Me!”

"She looks like a real warrior!" young Brandon cheered beside him, his grey eyes wide with awe, while little Rickon giggled and mirrored his brothers' excitement, tugging on his mother's skirts.

Over by the pillar, standing quietly in the shadows where he usually kept himself, Jon Snow watched the display. A rare, genuinely bright smile broke across his usually solemn face, a quiet warmth in his eyes as he looked at his favorite half-sister achieving the impossible.

The memory faded, leaving the quiet warmth of your bedchamber once more. Ned’s hand was still wrapped gently around your wrist, his thumb tracing the pulse point there, a soft chuckle escaping his chest as you pulled he back to the present.

"She looked like a proper squire by the time Jaime finished with her," Ned murmured, a nostalgic warmth softening his rugged features. "Even if my lords nearly choked on their ale seeing a Kingsguard bestow knighthood upon a girl."

"Let them choke," you said, though the sharpness in your voice had finally begun to yield to the heat of his touch. "A lioness does not concern herself with the opinions of sheep, Eddard. As my father would say…and nor does a wolf, I should hope."

"No," Ned agreed, pulling you that crucial inch closer until the warmth of his chest pressed against yours, his arms enveloping you in the safe, familiar scent of leather and winter frost. "But this wolf is still waiting for his wife to forgive him for the crime of giving her seven beautiful, insolent children. Though he wishes for more. Another wild girl. Maybe a boy…twins?”

You ignored his last statement

"She is my daughter, and she is everything that I am not," you said, your voice softening with a rare, quiet ferocity as you looked into the fire. "She will not be hindered by the expectations that nearly suffocated me. She doesn't want children, she doesn't want a lord husband—she wants to be a knight. I saw to it that she became one."

Ned's expression softened, a tender, knowing look replacing his usual stoic mask. "You won't admit it, but you love them. All of them. Fiercely. Which is why we should have another.”

“Eddard control yourself!”

But you looked away, refusing to let him see the truth in your eyes. You didn’t mind having more children, mothering a small babe that would look like him or yourself.

"They were all my children, born from my womb," you said coldly, waving your hand to dismiss his sentiment. "Feeding them, protecting them, seeing them thrive... it is the least I can do as a mother. Now, is that why you are here? To bother me with your soft-hearted observations?"

"No," Ned said, his voice dropping an octave, the warmth instantly evaporating from his features. "Lady Tully will be coming. She wishes to see us."

Your posture went rigid, the Lannister gold in your veins turning to ice. "Us? Or you? That woman thinks she can needle her way into my family, and you sit back and allow the damn fish to do so. Ever since we first wed, ever since I birthed all seven of our children, she has been lurking, gifting them with trinkets from House Tully as if she has some claim to this house." You stepped into his space, your chin tilted up, your eyes flashing. "I am the Lady of Winterfell, Eddard. Not her."

Ned didn’t flinch, but the gravity in his dark eyes made the room feel suddenly colder. He reached out, his heavy hands gripping your shoulders, not to hold you back, but to anchor you for the blow.

"I know. You are my one and only true wife. She is not here to play at being a mother to our children," Ned said quietly. "She wants to discuss Jon Arryn’s death. She believes... she has reason to believe that the Lannisters murdered the Hand."

The words hung in the freezing air, heavy and suffocating. Your breath caught in your throat, your mind instantly racing to your twin, to your father, to the terrifying, bloody lengths your family would go to protect their secrets. If Jaime... if Tywin...Fuck…If Cersei.

Before you could even form a defense, a heavy, impatient pounding rattled the oak doors of your bedchamber, shattering the tense silence.

"Enter!" you snapped, glad for the distraction, though your voice still carried the sharp edge of your rising panic.

The door burst open, and a small stampede of boys spilled at the doorway.

"Mother! Please tell Robb that you want our hair cut short!" Jon insisted, his usual quiet reservation entirely forgotten in his frustration.

Ned’s eyebrows shot up. He stood frozen, his gaze darting between you and his bastard son, who had just naturally, without a second thought, called his proud Lannister wife mother in a moment of pure household chaos.

Robb, Tybolt, and Theon crowded in right behind Jon, practically tripping over one another.

You crossed your arms, leveling the group with a stern, unimpressed look. "Isn't that exactly what I requested?" you snapped.

"Yes, mother! They don't listen to a word of it," Theon chimed in quickly, nodding in fervent agreement.

Ned’s head snapped toward him, his jaw nearly dropping. Theon too? The ironborn ward was looking to you for maternal authority just as naturally as the rest of them.

"Well, then go," you commanded, stepping forward to inspect the four of them. You reached out, flicking a stray piece of straw from Robb's shoulder and turning Tybolt's chin to look at his smudge-faced cheek. You cuff Theon’s face before scowling. "You look filthy, all of you. Like dirty, unkempt wolves that have been rolling in the dirt. Go bathe and cut those manes off immediately! Now!"

The boys scrambled, offering quick, mumbled apologies before rushing back out the door, their heavy boots clattering down the stone corridor.

A sudden, powerful rush of memory washed over him, pulling him backward through the fog of the last years. He had a vivid, striking flashback to the cold afternoon when a frightened, defiant ten-year-old ward had first stepped off the horses in the courtyard of Winterfell.

Theon had been trembling then—not from the cold, but from terror. His father's rebellion had been crushed, his brothers were dead, and he had been surrounded by silent, grim-faced northern soldiers who looked at him as if he were nothing but a bargaining chip.

Ned remembered how you had stepped forward, your heavy velvet skirts sweeping through the slush. You had looked every bit the proud, untouchable Lannister, your chin tilted high, your eyes sweeping over the boy with an icy precision.

“The boy is freezing, my husband,” you had said to Ned, your voice cutting through the tense silence of the courtyard like a blade. “And he looks as though he expects us to execute him on the spot. Is this how House Stark welcomes its guests, even those taken by force? The Starks are wild and unkempt things, dirty and wild… are you hungry?”

Ned had watched, silent and cautious, as you knelt in the freezing mud, utterly ignoring the ruin to your fine silks. You had reached out, your movements deliberate and unhurried. Theon had flinched away, his small hands curling into defensive fists, but you hadn't retreated.

Instead, you had taken his small, chapped hands in yours. Your fingers had been warm, the rings pressing gently against his skin as you rubbed his hands to bring the circulation back.

“You are heir to the Iron Isles,” you had told him, your voice softening just enough to cut through his terror, “and a handsome one at that.”

The boy had blinked, completely disarmed by the sudden, unexpected warmth from a woman who looked like royalty. The defensive tension in his small shoulders had melted instantly.

“Come, let’s eat,” you had said, rising gracefully and pulling him along with you. “You will sit with me, my sons, and my little girl.”

He had let you lead him inside without a single protest, his tiny fingers clinging to yours as if you were his only shield against the cold.

The heavy oak door clicked shut brought him back to the present. The sudden silence that rushed back into the room was deafening. The warm, chaotic domesticity of the sons you raised vanished, leaving only the freezing northern air and the terrible truth of Ned's accusation.

Ned slowly turned back to you, the brief amusement of the boys' interruption and the warmth of the flash back entirely gone from his face. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous, heavy whisper. "Your brothers Jaime and Tyrion, along with your sister is coming with the King. If Catelyn's words are true... if your family has murdered my second father..." He paused, his grip tightening on your waist. "What will you do when the lion and the wolf finally tear each other apart?"

You thought for a moment before looking away. What would you do?

[perkqularkreashions]

i look better in the dark

Cregan Stark x Celtigar!Reader

Description: 16 moons ago, Rhaenyra begged you to go North to be the Maester of coins for Cregan. What Rhaenyra didn’t expect was the Blood Pirate to fall in love with the Warden of the North

Warnings: smut-p in v-, oral female receiving, mentions of sexual relationships with Lady Jeyne Arryn, pregnancy trope at the end, I feel like it’s a bit long! Lowkey don’t know how I feel about this one! Please Enjoy!

What’s Next:

Raider Joel x Reader - requested

Arthur Dayne x Reader - requested

Aemond x Velaryon!Reader - requested

Sandor Clegane x Reyne!Reader - requested

Daemon Targaryen x Greyjoy!Reader -requested

Tywin Lannister x Dorne!Reader

Tywin Lannister x Baratheon!Reader - requested

Ned Stark x Lannister!Reader - requested

Ned Stark x Tully!Reader

Young!Robert Baratheon x Targaryen!Reader - requested

Theon Greyjoy x Stark!Reader - requested

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⋆ ─── Nineteen Moons Later ─── ⋆

The moon had completed its slow, silver circuit 17 times since the first fires were lit, and with each passing cycle, the weight upon Cregan’s shoulders seemed to double. The fancy banners of his house, once snapped vibrantly in the crisp northern air, now felt like heavy iron shrouds draped over the walls of Winterfell.

Cregan sat hunched in his solar, the room smelling of old wax, stale ink, and the sharp tang of woodsmoke. The hearth had burned down to glowing embers, casting a rhythmic, bloody pulse of light across the room. His hair, long and matted from days of neglect, was yanked back and cinched with a crude piece of scarred leather. It was a utilitarian knot, meant only to keep the dark strands from falling into the ink as he bent over his desk.

He scribbled on the parchment, the quill scratching a frantic, jagged rhythm that mirrored the pounding in his temples. He read over the ledger again, his vision blurring until the columns of numbers swam like insects. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, pressing until sparks flew behind his eyelids, yet when he opened them, the ink still bled into the grain of the paper—just as his people were bleeding into the snow.

The reports were a litany of disasters. What had begun as isolated skirmishes had curdled into a relentless tide of violence. The wildings were no longer merely scavenging; they were raiding with a desperate, starving ferocity. Smallfolk villages—names of hamlets that had stood for generations—were being wiped off the map in a single night of fire and screaming.

Each raid was a domino falling. Less grain in the silos meant the coming winter would be a season of starvation. Less timber from the wolfswood meant the Great Hall would grow cold, and the smithies would fall silent. Cregan could almost hear the voices of his bannermen, a cacophony of dissent rising from the Rills to White Harbor. They didn't want excuses or ledgers; they wanted heads on pikes and safety for their lands. He was a Lord of Winter, but as he stared at the mounting debts of blood and bone, he felt less like a ruler and more like a man trying to hold back an avalanche with nothing but his bare, ink-stained hands.

The heavy oak doors groaned on their hinges, but Cregan didn’t bother to lift his gaze from the blurring ink of the ledger. He assumed it was the heavy, impatient tread of his brothers—Rickard or Benjen, or perhaps both of them coming to badger him about the missed mid-day meal or the sharpening of swords for a hunt he had no intention of joining.

"Go away," Cregan muttered, his voice raspy from disuse and the dry heat of the solar. "I have no time for the two of you. The accounts won't balance themselves while you're out playing at war."

"Oh?"

The voice wasn't the deep, gruff timbre of a Stark. It was soft, melodic, and carried a teasing lilt that cut through the gloom like a blade.

Cregan froze. Slowly, he looked up, the quill still poised over a half-finished sentence.

There you stood, and for a moment, the flickering firelight seemed to center entirely on you. You were beautiful—gods, so beautiful it made the breath catch in his dry throat. Your silver hair, usually a wild halo that defied the harsh Northern winds, was partially tamed into a loose braid that draped over your shoulder, though stubborn strands still escaped to frame your face. Your skin appeared soft, glistening with a gentle warmth under the orange glow of the hearth, a stark contrast to the cold, grey stone of the walls.

You wore the colors of his House—charcoal greys and deep, midnight blacks—fabrics that should have looked somber but instead made you look like a queen of the winter frost. When his eyes finally met yours, you offered him a gentle, knowing smile.

You were different from the others. Many women had roamed through these halls over the past twelve moons, daughters of bannermen and ambitious ladies seeking a Lord’s favor with practiced giggles and lowered lashes. But you didn't seek his favor; you simply held it. In the suffocating darkness of his duties, you were the only light that didn't burn his eyes.

“Wife?” he whispered, the word catching in his throat like a secret he wasn’t quite ready to let go of. The flickering candlelight played across his tired features, making the disbelief in his grey eyes look almost like hope.

You let out a soft, melodic laugh as you closed the distance between the door and his heavy oak desk. “You keep calling me that, I might just have to marry you, my winter’s wolf,” you teased, the silk of your skirts whispering against the stone floor.

You didn't wait for an invitation. You moved behind his chair, the scent of winter roses and woodsmoke following you. Lean and graceful, you leaned down, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to the corded tension of his neck. Cregan let out a jagged sigh, his shoulders dropping an inch for the first time in hours.

“What are you doing up this late?” you murmured against his skin.

“Balancing ledgers,” he grumbled, though his hand—still stained with the ink of a dozen failures—reached up instinctively to find yours.

Your brow arched, your lips still grazing the warm skin of his nape, sending a shiver through him that had nothing to do with the drafty solar. “Aren’t I… your Master of Coin?”

The question was spoken low, vibrating against his neck. You reached over his shoulder, your slender, soft fingers trailing over the parchment he had been obsessing over. You gently nudged the quill out of his hand, your touch a silent command to stop.

“You’re squinting at numbers that don't want to be found, Cregan,” you added, your voice dropping to a soothing hum. “And you’re doing a very poor job of a task you officially gave to me moons ago. Are you doubting my math, or just looking for a reason to suffer?”

Cregan didn't offer an argument; instead, his large, calloused hands reached out and snagged your waist, pulling you firmly into his lap. The ledger was forgotten, buried beneath the weight of your skirts as he buried his face for a fleeting second in the crook of your neck.

"I am doing what the Lord of Winterfell does," he murmured, his voice vibrating against your skin.

"And what is that?" you whispered back, your fingers threading into the messy dark silk at the nape of his neck, gently tugging at the leather cord that bound it. You felt the tension in his jaw begin to crack, his breath hitching as you deconstructed the wall he’d built around himself all day.

"How is my boy?" he asked suddenly, his voice shifting, desperate to change the subject from the crumbling borders of his kingdom.

Your brow raised at the redirection. Baelon was not his by blood—the silver of his hair and the fire in his spirit spoke of a different lineage—but Cregan had been the one to catch him when he stumbled. He was the one who had cheered when those small, uncertain feet took their first true steps across the Great Hall. Now, the boy called only for "Da" when he woke from a nightmare, and he flatly refused the blood-red silks or silver leathers of his own house. He wanted only the soot-grey wool and heavy furs of the North. He wanted to be a wolf.

"Yours?" you said with a soft, knowing smile. "He’s asleep. Dreaming of the kennel pups, no doubt."

Cregan’s expression softened, a ghost of a smile touching his tired lips. "And how’s my little crab?" he whispered.

He meant Brandon. His biological son was a mirror held up to his own soul—a true Stark with hair as dark as a raven’s wing and eyes the color of a winter storm. Brandon was a shadow that followed you everywhere, clinging to your skirts until he was old enough to realize he preferred the weight of a wooden practice sword.

"He’s with Rickard in the armory," you said, your thumb brushing rhythmically against the rough stubble on his cheek. "Helping with—what do you call it?—'playing war.' I suspect your brother is teaching him how to properly hold a shield, though the boy is currently convinced he can take down a giant by himself."

Cregan let out a low, huffed laugh, finally leaning his head back against the chair and looking up at you. For a moment, the raids, the timber shortages, and the bleeding ledgers felt a thousand leagues away.

"He has his father's stubbornness," Cregan sighed, his eyes searching yours. "And his mother's heart. A dangerous combination."

“Speak to me, what is troubling that you’re going over ledgers.” You whispered, he lifted his head.

Cregan’s jaw tightened, the muscle leaping beneath his stubble. He tried to turn his gaze back to the parchment—to the safety of cold ink and hard math—but your fingers were firm against his skin, anchoring him to the present, to the warmth of your lap and the honesty in your eyes.

"I don't want to talk about it," he grunted, the lie sounding hollow even to his own ears. It was the instinctive reflex of a Stark—to bury the struggle beneath a mountain of silence and duty.

"But you will," you whispered, your voice a soft command that held no argument. "You will talk. What is going on that you are hiding? I know when you’re lying, Cregan. We do not spin tales to each other."

He let out a long, shuddering breath, the kind of sound a man makes when he finally stops trying to hold up a collapsing roof. He leaned his forehead against yours, the heat of your skin a stark contrast to the chill that had settled in his bones.

"I know," he whispered back, his eyes finally closing.

"So—spill your heart. What is it?"

"It’s the villages in the Gift," he began, the words tumbling out now that the dam had broken. "The raids... they aren't just for food anymore. They’re burning the homes, leaving the bodies for the crows. The Wildlings are desperate, and because of them, my own men are becoming desperate. Lord Karstark is demanding more men for his borders, and the Manderlys are holding back grain because they fear the sea-raiders."

He gripped your waist a little tighter, his voice dropping to a jagged rasp. "I look at those ledgers and I see a winter coming that we cannot feed. I see Baelon and Brandon growing up in a North that is eating itself alive. I’m the Lord of Winterfell, the Warden of the North... and I am counting every bushel of grain like a beggar while my people scream in the dark. I feel like I'm failing them. I feel like I'm failing you."

“You think you’re failing the grass if it won’t grow right,” you said with a soft, bittersweet smile, your fingers tracing the hard line of his jaw. “Isn’t that why Rhaenyra sent me sixteen moons ago? To aid the North. Ever since, you’ve had me. You’ve let me sit by your side, counting your coin—busy work, Cregan. Safe work. But you know the true reason she sent me.”

“No,” he grunted, the sound muffled as he buried his face back into the crook of your neck, his grip on your waist tightening as if he could physically hold back the conversation. “You promised you’d try—for our sons. You promised a life without that fire.”

“Yet, our sons will eat the leather from their own swords if we do not act,” you answered, your voice steady and cool against the heat of his skin. You weren't just a ledger-keeper or a wife in the shadows; there was a dragon's blood in your veins that no Northern winter could freeze. “We are counting copper and grain while the wildlings burn the very fields we're tallying. My ledgers tell me we are dying, Cregan. Slowly, quietly, and politely.”

“I won’t allow it,” he whispered. But the words lacked the iron conviction of the Young Wolf. His tone was frayed, worn thin by the reality of the empty silos and the bloody reports. He was a man trying to protect his family from the monster he knew you could be, even if that monster was the only thing that could save them.

“You won’t allow them to starve? Or you won’t allow me to fly?” you whispered, pulling back just enough to force him to look at you. The firelight caught the silver of your hair, a reminder of the heritage he tried so hard to make him forget. “One dragon’s shadow over the Gift would do more than a thousand of Rickard’s scouts. The raids would end in a single night of ash.”

Cregan’s grey eyes were clouded with a sudden, sharp pain. He looked at you—not as his Master of Coin, but as the woman he had carved a life with. “And what happens to the woman I love when the war-fire takes her back? I didn't bring you to Winterfell to turn you into a weapon again.”

"Fine—no dragon," you conceded, though the words tasted like cold iron. You leaned in closer, your forehead resting against his, forcing him to meet the steady, unflinching silver of your gaze. "Still, I would get results. You know this—I was bred to be a killer. You know this."

Your voice was a gentle caress, a silk ribbon wrapped around a sharpened blade. It was the truth that haunted the quiet corners of Winterfell: behind the ledgers and the soft smiles, there was a predator that had been raised in the pits of Dragonstone.

"Wife—" he whispered, his voice cracking. It was a plea, an attempt to call back the woman who read stories to Baelon and Brandon, the woman who laughed at his brothers' crude jokes. He wanted the hearth-fire, not the wildfire.

"Yes," you answered, your thumb tracing the pulse point at his throat. You could feel his heart hammering—not with fear of you, but with fear for you. "I am your wife. I am the mother of your sons. And because I am, I will not sit here and watch you wither away over ink and parchment while our people are butchered in their sleep."

You sat back just a fraction, your hands sliding down to rest firmly on his chest. "You have the North, Cregan. You have the swords and the honor and the ancient names. But I have the instincts you’re too noble to use. Let me handle the dissenters. Let me ride with Rickard to the Gift. Not as a dragon-rider, if that is what scares you—but as a wolf who knows exactly where to bite to make a man bleed out."

Cregan’s grip on your waist tightened until it was almost painful. He looked at you, really looked at you, seeing the lethal grace that no amount of Northern wool could ever truly hide. "If I let you go," he rasped, "if I let that part of you out of the cage... will you come back to me? Or will I find a stranger in my bed when the snow clears?"

The smirk that pulled at the corner of your mouth was a dangerous thing—a ghost of the Rogue Prince himself. As Daemon’s protégé, that fire wasn't just in your blood; it was in your education. Your eyes darkened, the silver turning to the color of a storm-tossed sea as you leaned in, your breath warm against his lips.

"I will come back, my love," you promised, the words a vow and a threat all at once.

Cregan let out a long, ragged sigh that surrendered every bit of his resistance. He kissed you then, a desperate, bruising thing that tasted of ink and longing. A soft moan escaped you as you pulled him closer, your fingers digging into the thick wool of his doublet. He rose from the chair slowly, never breaking the contact, his sheer physical mass crowding you until he pushed you back against the heavy oak desk.

The ledgers and parchments scattered, sliding to the floor in a frantic rustle of paper, but neither of you cared. His lips left yours to trail a path of fire down your throat, burying his face in the sensitive crook of your neck.

"You have to promise... you have to come back to me," he whimpered against your skin, the Lord of Winterfell sounding like a man drowning. "Promise me."

The urgency in his voice sparked a corresponding heat in your gut. In a hurried, fluid motion, you reached down, your hand finding him through the heavy fabric of his breeches. You shifted your skirts with a sharp tug, baring yourself to the cool air of the solar before slicking your own entrance with a deft, teasing touch.

"Tell me you'll come back to me. Tell me!" Cregan groaned, his restraint finally snapping.

He didn't wait for the answer he already knew. He moved with a sudden, violent need, slamming into you with a force that made the heavy desk groan against the stone floor. He slumped against you, his forehead resting on your shoulder as the heat of his body seeped through your thin chemise.

He was trembling—a fine, deep shudder that started in his chest and moved through his arms.

"Don't go back to being that girl," he whimpered, his voice cracked and hollowed out. "The one Daemon made. The one who saw the world as nothing but ash and targets."

He pulled back just enough to frame your face with his large, ink-stained hands. His grey eyes were wet, searching yours with a desperation that made the Great Lord of Winterfell look fragile. He wasn't looking at a Master of Coin or a warrior; he was looking at the woman who had taught him that the North didn't always have to be cold.

"I love the woman who laughs with my brothers," he choked out, a stray tear carving a path through the grit on his cheek. "The woman who sings to Baelon when the thunder scares him. The woman who looked at me sixteen moons ago and saw a man, not a political alliance."

He pressed his brow against yours, his grip tightening on your face as if he could physically hold your soul in place.

"Promise me," he pleaded, his voice a broken whisper. "Kill who you must to keep our sons fed. Burn the fields if there is no other way. But come back to me as the woman I fell in love with. Don't let the war-fire swallow the part of you that is mine. I cannot lose you to the shadow of your father's house. I won't survive it."

Your whimper was a broken, melodic thing that seemed to shatter the last of his hardened exterior. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist, pulling him deeper into you, anchoring him to the heat of the moment and the reality of your body. Your mouth stayed open, soft, airy sounds escaping as you sought his lips, your fingers digging into the muscle of his shoulders.

“Cregan—” you whispered, the name a plea and a tether.

“Yes… yes,” he answered, his voice thick with a raw, jagged emotion.

The frantic, desperate pace of his movements began to shift. The violent urgency that had driven him against the desk softened into a slow, deliberate grounding. His thrusts becoming deep and heavy, as if he were trying to imprint the very feel of you into his bones before the sun could rise and the war could take you.

He leaned down, his forehead pressing against yours again, his nose brushing against your own. He moved within you with a heavy, rhythmic pressure that forced the breath from your lungs in jagged hitches. His large hands slid from your face, down the arch of your throat, and gripped your thighs, hitching them higher over his hips to drive himself deeper.

“I have you,” he growled low in his throat, a sound more animal than man. He was sweating now, the heat of his skin searing against yours in the drafty solar. He leaned down, catching one of your dark nipples between his teeth through the thin, damp silk of your chemise, tugging just enough to make you cry out. His tongue flickered gently, sucking trying to draw out that sound. When you did cry out the sound seemed to undo him.

His control, already frayed, snapped again. He began to hammer into you with a renewed, primal hunger, his movements wet and loud in the quiet room. You were slick and tight around him, your internal muscles clenching instinctively with every deep, sliding thrust. You arched your back, your breasts brushing against the rough wool of his doublet, your hands roaming frantically over his back, pulling him in as if you could pull him inside your very soul.

"Tell me," he gasped, his breath hot and ragged against your ear as he reached down between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing in a fast, cruel circle that sent white-hot sparks behind your eyelids. "Tell me you’re mine. Not the Rogue Prince's, not the Crown's... mine."

You couldn't speak, your voice lost to a series of high, needy whimpers as the tension coiled in your gut like a spring. The world narrowed down to the sensation of him filling you, the rough wood of the desk against your spine, and the overwhelming scent of ink, sweat, and Northern winter.

"Yours," you finally choked out, your body beginning to shudder as the first waves of your release started to take hold. "Always... yours."

In the flickering amber light, he watched the way you came undone—the way your lips parted in a silent, needy gasp and the way your skin flushed a deep, feverish and warm.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrated deep in your gut.

When you met his grey eyes, they were dark with a primal, suffocating hunger. He began to move again, a long, agonizingly deep slide that seemed to touch the very back of you. You whimpered, your fingers digging into the muscle of his forearms, your nails leaving crescent moon marks in his skin. He didn't flinch; he leaned into the pain, his thumb finding the swollen, sensitive bud of your clit again and circling it with a relentless, rhythmic pressure that synchronized with every heavy thrust.

The sounds in the solar were raw and wet—the slick slap of skin on skin, the frantic rustle of discarded parchments under your back, and the high, desperate hitches of your breath. He was filling you so completely it felt like you were stretching to the point of breaking, yet you only wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, pulling him in, “Fuck don’t— don’t stop.”

"You feel... like home," he groaned against your mouth, his tongue darting out to taste the salt of your skin. He began to pick up the pace, the thrusts becoming shorter, harder, and more frantic. The desk jolted against the stone floor with every strike of his hips, the wood biting into your spine, but the ache only fueled the fire coiling tighter and tighter in your lower belly.

You were a mess of silver hair and tangled grey silk, your body arching off the wood as he hit that one perfect, sensitive spot over and over. You could feel the tension building, a white-hot pressure that made your inner muscles clench instinctively around him, squeezing him so hard he let out a choked, pained sound of pleasure.

"Not yet," he whispered, though his own control was visibly snapping, the corded muscles in his neck standing out like iron. "Stay with me... just like this. Don't let go."

Cregan’s breath was a scorched against your collarbone as he felt you tightening around him, your body beginning to tremble with the sheer force of the tension he’d built. He groaned, a low, vibration that started deep in his chest, and reached down between your fused bodies.

His large, calloused hand—the same hand that had been cramping over cold ink all night—was still rubbing on your clit. He didn't just touch you; he claimed you. His thumb began to move in a relentless, rhythmic grind against your clit, perfectly timed with the heavy, punishing slide of his hips.

The friction was agonizingly perfect. Each deep, wet thrust of his cock stretched you to your limit, while the sharp, focused pressure of his thumb sent jolts of white-hot lightning straight to your core. You let out a high, broken sob, your head now laying against the scattered parchments on the desk. The sound of it seemed to drive him over the edge; he hitched your legs even higher, pinning your knees almost to your shoulders so he could drive into you with a brutal, unobstructed depth.

"Look at what you do to me," he rasped, his voice cracking as he watched the way your eyes rolled back, the silver of your irises disappearing into a haze of pure pleasure. "The North can burn... the Wall can fall... but I will have this. I will have you."

He began to hammer into you now, the slow deliberation replaced by a frantic, starving pace. The slap of his thighs against yours was loud in the room, a drumbeat that drowned out the wind outside. You were slick, dripping against the dark wood of the desk, every muscle in your body coiled like a spring about to snap. You clawed at his desk.

"Cregan... please... Cregan—"

He didn't stop. He pushed harder, his thumb pressing firmer, his entire body a rigid cord of muscle as he chased the peak alongside you. Bent over, he was breathing your name into the hollow of your throat.

His thumb never ceasing that frantic, slick friction that had your hips bucking uncontrollably against the oak. He watched with a dark, possessive intensity as your face contorted, your lips pulled back in a silent scream of pleasure. He was pushing you right to the jagged edge of the cliff, holding you there just to watch you tremble.

He withdrew almost entirely, the cool air hitting you for a fleeting, agonizing second before he plunged back in with a sharp, wet force that made the desk slide an inch across the floor. You cried out, your fingers tangling in his unbound hair, yanking his head down so you could sob into his mouth. The taste of salt and heat was everywhere.

“You’re so tight,” he growled against your tongue, his voice a guttural ruin. “Squeezing me like you never want to let me go.”

He shifted his grip, his hand moving from your center to cup the underside of your jaw, forcing you to look at him while his other hand stayed pinned beneath your hip, tilting you to take him even deeper. He began to grind his pelvis against yours in a slow, circular motion, the crown of his head buried in your shoulder as he focused every ounce of his strength into the friction. The wet, slapping sounds of his entry filled the room, competing with the crackle of the dying fire.

You could feel the sweat from his chest slicking your skin, making the two of you slide together in a feverish, messy heat. Every time he hit the entrance of your womb, a fresh jolt of electricity raced up your spine, making your vision spark. You were a mess of silver hair and tangled limbs, your heels digging into the small of his back, urging the heavy, rhythmic thud of his body to never stop.

“Cregan, please,” you gasped, your voice breaking as the coiling tension in your core became a physical ache, a desperate need for the release he was cruelly withholding.

“Not yet,” he pleaded, his teeth grazing the sensitive cord of your neck, his breath hot and smelling of the wine he’d had hours ago. He was relentless, his thrusts becoming shallower but faster, a vibrating, humming friction that had you clawing at the wood of the desk until your fingertips bled. He was building a pyre out of your nerves, waiting for the exact moment to let the spark catch.

Cregan’s hand suddenly shifted from your jaw to your waist, his fingers digging into your hip with a bruising, desperate strength. Before you could even catch your breath from the last lightning-strike of pleasure, he grunted, hauling you up from your back and flipping you over onto the cold, ink-stained oak of the desk.

Your palms slammed against the wood, scattering the remaining ledgers to the floor as you were forced down, your chest pressed against the grain. The contrast of the cool wood against your feverish skin made you gasp, but the sensation was short-lived. Cregan was behind you in an instant, his heavy, solid weight pinning you down, his chest a wall of heat against your back.

He didn't wait. He gripped your hips, his knuckles white as he pulled you back against him, and with one low, guttural growl, he drove himself back into your slick heat.

"Tell me," he rasped into your ear, his breath a scorched gale that sent shivers down your damp skin. "Tell me who you belong to while I'm buried in you like this."

The wet, slapping sound of his pelvis hitting your backside filled the quiet room, a steady, carnal drumbeat. You could feel the sheer size of him stretching you, the friction of every thrust sending waves of white-hot electricity through your lower belly. You clawed at the edges of the desk, your knuckles turning white as you tried to anchor yourself against the storm he was unleashing.

He reached around, his large hand sliding beneath you to find that sensitive, swollen clit once more. He began to rub with a fast, merciless rhythm that matched the frantic pace of his hips. You were caught in a vice of pleasure—the deep, full ache of him behind you and the sharp, electric friction in front.

"Cregan... gods... Cregan!" you sobbed, your voice breaking as the coiling tension in your gut reached a screaming, unbearable peak.

"I have you," he groaned, his voice a raw ruin as he felt your inner muscles begin to spasm around him, milking him with a desperate, clenching heat. "I've got you, my dragon... right where you belong."

The tension that had been coiling in your gut finally snapped like a frayed bowstring. As Cregan drove into you from behind, his hips hitting yours with a heavy, wet thud that echoed off the stone walls, the world outside the solar simply ceased to exist.

His hand was a frantic, blurring pressure against your clit, perfectly synced with the deep, bruising rhythm of his thrusts. You let out a high, broken cry, your forehead slamming against the oak desk as the first wave of your orgasm hit you—a white-hot explosion of sensation that started in your core and radiated outward until your fingertips felt like they were sparking.

Your internal muscles clamped around him in a desperate, rhythmic pulse, milking him with a ferocity that tore a raw, guttural roar from his throat.

"That's it... give it all to me," he groaned, his voice a jagged ruin.

He didn't slow down; he pushed harder, his fingers digging into your hips until he left bruises in the shape of his devotion. He buried himself to the absolute hilt, his entire body turning to iron as he reached his own peak. He came with a violent, shuddering intensity, his breath hitching in his chest as he spilled himself deep inside you, his forehead dropping to the space between your shoulder blades.

The only sound in the room for a long minute was the ragged, synchronized gasping of two people who had just fought a war and won. The ledgers lay ruined on the floor, soaked in spilled ink and the sweat of your skin, but as Cregan slumped against your back, his heart hammering against your spine, the debt of the North felt lighter than it had in a dozen moons.

He stayed there, anchored inside you, his lips pressing a lingering, salt-tasted kiss to the nape of your neck. "My wife," he whispered.

— ☼ The Next Morning ☼ —

The morning air was as sharp as a flayed skin, the courtyard of Winterfell a chaotic symphony of clanking mail, stamping hooves, and the frozen breath of men and horses. Rickard stood tall, checking the cinches on his saddle with a grim focus, while Benjen hovered nearby, his face clouded with a youthful, restless irritation at being left behind to guard the walls.

Cregan stood at the head of the party, his face a mask of Northern granite. The exhaustion of the night before was hidden behind a cold, predatory alertness.

"My Lord—" Lord Dustin stepped forward, his furs dusted with a light frost as he gestured toward the horses. "Are you certain this is a wise course? A woman, leading our vanguard into the Gift? It is... unorthodox."

Cregan’s eyes shifted, cutting toward the older man like a whetted blade. "She is my wife. Choose your next words with extreme care, My Lord."

A heavy silence fell over the courtyard, broken only by the crackle of a nearby torch. Lord Karstark stepped up beside Dustin, his voice low and cautious, though his eyes remained defiant.

"She is your wife in the eyes of the South, perhaps. But not in the eyes of the Old Gods. We... we just worry, Lord Stark. This isn't some skinny, one-eyed prince she’s facing in a dance in the sky. These are wildlings. They don't know songs or chivalry; they know only blood and hunger. Are you sure this... Celtigar can handle the cold of a Northern slaughter?"

The air in the courtyard seemed to drop another ten degrees. Rickard paused his work, his hand going instinctively to the pommel of his sword, sensing the shift in his brother's temperament. They spoke of you as a fragile thing, a porcelain doll sent from a softer world, forgetting that the blood of Old Valyria didn't just bring beauty—it brought the heat of a thousand suns.

Cregan’s hand was stilled white-knuckled on the pommel of Ice, his jaw set to deliver a verbal flaying that would have stripped the skin from Lord Karstark’s bones, but he stopped mid-breath. The breath of the horses came in thick, rhythmic plumes of steam, and the clatter of sharpening stones died a sudden, strangled death.

The sound of your boots on the frozen stone was unmistakable—a steady, heavy click-thud that commanded the silence.

You didn't emerge in the heavy, sodden wools of a Northern lady, nor the stifling velvet of a courtier. You were encased in your pirate leathers—deep, sea-salt-stained black hide that had been molded to your frame through years of spray and blood. It wasn't the attire of a Lord's wife; it was the skin of a predator. Over your shoulder, the massive, wicked curve of your Valyrian steel battle-axe caught the pale morning sun, its edge shimmering with a lethal, smoky ripple.

In the crook of your arm, you held your helm. It wasn't the crab of House Celtigar as the bannermen had whispered behind their hands; it was a snarling, dragon-crested masterpiece of Valyrian steel that seemed to smoke in the frigid air.

Then, the sky didn't just darken; it groaned.

A shadow, vast and terrifying, swept over the battlements of Winterfell like the hand of an angry god. The clouds tore open as Verimother banked low, the sheer, concussive force of her wings sending a localized blizzard swirling through the courtyard, knocking men off their feet and sending horses into a screaming frenzy. The roar that followed wasn't a sound—it was a physical blow that rattled the teeth in the bannermen's skulls and vibrated through the very foundations of the Great Keep.

At the main gate, a group of your own men—scarred, salt-crusted veterans from the Stepstones who had followed you into the frozen wastes—shifted with a collective, predatory grin. They stood apart from the Stark men, dressed in mismatched armor and smelling of old ale and the sea.

"Oi! Look Cap’n!" one of them barked, a man with a jagged scar across his throat. "Thought she’d be wrapped in wolves' pelt and whimpering by now!" He threw his head back in a mocking, jagged howl that made the Northern scouts bristle and reach for their hilts.

You didn't look at the bannermen. You didn't even acknowledge the lords who had just questioned your blood. You looked only at Cregan. With a slow, deliberate movement of your hand, you signaled upward. Verimother ascended, her massive, obsidian-scaled form shimmering like wet coal as she pierced the grey ceiling of the sky.

Your hair, that striking, untamed silver, was pulled back tight and bound with the very strip of scarred leather Cregan had used to tie his own hair the night before. It was a silent, intimate claim—a declaration that while you carried the fire of the South, you wore the knot of the North.

You barked a sharp, melodic command in High Valyrian, the ancient tongue cutting through the crisp air like a whip.

"Done, Cap’n," one of your veterans laughed, resting a hand on a curved blade. "No dragon—for now. We tried to warn the bastard to stay put, but he’s restless. He senses the Rogue’s shadow in the wind."

The man turned his gaze toward Lord Karstark, who was currently trembling so hard his mail was jingling. The pirate spat a dark glob into the pristine snow. "He don't like the smell of 'worried' men. Makes his stomach turn."

Cregan stepped toward you, his eyes raking over your lethal silhouette with a dark, terrifying pride. The man who had whimpered in your arms hours ago was gone, replaced by the Lord of Winterfell. He turned back to his stunned, silent bannermen, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble that promised blood.

"Does anyone else wish to discuss the 'eyes of the gods'?" Cregan asked, his hand dropping from his sword to rest firmly on the small of your back, his fingers claiming the leather he had lent you. "Or are we ready to ride? My wife has a schedule to keep, and I find I’ve lost my patience for Northern hospitality."

The courtyard fell into a brief, stunned silence as the sound of your laughter—clear and silver as a bell—cut through the tension. It was a jarring contrast to the heavy Valyrian steel on your back and the dragon-shadow still cooling the stones.

Your quartermaster, a man whose face looked like a piece of weathered oak, groaned as he checked the girth on your mare. He gestured toward the massive, wicked blade of the axe peering over your shoulder. "Must you carry the battle axe, Cap'n? It’s enough to tip the horse over before we even hit the Kingsroad. We’ve got plenty of Northern steel in the wagons."

You laughed softly, the sound catching in the crisp morning air. "Baelon has claimed the Greyjoy ancestral sword for the morning," you said, shaking your head. "He’s taken a liking to playing 'Fake Lord of Winterfell' with it. The boy nearly cried when I tried taking it from his bedside this morning. I hadn't the heart to strip a future Kraken-slayer of his prize."

Cregan’s lips twitched, a spark of genuine amusement breaking through his icy facade. The image of the silver-haired boy dragging a heavy, pillaged iron-born blade across the rushes of the Great Hall was enough to soften even his hardened heart.

"He has his mother’s taste for trophies," Cregan murmured, stepping closer so only you could hear. "And his father's stubbornness. If he wants the Ironborn steel, let him have it. It’ll keep him occupied while his mother reminds the Gift why they should fear the sky."

The bannermen exchanged uneasy looks. The mention of the children—of the sons of the Wolf and the Dragon—brought the reality of the stakes home. This wasn't just a punitive raid; this was a mother and father clearing a path for their legacy.

"The boy has a good eye for balance, at least," Rickard called out from his mount, a wry grin finally breaking his stoic expression. "Better he plays with a sword than those wooden pups. He’ll be leading the vanguard himself in ten years at this rate."

The Steward’s eyes widened, his face pale as he bobbed a frantic, stuttering bow. He scrambled toward the stables, the crunch of his boots on the frost the only sound in the sudden, heavy silence that followed your words.

"Go fetch my stag," you called after him, your voice smooth as polished glass. "The gift from that Baratheon I almost killed. It’s been far too long since he’s smelled the mountain air."

A low, collective murmur rippled through the Northern ranks. Even the stoic Karstarks exchanged looks of dawning realization. They had heard whispers of the Stormbreaker—the massive, coal-black warhorse with a temper like a hurricane, taken as a prize of war from a Lord who had dared to underestimate a dragon’s daughter.

You smiled, a slow, dangerous thing that reached your eyes but offered no warmth. "He’s a stubborn beast," you added, glancing at Cregan as he stood by your side. "But then again, I’ve always had a fondness for creatures that refuse to be broken."

The Steward returned moments later, leading a beast that looked less like a horse and more like a mountain of muscle and spite. The stallion let out a sharp, piercing whinny, its hooves striking the stone with the force of a mason's hammer, sparks flying in the dim morning light. Its coat was the color of a midnight storm, and its eyes burned with a restless, wild intelligence.

"Careful, lad," one of your veterans chuckled, watching the Steward struggle to keep the lead. "He’s tasted Northern blood once already this week. He don't take kindly to being kept in a pen."

You stepped forward, the heavy dragon-crested helm tucked under one arm and the weight of the Valyrian axe steady on your back. As you reached for the reins, the stallion immediately stilled, its ears twitching back as it lowered its massive head to nudge your shoulder.

You swung up into the saddle with a fluid, lethal grace that made the Northern lords look clumsy by comparison. From the height of the Great Stag, you looked down at the men who had questioned your blood, your silver hair gleaming like a crown against the dark leather of your collar.

"My Lord," you said, looking down at Cregan, your smirk widening. "Shall we show them how a 'killer' clears a path? Or are we going to wait for the snow to reach our waists?"

Should you signal the march with a sharp whistle to your dragon above, or will you let the thunder of your stallion's hooves be the only command your men need?

The sharp, piercing whistle sliced through the frozen morning air like a Valyrian blade. It wasn't a lady’s call; it was a commander’s signal. In a single, deafening motion, your veterans moved as one body—boots hitting stirrups and leather creaking in a synchronized rhythm that made the Northern lords flinch.

"Shit," Rickard muttered under his breath, his eyes wide as he watched the sheer, practiced discipline of your crew. These weren't just sailors; they were a war party that moved like a single shadow.

One of your men, a massive brute with a sea-salt beard and a jagged scar across his cheek, kicked his horse forward. He reached into the heavy leather satchel slung across his saddle, his grin showing more iron than teeth.

“Whose banner we raising today, Cap’n?” he barked, his voice echoing off the stone walls of the keep. “Targaryen? The Greyjoy banners we stole from the Iron Islands? Or—those Vale bastards we stripped at the Eyrie?”

Cregan stiffened at the name of the Vale.

A ripple of nervous muttering broke out among the bannermen. They were beginning to realize that the woman sitting atop the Baratheon warhorse hadn't just come to the North to be a wife—she had come with a history written in the blood of every Great House that had crossed her.

You adjusted your grip on the reins of the Great Stag, the beast dancing beneath you, eager for the hunt. You looked back at the terrified faces of the Karstarks and the Umbers, then at Cregan, whose hand still rested possessively on your thigh, his thumb tracing the seam of your pirate leathers.

You smiled, a slow, predatory curve of your lips that promised a very long, very bloody day.

“Let’s raise Celtigar,” you said, your voice carrying a chilling lightness. “Let’s remind them that the sea has a long memory. Let’s have some fun today.”

With a snap of his wrist, your man unfurled the banner. The white parchment-like fabric caught the wind, revealing the red crabs of House Celtigar. To the Northerners, it was a sigil of a minor house, but under your command, it looked like a warning.

Above, as if sensing your intent, Verimother let out a bone-shaking roar that shattered the remaining icicles from the battlements of Winterfell. The dragon banked hard, her shadow swallowing the courtyard once more before she streaked toward the North, a living comet of obsidian and fire.

“Open the gates!” Cregan roared, his voice finally finding its iron.

The heavy iron-studded gates of Winterfell hadn't even fully groaned open before you dug your heels into the flanks of the Baratheon stag. The great black beast let out a defiant snort, lunging forward with a power that kicked up a blinding spray of snow and gravel.

You didn't just ride; you ignited.

With a fluid, practiced motion, you reached over your shoulder and unsheathed the Valyrian battle-axe. The metal didn't just shine; it seemed to drink the pale morning light, ripples of dark smoke dancing along the edge of the blade. You held it high, a silver-haired Valkyrie leading a swarm of salt-stained devils, and the roar that left your throat was answered by the bone-shaking scream of Verimother overhead.

"For the Cap'n!" your men howled, their horses thundering behind you in a terrifying, synchronized wave of steel and leather.

The Northern bannermen were left scrambling, their stoic discipline shattered by the sheer, violent velocity of your departure. Cregan was already moving, his face a mask of grim, dark pride as he spurred his own mount to keep pace with the whirlwind you’d unleashed.

"Brother!" Rickard’s voice drifted back through the roar of hooves, cracking with a mix of genuine awe and sudden, frantic regret. He was leaning low over his horse's neck, desperately trying to keep up as you cleared the outer perimeter at a breakneck gallop. "Brother! I don't think I want to go anymore!"

He whined it loudly enough for the scouts to hear, his eyes wide as he watched you vault over a frozen log without breaking stride, the massive axe in your hand looking light as a feather.

"Too late, Rickard!" Cregan roared back, his laughter lost to the wind as he watched your silver braid whip behind you like a banner of war. "The Dragon is out of the cage! You either run with the pack or you get trampled by the hooves!"

You didn't look back. The air was screaming past your ears, the scent of pine and impending slaughter filling your lungs. Ahead lay the Gift, and beyond that, the wildlings who thought the North was easy prey. They were expecting a wolf’s bite, but they were about to feel the focused, methodical fury of a woman who had been bred to turn the world to ash.

—

The Great Stag’s hooves hammered a rhythmic thunder against the frozen Kingsroad, the sound echoing off the ancient weirwoods as you pulled ahead of the pack. The cold wind bit at your cheeks, but the blood of the dragon was running hot, a feverish contrast to the biting Northern frost.

"We have a stop to make first—Manderly!" you shouted over your shoulder, your voice carrying with a sharp, ringing authority that brooked no argument.

"Manderly?" Rickard yelled back, his face a mask of confusion as he struggled to keep his horse from slipping on a patch of black ice. "White Harbor is days off our route to the Gift! Why the hell are we stopping for the fat lord now?"

"Cregan’s going to have my head for this!" Rickard yelled, his horse foaming at the bit as he struggled to keep pace. "White Harbor is days away, and we're supposed to be hunting wildlings in the Gift! Why are we turning east?"

You didn't slow. You didn't even look back. You just adjusted the weight of the Valyrian axe on your shoulder, the dark ripples of the steel catching the dim light.

"The Manderlys are hoarding grain while the smallfolk starve," you called out, your voice cutting through the wind like a whip. "They think because they sit behind white walls and silver coins, they can wait for the winter to pass while the rest of the North bleeds. They forgot who keeps the seas safe for their precious trade."

"And you think they'll just hand it over because you asked?" Rickard scoffed, though he looked increasingly nervous.

You smirked, a dark, predatory expression that would have made Daemon Targaryen proud. "I'm not going to ask, Rickard. I'm going to remind them of the debt they owe the Crown. And I'm going to do it before the sun sets."

You whistled once, a sharp, piercing note. High above, hidden in the thick, charcoal-grey clouds, a low, vibrating rumble answered you. Verimother was still there, a silent shadow tracking your movement, her heat radiating through the damp air.

"Heavens above," Rickard whispered, looking up at the swirling mist. "You're not negotiating. You're raiding."

"I'm balancing the ledgers, Rickard," you replied, your eyes fixed on the horizon where the scent of salt and fish began to mingle with the pine. "Just like Cregan asked."

∿ A Few Days Later ∿

The white stone of the city didn't just gleam; it glared. As the massive, silver-veined gates of White Harbor loomed ahead, the air changed—the biting, dry chill of the wolf-woods was replaced by the heavy, salt-choked fog of the Bite.

You didn't slow the Great Stag. The beast’s hooves struck the cobblestones with a rhythmic, bone-jarring thunder that sent merchants diving for cover and stall-keepers scrambling to pull in their silks. Behind you, the hundred black-clad killers of the Stepstones rode in a tight, predatory wedge, their mismatched armor clinking like a bag of stolen coins.

"My Lady—Sister! Please!" Rickard’s voice was a frantic, wind-whipped howl as he spurred his horse to keep pace with your flank. His face was a mask of sheer, unadulterated panic. "Think twice! By the Old Gods, be calm! At least talk to him! He’s a Lord of the North, not a pirate king!"

You didn't even look at him. Your silver hair, bound tight in Cregan’s leather, whipped behind you like a storm-cloud. You reached over your shoulder, the dark, rippled steel of the Valyrian battle-axe singing as you drew it. The sound was a cold, sharp promise that silenced the street.

"Talk?" you spat, the word a jagged shard of ice. "Cregan has talked until his throat is raw, Rickard! He’s bled ink for a year while these mermen fat themselves on grain and silver! I’m done with words!"

You rounded the corner into the Great Court, the Stag’s hooves throwing up sparks as you skidded to a halt. Lord Wyman Manderly stood on the steps of the New Castle, surrounded by his silver-clad guards, his face turning the color of a fish’s belly as he saw the dragon-crested helm tucked under your arm and the smoking steel in your hand.

You vaulted from the saddle before the horse had even stopped moving. Your boots hit the stone with a heavy, metallic thud.

"Lord Manderly!" you roared, the sound echoing off the white towers.

Rickard scrambled off his horse, nearly tripping over his own cloak as he rushed to get between you and the Lord of White Harbor. "Wyman! Forgive her! She’s... she’s traveled long! My lady, please, just a moment of—"

You shoved Rickard aside with a strength that caught him off guard, marching straight into Manderly’s personal space. The heavy lord flinched, his triple chin trembling. Your hand moved to his shoulder, forcing him down.

"I’ve been starving, Wyman," you whispered, your voice dropping into a low, terrifying purr that made the guards' hands shake on their pikes. You leaned in close, your eyes tracking the sweat beads on his brow. "And you know what I want?"

You smiled—a wicked, predatory flash of teeth.

"Whatever it is you have! Every grain in the silo! Every copper in the vault! Every salted cod in the barrels!"

You straightened, raising the axe high. The shadow of Verimother suddenly eclipsed the sun, the dragon’s low, vibrating growl shaking the windows of the castle.

"TAKE IT ALL!" you commanded.

"Cap'n's orders!" your men howled, swarming past the frozen Manderly guards like a tide of black iron.

Rickard stood there, his hands in his hair, watching the systematic looting of the wealthiest city in the North. "Cregan is going to kill me," he whimpered. "He’s actually going to kill me."

You turned to him, the axe resting casually on your shoulder. "Don't be dramatic, Rickard. He'll be too busy eating to kill anyone."

Come on, why don’t you help!" you said, your voice dropping into a conversational, almost girlish lilt that made Rickard’s hair stand on end. "You send such a nice letter, Wyman! All those flowery words about 'shared burdens' and 'winter's bite'—it was truly moving."

Manderly nodded so vigorously his jowls shook. "I—I didn't know you were North, my lady! Truly! The rumors said you were... occupied in the capital! I would’ve done more! I would’ve sent the wagons weeks ago if I’d known the Dragon was watching the hearth!"

"I know!" you chirped, patting his cheek with a gloved hand—a gesture that felt more like a threat than a comfort. "Which is why I like you! You’re always so kind, so full of excuses! It’s almost charming."

You stood back, hands on your hips, surveying the chaos of your men stripping his storehouses. The air was thick with the scent of dry grain and old salt.

"You know what? Because we're such old friends, I’ll let you keep some," you said, tilting your head thoughtfully. "Just a sliver, so you don't actually wither away before spring. I'll even let you keep some of that Arbor Gold and that spicy red wine you like from the Stepstones. The vintage I 'liberated' from the triarchy, remember?"

Manderly let out a choked sob of gratitude. "You are... you are too merciful, My Lady. A saint of the Seven..."

"Don't push it, Wyman," you interrupted, your smile sharpening into a blade again. "The wine stays because I don't want my husband drinking fermented fish oil when I get back. But the grain? The salted beef? The iron? All of it goes into the wagons. Now, get up."

You turned to Rickard, who was staring at you with his mouth hanging open, his horse’s reins limp in his hand.

"See, Rickard? Negotiation," you said, wiping a smudge of soot from your leather sleeve. "He’s happy, I’m happy, and the North gets fed. Now, find the harbormaster. Now ready the ships for the Vale!”

"Wyman!" you called out, not looking back. "Ready the slips! My ships need to be watered and provisioned by sundown. We aren't staying to watch the snow fall."

Rickard’s face went from pale to a ghostly, translucent white. He stumbled after you, his hand shaking as he reached for your arm, then flinching back as if the dragon-fire might burn him.

"The Vale?" he choked out, his voice cracking. "My lady—sister—please! The grain is one thing! We have the wagons, we have the men to take it back to Winterfell! We can send the bannermen back now and tell Cregan we’ve succeeded! Why the Vale?"

You stopped at the edge of the stone pier, looking out toward the horizon where the sea met the sky. "The grain goes back to Winterfell," you said, your voice flat and cold. "Send half my men and the Northern bannermen to guard the caravans. Cregan will have his bread."

You turned to Rickard, a slow, wicked glint in your eyes. "But the Vale has the gold. They have the fine wools, the seasoned timber, and the mountain goats that keep their bellies full while the North eats bark. I’m a pirate, Rickard. I don't care for this war of kings and queens, but I do care for a full treasury."

"I promised him!" Rickard wailed, ignoring the snickering of your veterans. "I promised Cregan on my life and the Old Gods that I would keep you safe! If I let you sail for the Vale to raid the Arryns, he won't just kill me—he’ll skin me and hang me from the Heart Tree!"

"Then you’d better stay close to me," you smirked, reaching out to pat his cheek. "I’d hate for my favorite brother-in-law to lose his hide."

You looked back at Wyman, who was being hauled up by two of your men. "Wyman, tell your harbormaster if my ships aren't ready to sail for the Eyrie by the evening tide, I’ll let Verimother use your 'Merman’s Court' as a nesting ground. Do we understand each other?"

Manderly could only nod, a broken, rhythmic motion of his head.

Rickard looked at the wagons being loaded with the grain that was supposed to save his people, and then at the dark, lethal ships waiting to take him to a war he never asked for. He looked utterly petrified, a wolf caught in a dragon's whirlwind.

"This isn't balancing the ledgers anymore," Rickard whispered to the sky. "This is a massacre."

⌃ At the Vale ⌃

The Eyrie sat atop its mountain peak like a crown of ice, but the reception you received was anything but cold. As you marched through the High Hall, the click of your boots echoing against the marble, Rickard followed three paces behind, his hand trembling on the hilt of his sword. He had expected arrows; he had expected a siege. Instead, the Vale guards stood aside with knowing smirks as soon as they saw the dragon-crested helm beneath your arm.

Lady Jeyne Arryn stood from her throne of carved weirwood, her eyes brightening with a spark that wasn't for politics. She didn't wait for a formal greeting. She met you halfway down the hall.

“Cap’n?” she murmured, the title a private endearment between you.

“Jeyne,” you replied.

The hug was brief but crushing, and when she pulled back, her lips brushed yours in a lingering, familiar graze—a ghost of the nights you had spent together before the North had claimed you. Behind you, you heard Rickard let out a strangled, muffled sound, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head.

“You come here for what exactly?” Jeyne asked, her hands resting on your leather-clad shoulders. “To kill me? Or to protect me with your dragon?”

“Supplies,” you said, leaning back slightly. “Sheepeater has been seen in the passes. You’ve always been protected, Jeyne.”

“Yes, Commander of Dragons—always looking out for me,” she teased, her thumb tracing the line of your jaw, “unless you want to kill me.”

“I always want to kill you,” you countered with a wicked smile.

Jeyne laughed, a clear, sharp sound, and turned to her startled stewards. “Give her what she needs! And double it! She’ll plunder more anyway the moment my back is turned. Better to give it freely than have her burn my mountain for a lark.”

She turned back to you, her gaze softening as she ignored the petrified Stark brother-in-law. “How’s Baelon? And little Brandon?”

“Northman and Sea-Pirate,” you laughed, the tension of the journey finally bleeding out of your shoulders. “I didn’t expect Baelon to fall in love with the North so deeply—he drags that iron-born sword everywhere. And I didn't expect Brandon to be so much like me. He already looks at the horizon like he wants to own it.”

Jeyne smiled, a bit wistfully. “They have the best of you, then. And the worst of the Wolf.”

Rickard finally found his voice, stepping forward with a shaky cough. “My Lady... Lady Arryn. I am Rickard Stark. I... I was under the impression we were raiding the Vale.”

Jeyne arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow at him. “You are a Stark, aren't you? So serious. Your brother chose well, it seems—he got the dragon, and I got the memories. Now, come. We have wine that hasn't been frozen through, and your 'Cap’n' has stories to tell.”

—

The descent from the Eyrie was steep, the wind howling through the Giant’s Lance as if the mountains themselves were gossiping. You walked with the steady, arrogant grace of a woman who had just been given the keys to the kingdom, while Rickard followed, his face a shifting mosaic of confusion and dawning horror.

He kept glancing back at the high, white towers, then at you, then down at his own boots. He cleared his throat once. Then twice.

"That was... quite a reception," Rickard started, his voice strained as he tried to navigate the rocky path. "I’ve heard the Maid of the Vale is a cold woman. Hard as the marble she sits on. But she seemed... different with you."

"Jeyne is practical," you replied, your eyes fixed on the horizon where your ships waited. "She knows the value of a good partnership."

"A partnership. Right." Rickard adjusted his cloak, his eyes darting to the side. "It’s just... the way she looked at you. And that kiss. It wasn't exactly a... a diplomat’s greeting, was it? It seemed a bit more... thorough."

You smirked, enjoying the way he was squirming, practically tripping over his own tongue. "She’s a woman of deep passions, Rickard. Is that what you're trying to say?"

"I’m saying she looked like she wanted to eat you alive, and you looked like you were going to let her!" Rickard blurted out, his face turning a violent shade of crimson. "The way she whispered to you... the way her hands lingered on your leathers... Gods, the way she touched your mouth! There’s an alliance, and then there’s... that."

You stopped in your tracks, turning to face him. Rickard nearly ran into the head of your battle-axe. You leaned in close, the smell of Jeyne’s expensive rose-water still clinging to your skin.

"We used to fuck, Rickard," you said flatly, your voice devoid of any shame. "You don't have to tiptoe around it. She has an affliction for cunt. Most women with taste do."

Rickard made a sound like a dying bird. He looked around frantically as if the very rocks might have ears. "My Lady! The bannermen! My brother! You can't just—you can't say it like that!"

"Why not?" You laughed, turning back to the path. "It’s the truth. I raided her ships, she captured my interest, and we spent a very long, very warm winter together before I ever saw a snowflake in the North. Cregan didn't marry a maiden from a motherhouse, Rickard. He married a pirate. He knows I’ve tasted more than just Northern ale."

Rickard looked like he wanted to dissolve into the mountain fog. "I’m going to have to look my brother in the eye," he whispered to himself, clutching his horse's reins for dear life. "I’m going to have to stand there while he asks how the 'negotiations' went, and I’m going to remember... afflictions."

"Don't worry," you called out over your shoulder as the harbor came into view. "Just tell him we got the wool and the gold. He’s a man of the North—he’ll be too busy counting the grain to worry about who I shared a bed with five years ago."

⋆ ≈ At White Harbor ≈ ⋆

The salty air of White Harbor felt different this time—heavier, charged with the kind of static that precedes a lightning strike. As your boots hit the pier, the Quartermaster stepped forward, his face grimy but his eyes gleaming with the satisfaction of a job well done.

"The Gift has been handled, Cap’n," he grunted, nodding toward the crates of Northern steel being moved. "Though I suspect more movement from the Wildlings soon. For right now, though? They’re tempered—really tempered. They saw the shadow in the clouds and decided the forest was a better place to hide than the road."

You nodded gently, your hand resting on the pommel of your axe, the weight of the Vale’s gold already settled in your hold. But before you could respond, Rickard’s horse let out a nervous whinny.

Rickard had frozen mid-step on the gangplank, his eyes fixed on the far end of the docks where a familiar, massive silhouette stood framed against the white stone of the city.

"No!" Rickard hissed, his voice trembling like a leaf in a gale. "It’s Cregan! He looks pissed!"

You followed his gaze. Cregan wasn't just standing there; he was a statue of obsidian and ice. He wasn't wearing his fine Lordly furs; he was in his travel-worn leathers, Ice strapped to his back, his jaw so tight you could practically hear the bone grinding from the water. He didn't look like the man who had whimpered in your arms; he looked like the Winter King coming to collect a blood debt.

"He looks more than pissed, Rickard," you murmured, a slow, fearless smirk spreading across your lips. "He looks like he’s about to remind us why the North belongs to the Wolf."

Cregan’s eyes locked onto yours across the crowded pier. He didn't move. He didn't wave. He simply stood there, radiating a cold, suffocating fury that made even your hardened pirates stop their shouting and lower their crates. He had clearly ridden hard to meet you, likely having heard the rumors of the "raids" on his own allies before the grain had even reached Winterfell.

Rickard grabbed your sleeve, his knuckles white. "He’s going to kill me. He’s going to kill me and then he’s going to lock you in the Maidenvault and melt the key. Tell me you have a plan. Tell me you have a really, really good lie."

“No plan—I didn’t expect him to meet us at the Harbor, maybe the gates” you whispered back

Rickard looked like he was about to drop dead of a heart attack right there on the salt-stained wood. "You have NO plan!?" he hissed, his voice reaching a pitch that only dogs and nervous Starks could hear.

"None whatsoever," you responded coolly, adjusting the heavy strap of the Valyrian axe on your shoulder. You didn't break eye contact with Cregan, whose gaze was currently boring a hole through your skull. "Unload our spoils from the Vale. I’m sure seeing Arryn silver and fine silks will piss him off even more."

"You're a madwoman," Rickard whimpered, but he moved, scurrying to bark orders at the men just to avoid standing still under Cregan’s mounting shadow.

You stepped off the gangplank, your boots hitting the stone with a steady, defiant rhythm. Behind you, the pulleys began to groan as crates marked with the moon and falcon were lowered onto the docks. The contrast was absurd—the rugged, starving North meeting the opulence of the Vale, all brought to the pier by a woman who looked like she’d just finished a brawl at sea.

Cregan began to walk. It wasn't a fast pace, but it was heavy, each step echoing with the weight of a Lord who had been pushed to his absolute limit. He stopped ten feet away, his chest heaving slightly, the cold air turning his breath into a dragon’s mist.

"The grain arrived at Winterfell three days ago," Cregan said, his voice a low, terrifying rumble that skipped right past 'angry' and landed squarely on 'dangerous.' "The bannermen told me my wife had turned brigand. That she was shaking down my allies and disappeared toward the Bite."

He looked past you to Rickard, who was trying to hide behind a stack of wool blankets. "Rickard. Why is there Vale silver being unloaded in my harbor?"

Rickard opened his mouth, but only a squeak came out.

You stepped into Cregan’s space, closing the gap until you could smell the pine and the cold sweat of his long ride. You looked up at him, your silver hair windblown and messy, a smudge of dried blood on your cheek from the journey.

"It’s not just silver, Cregan," you said, your voice a smooth, provocative purr. "It's timber for the ships, wool for the cloaks, and enough gold to pay for the scouts for the next three years. Jeyne was... very generous."

Cregan’s eyes snapped back to yours, his nostrils flaring. The mention of Jeyne Arryn seemed to make the muscle in his jaw twitch violently. "Generous? You raided White Harbor and then vanished to the Eyrie without a word to your Lord. Do you have any idea what the Manderlys are calling you?"

"They’re lucky I didn’t kill him," you countered, your voice as cold and sharp as a Northern winter. You didn't flinch at his tone; if anything, you stepped closer, your chest nearly brushing his leather doublet. "Wyman is fine. He’s fat, he’s breathing, and he wouldn’t dare raise a hand against you or me. I’ve killed one of his cousins for lesser insults in the Stepstones—he knows exactly how merciful I was being by only taking his wheat."

"That’s not the point!" Cregan snapped, his roar momentarily silencing the entire dock. Even the seagulls seemed to stop screaming.

He turned his fury toward Rickard, who looked like he wanted to jump into the icy water and swim for the Bite. Cregan’s finger pointed like a spear at his brother. "You! You allowed her to come here? To go to the Vale? Why were you there in the first place!"

"I—I didn't allow anything!" Rickard stammered, his hands held up in surrender. "Cregan, she has a dragon! And an axe! And she told me we were 'balancing the ledgers'! By the time we hit the sea, I was just trying to make sure she didn't set fire to the Gulltower!"

Cregan turned back to you, his grey eyes dark with a turbulent mix of betrayal and sheer, unadulterated possessiveness. He grabbed your upper arm—not enough to bruise, but enough to anchor you.

"The Vale is not our territory," he hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low vibration. "Jeyne Arryn is a sovereign of her own mountain. You went behind my back to a woman you..." He trailed off, his jaw working as he struggled with the rumors he’d clearly heard long ago. "Why the Vale? Why her?"

You tilted your head, a stray silver lock falling over your eye. "Because she has what you need, Cregan. And because unlike your 'staunch allies' who whine about the cold, she knows that when I show up, it’s better to give with an open hand than to lose the whole arm."

You leaned in, your voice dropping so only he could hear the edge of your smirk. "Are you angry that I took the gold, or are you angry that I didn't need your permission to get it from her?"

The atmosphere on the White Harbor docks thickened until it felt like breathing silt. Cregan’s hand tightened on your arm, his leather glove creaking against your skin as he pulled you into the private, suffocating circle of his heat.

"Or are you angry about something else completely?" you murmured, your voice a dangerous, velvet challenge. You tilted your head, your silver hair catching the pale sun. "It’s not like I let her do anything she hasn't done a thousand times before—"

Cregan surged forward, his chest slamming against yours, forcing you back a step. The raw, territorial power radiating off him made the nearby dockworkers scramble away.

"Please, brother!" Rickard yelped, his hands up as if to physically catch the falling sky. "I was there! I stayed by her side the whole time! She was... she was perfectly cordial!"

"Cordial?" Cregan’s head snapped toward his brother, his eyes flashing with a wolf’s predatory light. "That woman wants my wife. She would be dead already if I’d known you were sailing for her mountain."

He turned that lethal gaze back to you, his voice dropping to a hiss that was far more terrifying than the shout. "She used to sleep in your bed. She used to hold you the way I do—and you went back to her. You walked right into her arms." His grip shifted, his thumb pressing into the pulse point of your wrist. "Tell me. Did she kiss you?"

You didn't flinch. Instead, a slow, gentle smile bloomed on your lips—the kind of smile that only added fuel to the pyre of his jealousy. It was a silent admission of a history he couldn't erase.

Cregan’s breath hitched, his jaw working as if he were physically holding back a roar of grief and rage. He whipped his head back toward Rickard, his voice a jagged command. "Did she?!"

Rickard jumped a foot into the air, his face pale as a ghost. "She—she didn't kiss back! I swear it on the Old Gods! Our lady just stood there! She was like stone, Cregan! Cold as the Wall!"

Cregan turned back to you, searching your eyes for the lie. His possessiveness was a physical weight now, his fingers trembling where they gripped you. He wasn't the Lord of Winterfell in this moment; he was a man terrified that a piece of your heart still belonged to a falcon in the Vale.

"You let her touch you," he rasped, his forehead dropping to yours, his voice breaking. "You let her put her mouth on what belongs to the North. On what belongs to me."

The air between you didn't just chill; it solidified. Cregan’s hand, which had been gripping your arm like a vice, suddenly trembled. The raw, territorial fury in his eyes flickered with a sudden, sharp pain as you threw his own caution back at him.

“We’re not married, my Lord,” you whispered, the words hanging like icicles in the salt air.

“Don’t—don’t say that,” Cregan snapped, his voice cracking. He was losing control, the composed Lord of Winterfell stripping away to reveal a man who was terrified of the distance between you. He surged closer, his chest heaving against yours, his breath hot against your lips.

You didn't back down. You leaned into his heat, your voice dropping to a low, lethal hum that only he could hear—a secret meant for a husband, even if the scrolls weren't signed.

“She is nothing but a friend, Cregan. She has a lover—and I have mine,” you murmured, your silver hair brushing against his stubbled jaw. “She will never be what I desire.”

You paused, your eyes tracing the hard, jagged lines of his face, the dark intensity that made men half his age flee in terror.

“Unless,” you continued with a slow, wicked smile, “she grew taller. Unless she had darker hair and that cold, brooding look that makes the sun hide. Unless she was a Warden of the North with a cock dangling between her legs.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Rickard, who had been ready to bolt for the nearest ship, made a sound like a choked-out wheeze and turned his head so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. The veterans behind you shared a collective, knowing smirk, shifting their weight as they waited for the explosion.

Cregan’s eyes widened, the pupils blowing out until his gaze was almost entirely black. The fury was still there, but it was being rapidly overtaken by a dark, hungry possessiveness that burned hotter than any dragon’s fire. His grip on your arm shifted, his fingers sliding down to lace through yours, squeezing until your knuckles popped.

“You have a foul tongue,” he rasped, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a sudden, heavy tension. He didn't let go. If anything, he pulled you closer, claiming the space between you as his own. “A foul, pirate’s tongue that I should have cut out the moment you stepped off that ship.”

“And yet,” you whispered, your smirk growing, “you’d miss the taste of it, wouldn’t you?”

Cregan’s jaw worked, his gaze dropping to your mouth with an intensity that promised you wouldn't be sleeping in separate beds tonight. He looked back at Rickard, who was still trying to pretend he was part of the stonework.

“Rickard!” Cregan barked, not breaking eye contact with you. “Get the gold and the grain to the wagons. Now. If I see a single coin missing, I’ll have your head for the Arryn’s theft.”

“Yes! Moving! We’re moving!” Rickard scrambled, practically shoving the Manderly guards to get the crates onto the carts.

Cregan didn't give you the chance to answer the crew or even offer a parting wink to your quartermaster. His hand was a ring of iron around your wrist as he hauled you toward his massive warhorse, his stride so long and furious you nearly had to jog to keep up.

"You're riding with me," he commanded, his voice vibrating with a dark, low-frequency growl that signaled the end of any and all debate.

"Yes, my lord," you teased, your voice tilting into that mocking, melodic lilt that usually made his blood boil. You let him hoist you up onto the saddle, the leather creaking under your combined weight as he swung up behind you, his chest slamming into your back like a wall of granite.

He didn't just take the reins; he wrapped his arms around you, caging you against the pommel. He leaned down, his face buried in the crook of your neck where the scent of Jeyne’s roses was being aggressively overwritten by his own smell of woodsmoke, old snow, and sheer, possessive rage.

"Now I'm your lord—No! I'm your husband!" he grunted into your ear, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your lobe. The heat of his breath sent a shiver racing down your spine that had nothing to do with the Northern cold.

"Is that what the papers say, Cregan?" you whispered back, leaning your head against his shoulder. "Because I seem to remember a certain Warden of the North telling me he wasn't ready to let a pirate rule his hearth."

Cregan’s response was a sharp, guttural sound—half-snarl, half-groan. He dug his spurs into the horse’s flanks, and the beast surged forward, tearing away from the docks and the prying eyes of the Manderlys. He didn't head toward the main road where the caravans were forming; he steered the horse toward the treeline, away from the noise and the gold.

"The papers can burn," he rasped, his grip tightening until you could feel the rhythmic thud of his heart against your shoulder blades. "You belong to the North. You belong in Winterfell. And if I have to chain you to the heart tree to keep you from flying back to that falcon’s nest, I will."

Behind you, you could still hear Rickard’s distant, frantic shouting as he tried to manage the chaos of the unloading, but the sound was quickly swallowed by the rhythmic drumming of hooves and the heavy, ragged breathing of the man holding you.

The rhythm of the horse's gallop slowed as the white walls of the harbor faded into the grey-green blur of the Wolfswood. The biting sea wind was replaced by the scent of damp earth and ancient pine. You shifted in the saddle, leaning your weight back until your head rested against the cold steel of his gorget, feeling the frantic, heavy thud of his heart against your spine.

“So you will marry me then, huh?” you whispered, your voice barely audible over the creak of the leather. “To keep wandering hands away? Or because you love me?”

The tension that had been coiling in Cregan’s muscles since the moment he saw your black sails finally broke. He didn't answer with a roar or a command. Instead, he pulled the reins, bringing the great warhorse to a staggering halt in the shadow of a massive, snow-dusted weirwood.

He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breathing ragged and warm against your skin. His arms tightened around you, not as a cage this time, but as if he were trying to pull you into his very marrow.

“I love you,” he rasped, the words raw and stripped of his Lordly pride. “You know this, my light. I love you.”

He turned his head, his lips pressing a hard, desperate kiss to the pulse point below your ear. “I don’t want the papers to keep others away. I want them so that when the sun sets, the world knows there is no path you take that doesn’t lead back to me. I want the gods to see that the North and the Dragon are one.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his grey eyes no longer icy, but burning with a vulnerability that he only ever showed in the dark of your chambers. “I spent every night you were gone staring at the empty side of my bed, wondering if I’d finally pushed you too far into the sky. Don't ever do that to me again. Don't leave me with only the wind for company.”

You reached up, your gloved hand cupping his jaw, feeling the scratch of his beard and the heat of his skin. The "killer" and the "pirate" were still there, but in the silence of the woods, under the red eyes of the carved tree, you were just his.

“Then make me a Stark, Cregan,” you murmured, your thumb tracing the line of his lower lip. “Give me the name, and I’ll give you the world—starting with the gold I stole from your allies.”

The sound of the wind through the weirwood leaves died away, leaving only the heavy, synchronized thud of two hearts beating against leather and fur. Cregan didn’t kiss you with the fire of a conqueror this time; he kissed you with the desperation of a man who had spent days convinced he was breathing ash.

It was soft, lingering, and tasted of the salt on your skin and the winter on his. His forehead stayed pressed against yours, his eyes closed tight as if he were trying to memorize the very air between you.

"I love you," he whimpered again, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours. It was a vulnerable, raw confession—a side of the Winter Wolf that would have horrified his bannermen and terrified his enemies.

You smiled, a genuine, warm curve of your lips that reached your eyes, softening the sharp edges of the pirate queen. You reached up, threading your fingers through the dark, tangled hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him just a fraction closer.

“I know,” you whispered back.

— ❄︎ At Winterfell ❄︎ —

The courtyard of Winterfell was a symphony of chaos and homecoming. The heavy, rhythmic thud of the grain sacks being unloaded from the wagons provided a bass note to the sharp, excited babbles of the children.

You stood there for a moment, the weight of the North on one side and the fire of the South on the other. Baelon was a solid, wriggling weight on your hip, his small hands sticky with whatever honey-cake he’d pilfered before your arrival. He was currently trying to show you a "trick" with the Greyjoy sword, which mostly involved him leaning dangerously far back while pointing at the sky.

"Mama, did you see?" he asked, his eyes wide and shimmering with the same violet-grey intensity as yours. "The big shadow! I told Brandon it was you! I told him the sky was coming home!"

You pressed a kiss to his forehead, his skin cool from the snow but his spirit burning hot. "I saw you, little kraken-slayer," you whispered. "I saw you guarding the gates."

Then, you turned your attention to the youngest. Brandon was a squirming force of nature in his nurse's arms. When you reached for him, the transition was seamless. He didn't just come to you; he launched himself, his tiny fingers instantly tangling in the silver silk of your hair with a grip that promised he would never let go. At seven moons, he didn't have words, but he had a gaze—dark, stormy, and ancient—that seemed to see right through the pirate leathers and the Valyrian steel to the soul of the woman beneath.

"He’s been a terror," the nurse whispered, though she was smiling. "He doesn't want the cradle, my Lady. He wants the battlements. He spends hours just staring at the clouds."

Cregan stepped in closer, his massive frame shielding the four of you from the biting wind that whipped through the gatehouse. He looked down at his sons, then at you, and for the first time in weeks, the deep lines of worry around his eyes seemed to smooth out. He reached out, his large, calloused thumb stroking Brandon’s chubby cheek. The baby responded by trying to bite his father's finger, which earned a rare, booming laugh from the Lord of Winterfell.

"He’s got your temper," Cregan murmured, his voice thick with a dark, honeyed pride. "And your restlessness. I fear the North isn't going to be big enough for this one."

"The North is plenty big, Cregan," you replied, leaning your head against his shoulder as the boys babbled between you. "It just needs to learn how to breathe a little fire now and then."

Baelon squirmed out of your grasped for a moment.

You shifted your weight, cradling the squirming infant closer, and spun in a slow, graceful circle. The hem of your pirate leathers flared out, dusting the fresh snow as you pressed your face against the soft, milk-scented skin of Brandon’s cheek.

“My little northern crab!” you sighed, the title a tender bridge between your Celtigar roots and his Stark blood.

The baby let out a gurgling, high-pitched crow of delight, his tiny hands patting clumsily at your face, his dark eyes wide with the reflection of your silver hair. The fierce "Cap’n" who had brought a Lord to his knees and a city to its breaking point was gone, replaced by a mother whose heart was visibly aching with the relief of the return.

“I missed you so,” you whispered into the crook of his neck, your eyes fluttering shut for a brief heartbeat.

Cregan watched the two of you, his expression uncharacteristically soft. The iron-willed Warden of the North, the man who had just been ready to flay his brother for a perceived slight, was now a silent sentinel. He reached out, his hand covering both you and the baby, his palm resting flat against Brandon’s back as if to anchor the two of you to the earth.

“He missed the fire,” Cregan murmured, his voice a low, rough rumble. “He’s been cold since you left, no matter how high we piled the peat in the hearth. He knew his mother was out there chasing the wind.”

Baelon, not wanting to be left out of the warmth, latched onto your leg, burying his face in your leather breeches. “I missed you too, Mama! I guarded the wolves! I told them you’d bring back the sun!”

You laughed, a soft, melodic sound that seemed to chase away the lingering chill of the journey. You looked from the heavy, obsidian-scaled dragon circling in the grey sky above to the two small lives in your arms, and then finally up at the man who stood as the center of it all.

The plunder from the Manderlys was being inventoried, the Vale’s wool was being stacked, and your crew was already eyeing the ale barrels—but here, in the quiet bubble of your family, the "Killer" was finally at peace.

“Well,” you said, looking at Cregan with a spark of your old mischief returning to your eyes. “The sun is back. And she’s very hungry. Shall we go inside before Brandon decides my ear is a better snack than his pottage?”

—

The solar was a blur of orange firelight and long, dancing shadows. Cregan, the man who commanded the respect of every hardened lord from the Wall to the Neck was now pinning you against the heavy oak table, the wood groaning under your weight as he ripped your pirate leathers open with a desperation that bordered on violence. He wasn't just looking for pleasure; he was looking for evidence.

He pressed a hard, desperate kiss to your stomach, his stubble grazing your skin as he let out a low, broken whimper. "Did she?" he rasped against your flesh, his voice thick with the kind of agonizing jealousy that only a Northman could carry. "Did she rub against you? Did she touch you where I touch you! Did she taste the salt?"

"No!" you gasped, your fingers digging into his dark hair as the cool air hit your skin.

You tried to steady your breathing, but the word died in your throat the moment his tongue found you. He didn't wait for your permission; he claimed you with a sharp, possessive flick that made your knees buckle. He was licking your clit with a rhythmic, frantic intensity, his growls muffled against your thighs.

He was marking you, trying to scrub away the phantom touch of the Lady of the Vale with his own heat. Every stroke was a claim, a violent re-declaration of his ownership.

"She didn't," he muttered against you, his breath hot and damp, "because you’re mine. Every inch of you. Every drop. You’re the North’s. You're mine."

The fire in the hearth roared, but it was nothing compared to the stifling, jealous heat radiating off Cregan.

He spread you completely to the flickering orange light. He looked at you—truly looked at you—his eyes scanning every inch of your wetness for a scent or a mark that wasn't his.

"She touched you," he snarled, his voice a guttural, wet sound. "I can smell the Vale on you. I can smell her desperation."

He leaned in, his face inches from your cunt, his breath hitching as he saw how slick you were. "Did she make you this wet? Did she use her fingers to open you up like a prize? Did she put her face here and drink from you until you forgot you had a husband waiting in the snow?"

"Cregan—" you tried to moan, but your voice was cut off as he slammed his mouth against you.

He didn't start gently. He lashed his tongue against your pearl with a punishing, rhythmic force, his teeth grazing you just enough to make you cry out. He was whimpering into your skin, a sound of pure, tortured possessiveness. He used his thumbs to stretch you open further, his gaze fixed on the way your folds pulsed against his tongue.

"No one else," he rasped, pulling back for a split second, his chin glistening with your nectar. "No one else gets to taste this. If I find her mark on you, I'll carve it out of your skin."

He plunged two fingers deep inside you, mirroring the aggressive lap of his tongue. He was stretching you, claiming the internal heat with a rough, territorial urgency. "Answer me! Did she feel how tight you are? Did she hear you make that sound when she bit your thigh?"

He didn't wait for the answer. He buried his face back between your legs, his tongue swirling and probing with a frantic, hungry energy. He was eating you as if he were starving, his hands wandering up to squeeze your breasts, twisting the nipples until you arched off the table, your silver hair sweeping the floor.

"You're mine," he growled against your clitoris, the vibration hummed through your entire body. "I'm going to eat every trace of her out of you. I'm going to fill you so full of the North that you'll never be able to stand the smell of the sea again."

He grabbed your waist and flipped you onto the table, pressing your chest into the hard oak and hiking your hips high. He was behind you now, a wall of burning muscle, his heavy member thick and pulsing as it brushed against your soaking folds. He didn't enter you yet; he just teased the entrance, his breath hot and ragged against the back of your neck.

Cregan’s hand shifted from your waist to the small of your back, pressing you down until your cheek was crushed against the cool, dark wood of the table. He remained poised at your entrance, the thick, twitching head of his length stretching you open, teasing the very edge of your sanity. He wasn't moving—he was waiting.

"You want to be a pirate?" he whispered, his voice a jagged, vibrating low that rumbled through your spine. "You want to wander the Bite and let the Lady of the Vale look at you like you’re hers to keep? If I let go of these reins, you'll just fly away again, won't you?"

He nipped at the sensitive skin of your earlobe, his breath hot and damp. "Tell me what happens if I fill you, little dragon. Tell me what happens to those pirate leathers when your belly starts to swell with my mark. You won't be climbing rigging then. You'll be by my hearth, heavy and warm, carrying the weight of the North."

You let out a broken moan, your hips bucking instinctively against him, pleading for the friction he was denying you. "Cregan, please... I can't... just do it..."

"Do what?" he growled, his hand snaking around to your front, his fingers dragging through your wetness and then rubbing the salt back into your own skin. "Ask me properly. I want to hear you admit it. I want to hear the Dragon beg for the Wolf to claim her for good."

He surged forward just an inch—a shallow, agonizingly slow slide that made you gasp—before pulling back out to the very tip.

"Beg me to make you a Stark," he commanded, his teeth grazing your shoulder. "Beg me to put a son in you. Or a daughter with my hair and your fire. Tell me you want to be rooted in this dirt so deep you'll never think of the sea again."

"Make me a Stark!" you cried out, your fingers clawing at the edge of the table, leaving gouges in the wood. "Put a baby in me, Cregan! I want a son... I want a daughter... I want to be yours! Please, fill me! Breed me!"

He let out a guttural, animalistic sound—a triumph that was more growl than word. "Say it again. Tell me whose blood you want flooding your womb."

"Yours!" you shrieked, your voice breaking as he finally plunged into you with a soul-crushing force. "Yours! Only yours! Fill me up, Lord Stark! Make me heavy with your name! Give me a Stark! Breed me until I can't walk!"

He began to hammer into you with a brutal, territorial rhythm that rattled the very foundations of the room. He wasn't just taking his pleasure; he was planting a flag. Every thrust was a violent claim, his heavy weight crushing you into the table as he buried himself to the hilt over and over again.

"A son to lead my vanguards," he grunted, his pace accelerating until it was a blur of skin and sweat. "A daughter to rule the halls. I’m going to fill you so full of me that there won't be room for anyone else’s thoughts. Not Jeyne's, not the sea's. Just mine."

He reached around, his fingers tangling in your silver hair and pulling your head back so your eyes met his in the mirror of the solar. He wanted you to see him—to see the dark, starving possessiveness in his gaze as he hit the back of your womb.

"Look at me," he rasped, his voice thick with the coming release. "Look at the man who's going to keep you in the North. Beg for it one last time. Beg for the seed."

"Give it to me!" you sobbed, your body vibrating, your walls clenching around him in a desperate, rhythmic pulse. "All of it! Give me everything! Breed me, Cregan! Make me yours!"

He let out a strangled roar, his muscles locking like iron as he slammed himself deep inside you one final time, pinning you to the table. He stayed there, his entire body shuddering as he poured himself into you in great, hot surges, his forehead pressed against your spine as he whimpered your name into the dark.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the crackle of the dying fire and the ragged, synchronized gasps of your breath. Cregan didn’t move; he stayed buried deep inside you, his weight a comforting, possessive anchor that pinned you to the dark wood of the table. He was still trembling, the aftershocks of his release rippling through his powerful frame.

He leaned down, his face pressing into the valley of your shoulder blades, his skin slick with sweat against yours.

“I love you, my light,” he whispered into your back, the words muffled, raw, and stripped of the biting jealousy that had consumed him moments before.

— ☾ Moons Later ☽ —

The solar was draped in the long, blue shadows of a Northern twilight, the only light coming from the orange embers in the hearth and the flickering tallow candles on your desk. You sat in a chair lined with thick, white bearskin, though even the plush fur couldn't quite ease the ache in your lower back.

You were heavy—far heavier than you had been with Brandon. Your belly was a high, firm mountain beneath your velvet gown, a constant reminder of that frantic, jealous night in the solar after your return from the Vale. The "Northern Crab" was making its presence known with every rhythmic kick against your ribs.

Spread before you were the ledgers of Winterfell, now balanced with a precision that made the Manderlys weep. The Vale gold had been put to work; the granaries were overflowing, and the shipyards at White Harbor were humming with the construction of your new fleet. But your eyes weren't on the numbers tonight.

They were on the wax seal of a raven-sent scroll from Dragonstone.

"...the tides of the Gullet are stained red, and the sky over the Reach burns with the breath of the Sunfyre. I look to the North, sister. I look for the Wolf's winter breath to cool the flames the Usurper."

"Still reading the Queen's pleas?"

The heavy thud of boots announced Cregan's arrival before he even crossed the threshold. He smelled of snow and the iron-tang of the practice yard. He walked over to you, but he didn't look at the ledgers or the letter. His gaze dropped immediately to the swell of your stomach.

He moved behind you, his large, calloused hands sliding over your shoulders to rest firmly on the peak of your belly. He leaned down, his beard scratching your cheek as he pressed a kiss to your temple.

"She wants her dragons," Cregan murmured, his voice a low rumble that made the baby kick in response. He felt the movement under his palms and a slow, triumphant smile spread across his face. "But the North has its own fire to tend to right now."

"She's losing ground, Cregan," you whispered, leaning back into his heat. "The Stepstones are a mess, and the Hightowers are pushing closer to the capital."

"Let them push," Cregan grunted, his hands shifting to cradle the underside of your bump, supporting the weight as if it were the most precious cargo he’d ever overseen. "My vanguards are ready, and the grain is stored. But I'm not leaving this gate until I see the color of this one's eyes. I promised you a Stark, and it seems you’re intent on giving me a giant."

He turned your chair gently, kneeling between your legs—a position he had become very fond of in these later moons. He pressed his ear to your stomach, listening to the life he had planted there with such ferocious intent.

"Restless," he noted, his eyes darting up to yours with a smirk. "Just like the mother. I think this one will be a girl. A girl with a pirate’s heart and a wolf’s bite."

“I love you my light, you will stay here where it is safe, where I know that my reach will never be far.” Cregan whispered

“I love you more.” You whispered back

[perkqularkreashions]

I hope this doesn’t come off as rude…but do you notice that in your x reader posts you comment on skin tone? I understand that sometimes the reader is maybe the daughter of established characters with pale skin, but it’s very disheartening to read a fanfic and come across wording with “your cheeks turned pink” or something akin to that when your skin tone is brown or even tan. It feels as though it’s only meant for a certain group of people rather than any reader, as x reader fics should be. I hope I’ve made sense, thank you if you’ve read this, apologies if I’ve come off as rude

Hiii! This makes sense and I get the point you’re making. When I research certain houses—like House Tully, who are known for red hair and blue eyes—I usually keep those traits consistent because they’re part of what the house is recognized for. I don’t go into heavy detail about skin tone, but I do keep the physical characteristics that are closely tied to a family’s identity. The same goes for houses like the Targaryens with their white hair and purple eyes, or Dornish families with darker hair and bronze skin, or even specific characters—like Lord Corlys’s children, who are canonically mixed. I tend to apply these traits in a general way without over-describing them.

For x/reader stories, a lot of the details are based on what’s requested, so there are certain elements I keep for the sake of the reader’s preference. As for the blushing comment, that one can be tricky to describe. Blushing happens across all races, it just shows differently. I know plenty of Black and brown people whose faces do flush or warm in certain areas when they blush, even if it doesn’t look the same on everyone. I’m going to try to keep things more racially ambiguous where I can, but for traits that are tied directly to a family or house, I do keep those in. I hope that explains where I’m coming from.

[perkqularkreashions]

im so sorry and i mean this with no judgement, why would jaime name his daughter Elia 😭？That name doesnt have good connotations with his family after tywin lannister has elia martell and her children brutally killed 😭

Okay yeaahhhh valid point, oneeee I love the name and two honestly that was kind of the point for me, I picked it because Jaime knows what happened and doesn’t look away from it. To me, that’s how his kindness shows up, when he’s with his the reader; not loud, not performative, just choosing to remember when the rest of his family buried it. It’s less about honoring Tywin or the Lannister name (because he was forced to marry the reader) and more about Jaime quietly saying, what was done to her mattered. It costs him something a bit of himself to be tied to the craziness of his family.

Buttttt I also like to reuse names a lot so you’ll that name probably 199 more times because I suckkk at creating names. I literally go through family lineages online to see what names were used and just use them and change the character

I hope that makes sense 😭😭

[perkqularkreashions]

Girl Made in Riverrun

Description: Jamie Lannister is forced to marry a Tully, he didn’t expect to fall in love with Catelyn’s sister.

-anon- requested!

Warnings: Twincest (Jamie x Cersei cannon event), Smut p in v, oral F received, smut in public places, violence, mentions of death. Time skips (like a lot), it’s pretty lengthy.

Up Next:

Sandor Clegane x Reyne!Reader - requested

Daemon Targaryen x Greyjoy!Reader -requested

Tywin Lannister x Dorne!Reader

Petyr Baelish x Reader

Cregan Stark x Celtigar!Reader - requested

Young!Robert Baratheon x Targaryen!Reader - requested

Theon Greyjoy x Stark!Reader - requested

Credit to the owners of the pictures! I got them from Pinterest!

Tywin Lannister, Lion of the West, stood with one hand resting lightly on the carved lion-head arm of his chair, a satisfied glint in his pale eyes as he watched King Robert pace the length of the chamber. The king’s brow was furrowed, thick fingers raking through his beard as he weighed the proposition laid before him. Beside Tywin, Ser Jaime stood silent, his jaw locked and hand clenched into a fist at his side—whether from anticipation or fury, none could tell. The torchlight danced against the golden plates of his armor, the Kingsguard’s white cloak draped still across his shoulders, though it hung now like a relic from another life.

“He serves no purpose, not as he is,” Tywin said, voice calm and unyielding as steel. “His post was earned by convenience, not merit. But he can still be of use—your sworn sword, aye, but also a husband. Heirs, Robert. Sons bearing the lion’s name. That’s what he was born for.”

Robert halted mid-step, turning with a grunt. “You’ve a match in mind then? Or is this another ploy of yours, Tywin?”

“I do,” Tywin replied smoothly. “Lady Tully. The youngest daughter of Hoster Tully—sister to Edmure and Lady Stark. A proper girl, bred of good stock. Lord Edmure has already sent word of his approval. The girl is en route to the capital as we speak. They’ll wed here, before the royal party rides north. A festival, a celebration to set the tone, maybe she’ll even visit her sister. Gods knows you adore the Starks. It’ll do her good to see her sister again.”

Robert scratched at his chin, then shrugged. “A wedding might cheer the people. Put something warm in their bellies before the cold of the North sets in. Two weeks, you said?”

“Within the fortnight,” Tywin confirmed. “The preparations have already begun. Two week celebration.”

Robert nodded slowly. “Alright… alright then. Let it be done.”

Tywin inclined his head, already satisfied, his fingers brushing the fabric of his crimson sleeve as though dusting off the matter entirely. Jaime, however, remained frozen, his golden brows drawn tight, his shoulders rigid.

“You’ll take your new oath after the wedding,” Robert added with a smirk, lifting a goblet of wine to his lips. “And keep the armor, boy. Suits you. Might even distract the girl from your sour temper.”

“When does she arrive?” Robert asked, glancing over at Tywin once more.

“She’ll be here soon,” Tywin replied coolly. “And she’ll be yours to present at court.”

Cersei stormed down the corridor, the silk of her gown hissing like a serpent with every furious step. Servants scattered at the sight of her, heads bowed low, skirts gathered quickly out of her path. When she reached Jaime’s chamber door, she didn’t knock. She shoved it open with enough force to rattle the hinges.

“I found out through Tyrion—Tyrion, of all people!” she spat, her voice sharp with betrayal. Her golden hair was unbound, wild about her shoulders, and her eyes burned with fury.

Jaime turned from where he stood near the hearth, already tense, his jaw tight. “Don’t look at me like that, Cersei,” he said quickly, raising his hands in something like surrender. “Please—it wasn’t my choice.”

“Then why didn’t you fight harder?” she snapped, advancing on him like a lioness with blood in her mouth. “You’re Tywin’s heir, his golden son. You could’ve refused—should’ve refused!”

He shook his head, stepping back just enough to keep distance between them. “You know how he is. It was already done before I was even told. The match was signed, sealed, and ridden for Riverrun before I could speak a word.”

“You’re marrying her,” Cersei snarled. “A Tully. One of Catelyn’s sisters. Do you know what they’ll say? What they’ll think?”

“I know,” he said through gritted teeth. “Do you think I haven’t already thought of that a thousand times?”

She turned away from him then, as if disgusted by the sight of him, hands curling at her sides. “You’re mine,” she said, voice trembling—not with weakness, but with rage. “You’ve always been mine. And now you’re just—giving yourself away?”

“I didn’t give anything,” he bit back. “He took it from me.”

Cersei rounded on him once more, eyes glassy with unshed fury. “Then take it back.”

Cersei’s breath caught as the silence thickened between them, heavy as smoke. Her fists trembled at her sides, but she didn’t move away. Not when Jaime stepped closer. Not when his voice lowered.

“I didn’t want this,” he murmured, gaze pinned to hers, the firelight flickering gold across his face. “I swear it, Cersei. I tried—I tried to make him see, but he wouldn’t bend. He never bends.”

Her lip curled, but the anger faltered just slightly. “You’re stronger than him,” she whispered. “You’re better.”

“I’m yours,” he said, voice raw.

His hands came to her waist—hesitant, almost reverent. She let him. Her body was taut with tension, but she didn’t resist when he drew her in. Her hands found his chest, fingers curled in the fabric of his tunic. He ducked his head, their foreheads brushing. His voice was a breath against her lips.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, softer this time. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know how to face you.”

And then she kissed him.

Her kiss wasn’t tender—it was a punishment. Her mouth crashed into his with the heat of a wildfire, angry and possessive, like she meant to devour the apology right out of his throat. Jaime grunted against her, stumbling backward as she pushed him, lips bruising, hands clutching fistfuls of his tunic like she wanted to tear it apart.

He didn’t stop her.

His hands gripped her waist, hard, dragging her against him as if he needed to feel her anger to believe she still wanted him. Her teeth caught his lip, and he hissed. She smiled into the kiss, wicked and breathless.

“You let him chain you,” she snarled, lips brushing his jaw as she bit at the skin there. “You said you were mine, Jaime—mine.”

“I am,” he gasped, kissing her again, sloppier this time—off-center, raw, all tongue and desperation. “I didn’t ask for her—I didn’t ask for any of it.”

Her hand tangled in his hair, tugging his head back so she could look at him—lips red, eyes shining, chest heaving like she’d just fought a war.

“Then prove it,” she whispered.

He kissed her again before the words finished falling, hands moving rough under her skirts, pressing her back toward the table, knocking over a goblet and not caring for a single heartbeat. Her thighs hit wood. His mouth never left hers.

“Say you still love me,” she said, half a breath, half a challenge.

“I do,” he said, panting, forehead against hers. “Gods, Cersei—always. Only you.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

You arrived without fanfare, just as you preferred—no banners, no trumpets, no company beyond a modest escort of Tully men who said little and kept their heads down. The sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, and the courtyard of the Red Keep was cloaked in shadow. A few lanterns flickered near the gates, their flames swaying in the wind. You dismounted with practiced ease, your cloak fluttering behind you in the night breeze, your blue silks catching only the faintest kiss of firelight.

Tywin Lannister was waiting at the top of the steps. Regal as ever, stone-faced and imposing even in silence. But when you smiled—softly, without pretense—it startled him. You were younger than he remembered. More beautiful than he’d expected. And far, far softer. There was no hard edge to you, no sharp tongue. Just river-steady grace and that keen, unbothered composure that made men underestimate you far too easily.

“Lord Tywin,” you said lightly, lifting a hand in greeting, fingers curled in a gentle wave. “It’s been far too long.”

“It has,” he replied with a nod, his voice unreadable. But his eyes did not leave your face.

You stepped forward, skirts whispering against the stone. “My brother didn’t come. He trusts me in your care,” you said, tilting your head just slightly. “For the wedding, I mean. I’ve not told my sisters yet either—though I suppose I’ll have to now, won’t I?”

Your smile widened, sweet as spring rain. “I trust everything is in order—your hands are known for order, after all. Robert, in his drunken ramblings, speaks of you often. Not all bad, mind you. He said the feasts would come after the ceremony. Then we ride north.” You paused, brushing a loose strand of hair from your cheek. “All very well planned. Very… Lannister.”

Tywin studied you for a long moment. And though he said nothing, there was a flicker of something behind his eyes—something between respect and concern.

Because you were not what he expected. You were worse. You were gentle. And that made you dangerous.

“Come,” Tywin said, turning with the authority of a man who expected obedience. “You shall meet Jaime.”

You froze. Hands clutched together before you, the lace at your wrists trembling faintly in the night breeze.

“Oh, gods—no, I can’t!” you said quickly, cheeks flushing as you shook your head. “It’s… against Riverrun tradition. I’m not to see him until the wedding. Bad luck and all that.”

Your voice was light, teasing, but your eyes flicked nervously toward the great doors of the Keep, as if the Kingslayer himself might come strolling out to catch you mid-sentence.

“Hopefully,” you went on with a breathless laugh, “he’ll find me beautiful. And not just another old, sour-faced Tully.” You scrunched your nose slightly. “You Lannisters have such strong features. I always worried the Riverlands bred girls a little too plain.”

Tywin paused at that, glancing back at you. His lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost. But not quite.

“He’ll find you pleasing enough,” he said. “You are young. You are lovely. And, more importantly, you are useful. That is more than most women can claim.”

You smiled, but the weight of his words pressed behind your ribs.

“I’ll have my steward take you to your chambers,” he added. “You’ll be presented properly before the court at the feast.”

You dipped into a polite, practiced curtsy. “Thank you, my lord.”

He watched you one last time before turning, the click of his boots fading into stone. And as you followed the steward through the quiet halls of the Red Keep, you touched your cheeks and whispered to yourself—

“Please let him have kind eyes.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

Jaime paced the length of his chamber like a caged lion, his golden armor half-undone, the clasps at his shoulders hanging loose where he’d started to tear it off in frustration. His breath came short, sharp, like every step might somehow undo what had already been set in stone.

“She’s here,” he muttered, raking a hand through his hair. “She’s actually here. Gods, why—why did Father have to find her so soon?”

Tyrion lounged in a carved chair by the hearth, a goblet in one hand and a smirk on his lips, watching the dramatics unfold with barely veiled amusement.

“You knew this day was coming,” Tyrion said mildly. “Father made it quite clear you’d be married off the moment Robert gave permission. You should be thanking him—he could’ve saddled you with a Frey.”

Jaime spun around, eyes wild. “Lysa Arryn was a Tully. She was supposed to be beautiful too.”

“She was, once,” Tyrion said, swirling the wine in his cup. “Many say this one favors her—delicate, they claim. Polite. She has the hair. The eyes. That Riverlands charm.”

“If she looks anything like that sickly hag of the Eyrie I swear to the gods, I’ll—” he choked on the thought. “Her eyes! They were like a fish pulled too long from water. That awful limp hair. Pale as bone, and her voice—”

He shuddered dramatically, one hand pressed to his chest like he’d been stabbed.

“I’ll surely die.”

“You won’t,” Tyrion said with a sigh, setting down his cup. “She’s young. That much I know. And she’s no fool. She knows what this marriage means. You’ll get through tomorrow, and then you can return to pretending to hate politics.”

“I was fine,” Jaime snapped. “Content with life. My white cloak, my sword. Her. I didn’t ask for this.”

Tyrion raised a brow. “You mean Cersei?”

Jaime didn’t answer. He looked away, jaw clenching, hands curling into fists at his sides.

“She’ll be at the feast tomorrow,” Tyrion added quietly. “And by the look of things, she’s not what Father expected.”

Jaime’s eyes snapped to him. “What do you mean?”

Tyrion’s smile was slow, knowing. “You’ll see.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

Morning came too quickly.

The halls of the Red Keep were transformed, the stone corridors draped in sweeping banners of Tully blue and burgundy, braided together with Lannister red and gold. The colors twisted in perfect harmony—rivers and lions bound in silk—a symbol of alliance, though few would dare call it love. It was beautiful, undeniably so, and that alone was enough to sour Cersei’s mood. She watched from her place near the dais, her jaw clenched behind a forced smile, envy roiling beneath the surface. You were all anyone spoke of. No one had seen the youngest Tully since girlhood, and now here you were—grown, radiant, untouched by time or scandal. Some whispered that your beauty rivaled hers. Others said it surpassed it.

Your hair was a striking Tully red—brighter than Catelyn’s, longer than Lysa’s—and it shimmered like copper fire in the sunlight spilling through the stained glass. Your eyes, soft sea-blue with a ring of storm grey, carried the hush of deep water. You looked like a memory come to life. And gods, you were perfect.

Jaime stood at the end of the hall, stiff and irritable beneath layers of polished gold. He looked like a knight carved from sunlight—handsome, proud, and visibly annoyed by the fanfare. But when the horns sounded and the guests rose, when the great oak doors creaked open, and you stepped into the light of the throne room—

Even he went still.

You walked slowly, unbothered by the weight of every eye in the hall. Your gown was a vibrant blue, soft but rich in color, stitched with fine silver thread. It hugged your form, dipping low across your chest where a silver trout gleamed at the center of your bodice. You moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew they were beautiful, but carried it like a secret rather than a weapon.

You paused when you saw him—your betrothed.

Your eyes met his across the distance. He was taller than you remembered. Sharper. Golden. He looked nothing like the boy you once glimpsed from afar.

“His eyes are… sorta kind,” you murmured to the maiden at your side.

“He’s the Kingslayer,” she whispered with a smirk. “And more handsome than I imagined.”

“He looks… bright,” you said softly, as if the word surprised you.

“Well, he’s your husband now,” she teased.

Jaime stepped forward as you neared, every movement rehearsed, mechanical. He reached for your hand, but before his fingers could graze yours, you laughed—low and warm, barely above a whisper, and yet it echoed in his ears.

“No need to be so formal, Ser Jaime,” you said, your voice sweet as summer wine. “You don’t need to kiss my hand.”

He faltered, blinking at you like you’d struck him. Something in your softness stunned him. You weren’t cold. You weren’t haughty. You weren’t what he feared.

You smiled at him—genuine and quiet.

And for the first time that morning, he didn’t know what to say.

“You grew,” Jaime said, eyes trailing over you with quiet disbelief, like he still expected the child from long ago to emerge beneath the silk and ceremony.

You tilted your head, grinning. “Well, I’m not the sniveling girl you saw clinging to Edmure’s leg at your sister’s wedding.”

You giggled then, the sound light and sweet. “Cersei looked beautiful that day.”

He smiled at the memory, despite himself. He remembered you now—the way you’d peeked out from behind your brother’s cloak, wide-eyed and wary, flinching every time the crowd roared too loud. A little thing in pale blue, red hair in tangled ribbons, constantly twisting your fingers. Barely old enough to speak in full sentences.

“And what were you so afraid of?” Jaime asked, amusement tugging at his lips.

You leaned closer, your breath brushing his shoulder, smiling too brightly—too kindly—for a girl about to marry a man the realm called Kingslayer.

“In truth?” you whispered. “Your steed. That damned horse of yours.”

He blinked. “My horse?”

A bark of laughter escaped him, far louder than he meant. Heads turned. The hall fell quiet. Cersei’s eyes narrowed from the dais. But you only beamed up at him, utterly unbothered.

“Gods, yes,” you said with a playful grimace. “A creature that large, able to kill me simply by twitching wrong? That is no friend of mine. I’ve never learned to ride. I don’t wish to. I’m quite sure they hate me as much as I hate them.”

“You hate horses,” Jaime said, still grinning, voice lowered now. “You’re marrying a knight and you hate horses.”

You laughed again, musical and unbothered. “I adore fish. Small, harmless, until they’re not. I grew up beside the river, not in a stable. A trout is a far nobler beast, in my opinion.”

He looked at you—really looked—and something in his chest shifted.

Because this wasn’t the marriage he expected.

You weren’t trembling. You weren’t bitter. You were soft and bright and quietly strange in a way that unsettled him and gods help him, he was starting to like it.

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” Jaime said with a short nod, offering his arm.

You placed your hand there softly, your fingers light against the hard muscle beneath his crimson sleeve. He began walking, slow and measured, the two of you moving through the corridor toward the sept, steps echoing beneath vaulted stone.

“The wedding,” he murmured after a moment, his voice quieter than before, “as you so adamantly requested, has now become a documented contract—signed, sealed, and quite literally paraded before the realm.”

You turned your face slightly toward him, your smile warm, but edged with mischief. “Well yes, I assumed your disdain at being plucked from the Kingsguard would sour any desire to celebrate being tethered to the trout girl.”

You said it lightly, teasing, but your voice never lost its softness. “Edmure told me—very firmly—not to mention cloaks, kings, or guards. I fear if I so much as say the word ‘oath,’ he’ll emerge from the stone itself to strangle me.”

That pulled the smallest laugh from Jaime, short and genuine.

“I’m a big boy,” he said. “I don’t need you to temper my mood.”

You smiled gently, eyes forward now. “I know. But still… it’s alright to grieve. To mourn what you’ve lost. I don’t fault you for that. I wouldn’t even blame you if you chose to walk away—if you rejected all of this. I wouldn’t be angry.”

The words hung between you for a moment, too tender, too real.

Jaime’s jaw shifted. He looked down at you, not with pity or coldness, but something quieter. Something harder to name.

“I would never dishonor you,” he said simply.

And in that vow, however soft, was the first crack in the armor he wore far beneath his gold.

“Ahhh! My little trout girl!” Robert’s voice boomed across the hall, slurred and far too loud for the closeness of the space. He barreled forward, flushed from drink and grinning like a man half his age, and before Jaime could so much as blink, the king had snatched you from his side.

You squealed with laughter, caught off guard by the sheer force of the man’s affection. “Robbie!” you gasped, eyes bright, arms barely catching around his barrel chest.

He hugged you tight, swaying slightly, then leaned back to grin at you as if you were some long-lost treasure he’d only just remembered. “Beautiful trout! Gods, look at you. Go on—go! Jon’s been begging to see you. Poor lad’s near chewed my ear off. You know how he gets.”

You looked past the king’s shoulder and saw Jon Arryn seated in the corner of the hall, watching you with a warm, expectant gaze. You nodded quickly, touched by the thought. As you moved to pull away, your eyes found Jaime’s again across the crowd—his smile small, real, and caught half behind his hand.

Robert clapped Jaime hard on the back—twice. The kind of blow that rattled armor.

“You married a good one,” Robert said, voice thick with wine and sentiment. “I thought for certain she’d be a Stark, you know. Madly in love with Benjen. Gods, he loved her too. Quiet boy, but fierce where it counted. I remember her first kiss to him—”

“I rather don’t care,” Jaime cut in, tone cool but even. “She’s my wife now. Whatever came before me is her own. Just as I had a life before her.”

Robert blinked, then let out a loud, wheezing chuckle. “Aye. Fair enough, fair enough.” He smacked Jaime’s back again, even harder this time, before staggering off toward another cask.

Jaime stood still for a moment, watching you slip through the crowd toward Jon Arryn. Your laughter trailed behind you, soft and clear.

And yet… Robert’s words lingered like smoke in Jaime’s chest. “The North has a way of bringing up old feelings.”

Now you both stood in the center of the hall, the contract signed, the rites spoken, the knots tied. A simple union, formalized before the realm with only the faintest brush of ceremony—no silken bedding speeches, no wild fanfare, no drunken debauchery. Just you and Jaime, side by side beneath the vaulted ceiling of the Red Keep, the air heavy with roses and smoke, the murmurs of lords and ladies still echoing along the stone.

You were now Lady Lannister.

A soft tune played from the minstrels’ corner, delicate and low, and he led you into the first dance with hesitant fingers resting at your waist. You moved like water—effortless, light. You smelled of wildflowers and river reeds warmed by sunlight, of quiet summer mornings along the banks of the Trident. You didn’t cling to him or press too close. Your hand at the nape of his neck was soft, steady—nothing like Cersei’s sharpened claws and possessive touch. It unsettled him, that gentleness. How it made him ache.

“You’d make a fine Lord Tully,” you said, eyes sparkling. “A golden-haired fisherman. A beard would suit you, I think. And longer hair to shield you from the summer sun.”

He snorted—an inelegant, surprised sound. “A Tully?” he repeated with a smirk.

You grinned up at him, spinning just slightly beneath his arm. “A quiet life. Far from court. Far from lions and crowns and whispered plots. It’s what most girls dream of when they marry, you know. Not power. Peace.”

Your words were sweet, light—but they landed heavy.

He looked down at you, your face tilted toward his, your smile still resting there like it belonged. You weren’t scheming. You weren’t pretending. You meant it.

And for one strange moment, Jaime found himself picturing it. A river keep. A slower life. Your hand still in his.

“And what do you dream of?” he asked, his voice low.

Your smile turned wistful, eyes drifting past his shoulder. “I think I’m still figuring that out.”

The music lingered soft around you, the low hum of harp strings wrapping gently through the air as you turned beneath Jaime’s hand, laughing quietly at something only the two of you could hear. He was smiling—truly smiling—for the first time that night, the corners of his mouth soft and unguarded, as if, for once, he had stopped bracing for the weight of expectation.

Then she came.

Cersei moved through the hall like a storm cloaked in silk—green velvet clinging to every curve, golden hair piled high, eyes glittering with something colder than envy. She stopped just beside you, her hand gliding over Jaime’s arm with practiced familiarity.

“May I steal my brother for a moment?” she asked sweetly, her smile anything but.

You didn’t flinch. You turned to her, your face open and kind, too kind for someone so clearly being challenged.

“Of course, my Queen,” you said gently, bowing your head with grace honed from years at Riverrun. Before stepping back, you gave Jaime’s hand the smallest squeeze—a silent farewell, and perhaps, a warning.

You disappeared into the crowd, and the space between them collapsed like a trap sprung shut.

“Only one day,” Cersei hissed, stepping in close, her breath hot against his cheek, “and you’ve already forgotten you were in my cunt.”

Jaime stiffened, color rising to his face. “Stop,” he said low. “No one’s forgotten.”

Her hand slid across his chest, possessive, venomous. “Your hand was on her back, lower and lower. Her fingers at your neck like she already knows what makes you weak. And tonight, you’ll bed her, won’t you?”

Her voice cracked with restrained fury.

“Will you think of me?” she asked, voice quieter now. “When she breathes your name? When her legs wrap around you? When she gasps and you have to pretend she feels like home?”

Jaime closed his eyes for just a moment. And in the smallest, most broken whisper, he said “Of course. Of course I will.”

But even as he spoke it, he turned to look back through the crowd, trying to find the river girl in blue.

And he hated himself for how much he already missed your hand.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The fire burned low in the hearth, its golden light casting soft shadows across the stone walls of the wedding chamber. The room smelled of sandalwood and rose oil, and the silence that stretched between you both was fragile—heavy with unspoken thoughts, sharpened by expectation.

Jaime moved first.

His lips found yours with no warning, mouth hot and desperate, hands framing your face as if he feared you might vanish. It wasn’t graceful—wasn’t elegant. It was hungry, wild with need. He kissed you like a man drowning, like he needed your mouth to breathe.

“Jaime—Jaime,” you gasped between kisses, your palms pressing gently against his chest, breath caught somewhere between surprise and laughter.

He stilled, forehead brushing yours, panting.

“Wait,” you said softly, your lips brushing the corner of his mouth. “Let’s go slow. We have all our lives to be quick and hungry.”

Your fingers moved with care, tugging at the laces of his shirt, easing the fabric back from his shoulders until his skin was bare beneath the firelight. “Unless,” you said with a crooked smile, “you’re ready to get this over with?”

“No,” he said at once, voice rough. “No—gods, no.” He looked away, jaw flexing like he didn’t trust himself to say more.

You stepped back, wordless, and let your gown fall from your shoulders.

The silk pooled at your feet with a whisper, and the chill of the chamber kissed your skin. You stood bare before him, chest rising slowly, heart thudding, but you did not hide. There was something reverent in your stillness. Something brave.

“I am a maiden,” you said, voice soft as dusk. “And I wish my first time to be slow. Gentle. And full of love.” You paused, meeting his eyes. “Even if it is only for one night, Ser Jaime.”

Your smile was the kind that wrecked men—gentle, sure, and aching. Jaime stared at you like he’d never seen something so painfully real. And then, with trembling hands, he reached for you—not as a conqueror, but as a man humbled.

“Then slow,” he whispered, brushing your hair back. “And gentle. And like love.”

He kissed you slow, the back of your legs meet the bed. Teasingly, you crawled back, your eyes low full of want. He grabbed your ankle, yanking towards him. “Let me taste you, River girl.” You bit your lip, nodding too eagerly.

His mouth was hot, reverent, and far too patient.

He kissed the inside of your thigh first—once, then again, slower the second time, his stubble scraping softly against your skin. His hands kept you open, gentle but firm, and he watched you with something unreadable in his eyes. Like awe. Like hunger smothered beneath restraint. When he lowered himself fully, breath ghosting over your most delicate place, you barely had time to brace before his mouth found you.

He kissed your clit like it was his, like he’d done it before in dreams and now meant to do it right—slowly. His tongue dragged across you, lazy and deliberate, not searching for the peak but drawing it out, warming you with long, wet strokes that made your thighs tremble around his head.

You gasped, spine arching off the mattress.

“Gods—” the word spilled from your lips in a breathless cry, hands flying to his hair, fingers twisting tight in those golden strands. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

That made him groan—deeply—the sound sending a pulse through your whole body. He pressed his mouth harder against you, tongue flattening, circling, teasing the sensitive pearl with slow, worshipful flicks that had your hips lifting, grinding softly, needing more.

He didn’t give you more. Not yet.

He licked you through every twitch and gasp, lips dragging over the slick heat of you, soft and wet and sloppy, so soaked from his tongue alone that he had to drag his hand down and part you again, groaning when he felt how much you gave him.

“You taste like summer,” he murmured against you, voice thick, drunk on you. “Sweet river girl.”

Then he went back to it—louder now, messier. His mouth moved with open hunger, tongue pressing, sucking, flicking faster, then easing back just enough to hear you whine. You were soaked down your thighs, clenching at nothing, thighs quivering, head tossing back on the pillow.

You felt wild beneath him—shaking, panting, begging—but he just held you still, thumbs stroking circles into your hips like he had all night to ruin you slowly.

“Jaime—Jaime, please,” you whispered, your voice cracking, your hand reaching for anything, for him, dragging his name from your throat like a prayer.

And still—he didn’t stop.

His mouth was soaked with you—chin glistening, lips slick, breath ragged as he buried his face deeper between your thighs like he couldn’t get close enough. His tongue moved in filthy, wet strokes now, no longer gentle, no longer teasing. He was feasting on you, devouring every whimper, every twitch, every cry of his name like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

When he sucked hard—right on the clit—you cried out, body jerking like he’d struck some hidden nerve. Your thighs tried to close, to squirm away, but his arms locked you in place. His grip was tight now, possessive, dragging your hips closer to his mouth, forcing you to stay open for every soft, wet suck and every obscene lick he gave you. He was messy with it—his tongue flicking fast and eager, his nose pressed against the soft heat of you, and gods, he was moaning into you now, low and rough and wrecked.

“This your first time coming?” he groaned, voice muffled, lips dragging over your swollen pearl. “On my tongue?”

You nodded frantically, hands pulling at his hair, back arched off the bed, desperate and close and wild.

“Yes! Gods—yes,” you whimpered, your voice barely human.

That did something to him—broke something. He growled low in his throat and sucked again, harder this time, his tongue working you over like he wanted to brand the feeling of him into your body forever. Sloppy, filthy, perfect—his mouth sliding against your soaked folds, his tongue curling up to catch every drop of you like he was starving.

Your body locked up—legs trembling, belly tightening, breath catching in your chest—and when your release hit, it hit like a wave crashing over stone.

You screamed.

Your thighs clamped around his head, hands fisting tight in his hair as your hips bucked, and he didn’t stop. Not for a second. He moaned as you came, mouth still moving, still kissing you through it, drinking you down with feverish, worshipful hunger. He let you ride it, every spasm, every broken cry, until you were limp beneath him—shaking, gasping, soaked and ruined.

He pulled back slowly, face wet, chest heaving.

“Sweet gods,” he whispered, voice hoarse, “I could die with that taste on my tongue.”

You blinked up at him, dazed and wrecked, your body still trembling from the force of it.

Jaime hovered over you, his body taut with restraint, golden hair tousled, lips still wet with your release. His tunic was discarded long ago, leaving him bare to the waist, muscles flexed as he braced himself on either side of you. But it was your movement—slow and sinfully deliberate—that shattered what control he had left.

Your legs curled around his hips, and your body arched, grinding up against the hot, heavy length of him—bare now, pressed against your soaked entrance but not yet inside. The heat of you dragged along him with every slow roll of your hips, and the friction made his breath stutter, made his arms shake.

“Gods,” he hissed through clenched teeth, dropping his head against your shoulder. “What are you doing to me…already ruining me with those sweet whines”

Your hands threaded into his hair, your lips brushing his ear as you rocked again, the tip of him dragging through the slick mess between your thighs. Not quite entering—teasing. Coating him. Driving him mad.

“I want it to feel real,” you whispered, voice trembling. “All of you. All of this.”

He grunted—deep, guttural—the sound scraping from somewhere low in his chest. You rolled again, slower this time, your clit catching just beneath the ridge of him, and his hips jerked like he couldn’t help it.

“Seven hells,” he groaned, breath shuddering against your neck. “I’ve never—”

He cut himself off, teeth gritting.

“Never had someone like this. Needy for me. Wanting me like this.”

Your mouth kissed along his jaw, soft and slow. “I need you, Jaime,” you whispered. “Please.”

He pulled back to look at you then, eyes burning, his hands moving to grip your hips like he was anchoring himself. The tip of him nudged against you, almost there, his breath ragged.

“Say it again,” he said hoarsely. “Say you need me.”

“I need you.”

“Then gods forgive me,” he whispered, and he pushed in—slow, every inch of him pressing through slick heat, stretching you open until he was fully seated inside, thick and deep and shaking above you.

Your gasp tore into his mouth as he kissed you—desperate, messy, teeth catching on lips, both of you groaning as your hips adjusted to each other.

He started to move—long, slow thrusts that dragged against every inch of your trembling walls. His forehead rested against yours, his hands everywhere—cupping your cheek, gripping your waist, brushing your breast, like he couldn’t decide where to worship first.

“You feel like godsdamned heaven,” he groaned. “You were made for me.” He lost himself the moment he sank into you.

There was no grace left in him—not with how warm and soaked you were, how your body welcomed him like it had been waiting for him all along. His first thrust was deep, sloppy, too rough for the tenderness he’d promised, and your gasp shattered between his lips as his hips slammed flush to yours, the sound of it loud and filthy in the quiet of the chamber.

He moaned—loudly—his head dropping to your shoulder, golden hair clinging to his brow as he fought to breathe.

“Fuck—gods, you feel—you feel like sin,” he groaned, grinding deep into your soaked cunt, hips jerking as your walls fluttered around him, wet and eager.

You cried out beneath him, your nails digging into his back, your legs locked high around his waist as you pulled him back in.

He fucked you hard—messy and fast, every thrust sloppy with wet sounds, your slick dripping down onto the sheets beneath you. Your skin slapped together again and again as he pounded into you like he couldn’t stand the thought of ever leaving your body. Sweat slicked between you. His mouth found your throat, your jaw, your breast—kissing, biting, claiming.

“You’ll only have me,” you whispered, voice trembling, your hands cupping his face as he fucked you through another wave of pleasure.

His hand slammed against the headboard, gripping it like a man trying to hold on to reason, while the other arm wrapped tight beneath your thigh, lifting your leg higher against his hip, spreading you wider, deeper. His strokes were brutal now—filthy and fast, wet and relentless, your slick coating his cock, his thighs, the bed beneath you both. The sound of him inside you—flesh slapping flesh, the obscene squelch of every thrust—filled the chamber louder than the fire crackling at your side.

He groaned—loudly—his head dropping low as he watched himself disappear into you again and again, jaw clenched so tight it looked like pain.

He groaned like you’d struck him in the gut, his head snapping up, gold hair sticking to his sweat-drenched brow.

“It’s just you,” he growled. “Only you—gods, my wife—my sweet river girl.”

He bent low, lips finding yours, kissing you hard as he fucked you harder. One hand still braced on the headboard, the other still locked tight around your thigh, holding you in place as he drilled into you with fevered, soaking thrusts. You could hear how wet you were for him—hear it every time his cock slammed back in, thick and heavy, stretching you until your toes curled.

He was trembling now, breath stuttering, voice broken with need.

“So close—so fucking close—gods, tell me you want it—tell me you want me to fill you.”

You nodded fast, clutching at him, gasping against his lips. “I want it—I want you. Give it to me, Jaime—please—please.”

Jaime was shaking above you now—truly shaking, his muscles flexed and locked as he thrust into you with desperate, brutal rhythm, like every inch inside you dragged him closer to the edge of sanity. His hand stayed clenched around the headboard, the wood creaking with each slam of his hips, while the other hand gripped your thigh so tightly your skin ached. He couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop, even as sweat dripped from his temples, even as his jaw tensed like he was in pain from holding back.

“Fuck—fuck, I can’t—” he groaned, his voice breaking into something feral.

“Don’t stop,” you whimpered, back arching, your hands clawing at his waist, at his arms, at anything. “Jaime—please—please give it to me.”

That ruined him.

“Gods,” he gasped, voice raw, wrecked. “You want it? My wife—my sweet, wet little thing—beg me.”

“I’m begging,” you sobbed, your thighs trembling, your body soaked and aching from how deep he was buried. “I want you—I want all of it—please, inside—inside me, Jaime—please—please—”

He slammed into you hard, once, twice, then froze.

And then he broke.

His whole body locked above you, his abs tightening, his teeth bared as the first hot, violent spurt of his release spilled into you. He growled—the sound harsh and stunned—like it hurt to finally let go. His cock jerked inside you, pulse after pulse, pumping you full, soaking you from the inside out as your walls clenched and fluttered around him, milking every last drop of him.

“Fuck—oh fuck—” he choked, trembling through it, voice high, nearly frantic. “So good—so good—I’ve never—never—gods, I can feel it.”

You moaned beneath him, body curling into his, your cunt so sensitive, so wet from everything he gave you that you could feel his seed leak out before he’d even stopped moving.

But he wasn’t done.

He kept thrusting—slow, now—shallow and filthy, pushing his cum deeper inside you, hips still twitching as his body rode the last waves of his climax.

“You wanted this,” he panted, pressing his forehead to yours. “You took it so well—so greedy for it—gods, I don’t want to pull out.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered, your voice soft and ruined. “Stay in me. Fill me again.”

He kissed you—open-mouthed, messy, desperate—and nodded.

“I’ll give you everything,” he whispered against your lips. “Everything.”

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The night crept in slow and heavy, the fire in the hearth reduced to a bed of glowing coals. Shadows danced faintly across the walls of the wedding chamber, long and soft, curling like tendrils across the stone. The air smelled of sweat and sex and sweet rose oil—the scent of a marriage not only sealed, but consumed.

You lay sprawled atop him, your cheek against his chest, his arm draped around your waist with the lazy weight of a man too exhausted to pretend anymore. His hand rested just above the curve of your hip, fingers twitching now and then, as if even in sleep he refused to let go of you. His other hand was tangled in your hair, thumb stroking absently over your scalp. Jaime’s breath was slow. Deep. Peaceful.

Neither of you stirred when the chamber door cracked open.

Cersei moved like a ghost. Silent. Cloaked in black. She had waited for hours. Waited until the moon was high, until the maester had finished his whispers and returned to the Keep, until the guards had yawned and shifted, their attention dulled by late hour and too much wine. She’d spoken to the maidens, all of them. Each said the same thing.

He never left.

She had demanded truth from the steward. From the servants who passed the chamber door. One claimed she’d heard laughter—low and warm—and then quiet murmurs, like lovers breathing each other in.

Now, here she stood. At the edge of the bed.

Watching.

Your red hair spilled like wine across Jaime’s bare chest, one of your legs curled possessively over his. The covers had fallen to his hips, revealing the flush of his skin, the shine of dried sweat still lingering across his abdomen. The mark of you.

Cersei didn’t blink. Her jaw clenched.

You looked soft in sleep. Disarmed. Not like the clever, smiling thing that had teased him in the hall or bowed so sweetly when she asked to cut in. No. Now you looked his. And worse still—he looked yours.

His arm was wrapped around you like instinct. Not habit. Not performance.

“You fool,” she whispered, so quiet it barely left her lips. “You gave yourself away.”

She didn’t cry. Not yet. She only stared.

Because for all the things she’d feared… nothing had prepared her for this. For the way Jaime held you in his sleep. Like you were peace. Like you were home.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

You quickened faster than anyone expected.

The court had only just settled into the comfort of your union when whispers began to spread like ivy between pillars. At first, it was idle talk—sidelong glances at your fuller face, murmurs about how often Ser Jaime’s hand rested at the small of your back, the way his eyes trailed you when you left the room. But by the end of the second moon, the whispers grew teeth. By the third, your gowns—once effortlessly elegant—had begun to shift, your corsets laced looser, your silhouette softening in ways no feast could explain. By the fourth moon, it was undeniable: Lady Lannister was with child.

And Cersei Lannister hated you for it.

She hated you with a venom that festered behind her smile, behind every forced curtsy and every cordial greeting. She watched you across the great hall with wine in her hand and acid in her throat. Watched the way Jaime drifted toward you like gravity itself bent for your comfort. Watched how your hands found his without needing to search. How you smiled up at him, and he smiled down. Always down—softly, privately, like no one else was in the room.

She saw the way his hand slipped around your waist as you walked, how his thumb sometimes brushed over the small swell of your belly like he was trying to remember it, trying to feel the child even before it moved. She watched the way he kissed your temple, your cheek, your hair, in moments no one else seemed to notice—but she did. She always noticed.

It wasn’t just the touch. It wasn’t just the tenderness.

It was the quiet. She could live with passion. She knew how to match fire with fire. But what you and Jaime shared was worse—it was peaceful. It was domestic. It was real.

And then came the moment that undid her.

You were seated together, not even touching—just speaking in low voices, Jaime’s golden head bowed slightly toward yours. You laughed gently, tilting your head with that same unbearable grace you carried everywhere.

“Fisherman Tully,” you teased, a whisper she heard clear as bells. “Still no beard. Still no boat. I suppose I’ll have to keep you.”

Jaime’s smile bloomed slow and warm. He reached for you, fingers cupping your face like it was made of something delicate and rare. His thumb stroked your cheekbone, and he leaned forward until your brows nearly touched.

“Gods help me,” he said, “but I would fish for you.” You flushed, glowing like hearthlight.

Cersei flinched. Physically. She felt it—sharp and hot in her chest, like a brand pressed beneath her ribs.

She turned away quickly, biting down on her wine cup so hard her lip bled. The worst part? You weren’t trying. You weren’t flaunting anything. You were simply… loved. Gently, openly, and without need for performance. She had been everything to him once. And now she was nothing more than his sister.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

It was eight moons into your marriage, and you were round with child—visibly, proudly, undeniably his. Your walk had slowed, your steps heavy with life, but none of that stopped him. Not when you looked at him the way you did. Not when your voice dipped low and teasing, when your fingers brushed his wrist at supper, when you whispered something sweet behind your cup and he smiled like a man undone.

That night, you didn’t make it to the wedding chambers. You barely made it past the corridor.

Cersei had turned a corner in time to see it all—the two of you tangled against the stone wall, just past the curve of the gallery arch, torchlight flickering against golden armor and sapphire silk. Jaime’s hands were on you already—everywhere—gripping beneath your thighs, lifting you as if your swollen belly weighed nothing at all. Your skirts were bunched up around your hips, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, his mouth crushed to yours in a kiss so hungry it bordered on violence.

She froze.

You moaned into his mouth, breathless and soft, and his groan followed—low, guttural, wrecked.

“I couldn’t wait—fuck, I couldn’t wait,” he gasped, pinning you harder against the wall, grinding into you, still fully clothed but undone just enough to thrust deep inside you with wet, obscene sounds that echoed off the stone.

“Jaime—gods, Jaime,” you whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders, head thrown back as he buried himself again. “You shouldn’t—someone could see—”

“Let them,” he grunted. “Let them see you like this. Round with my child, moaning for me, taking me like you were made for it.”

Cersei couldn’t move. Couldn’t blink. Her heart slammed in her chest as she stood in the shadows—watching.

You gasped when he shifted, lifting you higher, your hands flying to his hair as he thrust up into you, messy and deep, the wet sounds between your bodies so lewd, so filthy, it felt like a spell had been cast in the corridor.

“When you have this one,” he groaned against your neck, “my firstborn—you’ll give me another. Gods, I don’t care what it is. Boy, girl—doesn’t matter. Just as long as it’s ours.”

You sobbed softly, legs trembling around his hips.

“You’ll give me three,” he growled. “Four. Fill this keep with little lions that look like you.”

His hand slid to your belly as he fucked you against the stone, reverent and obsessed, his moans growing louder with every thrust, every squeeze of your soaked walls around him. And Cersei—Cersei—stood there hearing it all.

Her fingers shook at her sides. Her mouth opened, but nothing came. Because he already had three children—her children. A son with her jaw. Another with her smile. A daughter named for a dead woman he never even loved.

And he had never said those words to her. Not once.

Not when Joffrey was born. Not when Myrcella wrapped her tiny fingers around his. Not even when Tommen cried in his arms.

“My wife,” he moaned into your mouth. “My sweet river girl.”

Cersei turned away, tears burning, rage swallowing her whole. She needs control, she needed him back.

The next morning came slow and gray, with a hush over the Keep as though the stones themselves were holding their breath.

Cersei waited in the covered walk outside the training yard, where the sun barely touched the stone. She wore no crown, no paint on her lips—only fur draped over her shoulders and her golden hair braided back from her face the way she wore it when she wanted to be disarming. A picture of softness. The illusion of warmth. But there was cold behind her eyes.

She had sent for him before breakfast, a single note with no seal. Jaime had hesitated, standing at the window with the parchment still open in his hand, your body asleep in the bed behind him, belly round beneath furs and sunlight. He didn’t want to leave. But old habits—old loyalties—dragged him from the room.

He found her as she always was when she meant to twist him—silent, poised, patient.

“You look tired,” Cersei said quietly as he approached. Her voice was gentle, too much so. “Is the little trout keeping you up?”

He said nothing at first, just clenched his jaw and stepped into the shadowed arch with her.

“She stirs often,” he said at last. “The child moves a great deal.”

“Hmm,” Cersei hummed, her eyes trailing to his chest, where the collar of his tunic was still crooked from your hands. “That happens in the late moons. They grow restless. Kicking. Turning. Demanding.”

She stepped closer. He didn’t move.

“Has she ever tended a newborn?” she asked, voice light. “Has she seen one gasp for breath with blood still wet between its legs? Or does she think it will arrive sweet and silent, cooing like the doves in her window?”

He glanced at her, a flicker of warning in his eyes. “Why are you saying this?”

Cersei smiled, slow and tired. “Because I remember what it cost to be a mother. You forget. You weren’t there.”

“I wanted to be,” he said.

“And yet you weren’t.”

That silence stretched between them like a blade. She circled him slowly, fingers brushing his arm, his shoulder—touches she used to command him with. He didn’t flinch, but he didn’t lean in.

“You were never made for this, Jaime,” she murmured. “Not for quiet. Not for softness. You are steel. You were born with a sword in your hand and a war in your name.”

He looked away.

“She’ll find out what you are,” Cersei continued, voice like honey and ash. “Not a father. Not a husband. Just a lion with his claws clipped, trying to play house with a girl who dreams of rivers and names her belly love.”

Jaime said nothing. He stared past her. Until her voice lowered, sharper now, closer.

“Will she still smile when she sees what you’ve done? Will she call you Fisherman Tully when the blood runs dry in her sheets and the babe’s cries don’t stop for nights on end? Will she laugh when your patience fails?”

He turned then, something shifting in his face, but before he could speak— A voice echoed down the corridor.

“Oh! My fish!”

Jaime froze. His body turned instinctively toward the sound, and Cersei’s hand slipped from his arm like it had never belonged there at all.

You stood at the far end of the hall, wrapped in a simple cloak, your hair half-braided, loose strands curling around your cheeks. You moved slowly, carefully, but your smile—your smile was bright enough to chase away the fog of her voice.

“I thought you were at Robert’s door,” you said, breathless from the walk. “I missed you, I hate waking up without you.”

You waddled forward with one hand cradling your belly, the other reaching for him. Jaime met you halfway. Without thinking. Without hesitation. His hand slid around your waist, his lips brushed your temple, and his other hand instinctively covered the swell of your stomach like it belonged there.

Cersei watched it all, silent. Stone.

“What’s wrong?” you whispered up at him, your palm resting over his heart.

He exhaled slowly, then smiled—small and broken and true.

“Nothing, my river girl,” he murmured. “Just spoke with my sister. She always knows how to damper a mood.”

You tilted your head and chuckled gently. “That is what siblings are for. Edmure would purposely ruin my mood before my favorite meal.” You giggled.

You pressed your face against his chest, and he kissed the top of your head like he couldn’t bear to let go. Cersei turned then, the hem of her cloak snapping as she walked away—not fast, but hollow.

She had three children by him. She had given him a dynasty in secret. But you? You had his peace.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The moons passed faster than anyone could hold them.

Your daughter—Elia Lannister—was born just after dawn on a morning soaked in gold. The air had been warm that day, and the bells had rung not for death, but for life. A bright, shining life. The halls of the Red Keep had swelled with laughter, the scent of lavender still clinging to your skin, Jaime’s joy so radiant that even the oldest servants said they hadn’t seen him smile like that since he was a boy.

She was beautiful from the moment she was placed on your chest. Dark strawberry-blonde hair, soft as down, skin warm and flushed, her little eyes squinting up at the light as if even the world dared not blind her. She was loud, too—cried fiercely when she didn’t like the cold water or the way her father took too long to bundle her. But in your arms, she softened. And in Jaime’s arms, she shined.

He named her himself.

“Elia,” he whispered, holding her so carefully, his hand cradling her entire back. “Elia Lannister.”

You had blinked in surprise, but when you looked at his face—at the guilt and softness and something mournful buried beneath the pride—you said nothing. You only kissed his cheek and said,

“Then Elia she is.”

The first moon after her birth passed in warmth and quiet joy. You healed slowly, the maester pleased with your progress, your appetite returning, your sleep only interrupted by Elia’s whimpers in the night. Jaime was often there, even when he had duties. He’d return to find her in your arms, asleep against your breast, and he’d kneel beside the bed just to press his lips to her hair.

“You’ve made me into something else,” he whispered to you once, late at night, when the fire had burned low. “Something I never thought I could be.”

But peace in the Red Keep never lasted long.

In the second moon, the winds shifted.

Whispers crept through the corridors—nothing certain, nothing official. Then came the messenger ravens from the Vale, then the locked doors, the urgent meetings. Then came the silence.

Jaime was called away more frequently. He never told you much when he returned, only that the King was restless, that Cersei had taken to pacing the halls again at night, that something was coming. And still, you tried to keep your world small. Focused. Your child. Your husband. The sound of Elia’s breathing as she napped on your chest. The smell of pine oil and old wood in the nursery.

Then, near the end of the second moon—

The bells rang again.

But not for life this time.

Not for joy.

They rang for death.

Jon Arryn, Hand of the King, Warden of the East, was dead.

The announcement echoed through the Keep with a force that made the tapestries tremble. You had just laid Elia down in her crib when the thunderous chime struck, and you felt it in your chest before you even heard the words.

Jaime came to you that night with his jaw tight, his eyes unreadable.

He looked older than he had the day before.

“He’s dead,” he said simply.

You sat on the edge of the bed, still in your nightdress, your hair braided loosely down your back. Elia stirred in the cradle, but did not cry.

“So it begins,” you whispered. And it did.

Everything moved quickly after that. Too quickly. Faster than a new mother could bear. Faster than a husband could stand.

Robert demanded a feast. He demanded new banners be sewn. He demanded Ned Stark. The North was to send its wolf to court.

And Jaime? Jaime didn’t leave your side that night. Not once. “The world is spinning,” he said, lying beside you, his hand on your belly where Elia once rested.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The corridor outside your chambers had barely gone silent when Jaime threw the door open without knocking. He was seething, jaw clenched, fists tight at his sides from the moment Robert left the council room. His words echoing,

“Congratulations on your babe,” Robert had said, voice booming with false warmth, “even though our congratulations are short-lived. I need you to travel north with me. We leave at the turn of the first moon.”

It wasn’t a request. It was a command. And Jaime had no say in the matter.

By the time he reached your chambers, the wet nurse had taken Elia for her night feeding. You hated the arrangement, loathed the distance, but Jaime had begged you to rest. Promised it would only be for a few nights. Promised he’d be near.

Now, he was.

The door shut hard behind him. Jaime kicked off his boots like a man starved of gentleness and made his way to your bed, where you’d just begun to drift into the first real sleep you’d had in days.

“Jaime?” you stirred softly.

He didn’t answer—not with words. He climbed into bed and reached for you with a need that bordered on desperation, mouth already pressing against yours, hard and fast.

“My fish—” you tried to speak, but he kissed you again, deeper this time. His hands were warm and trembling slightly as they cupped your face.

“I’ve been deprived,” he groaned against your mouth, every word drenched in want. “The maester said you’ve healed. Tell me. Tell me you want me. Tell me I have permission to enter you…to feel you.”

His forehead rested against yours, breaths tangled, golden hair brushing your cheek. There was something unsteady in his voice, like he was trying not to fall apart.

“Of course you do,” you whispered, fingers threading into his hair.

But before the sentence could finish, he kissed you again—hungrier now. Mouth slanted over yours, swallowing every word, every breath. His hands roamed slowly, reverently, like he was rediscovering you inch by inch.

“I need you,” he murmured, voice breaking as his lips traced along your jaw. “Before they take me from this. From you. From the only thing that’s ever felt like home.”

You felt the weight of it then—not just lust, not just need. It was grief for the time you wouldn’t have. Fury that Robert was stealing him away, that duty still dragged him by the throat. And love. Gods, so much love it hurt to breathe through it. “What’s going on Jamie?” You whispered

Your legs tangled beneath the sheets as you pulled him closer.

The breath he let out—gutted, raw—hitched in his throat like it hurt to hold it. Jaime buried his face in your neck, his weight sinking down over you, one hand braced above your head on the carved wood of the bed, the other sliding beneath your thigh to hitch it up around his hip.

He wasn’t patient tonight.

His movements were frantic, but reverent. The kind of aching that only came from nights spent watching, waiting, too afraid to touch you while you healed, while your body ached from the beauty you brought into the world. Now, he had you—cleared by the maester, no longer fragile in the ways that had terrified him.

“Mine,” he whispered into your skin, dragging his mouth down your neck like a man who’d been parched for moons. “You’re mine—gods, tell me—say it.”

Your hand twisted in his hair, pulling gently. “Yours. Always yours.”

That broke something in him.

He groaned so softly it sounded like prayer, hips rolling as he found you again for the first time in weeks. The stretch drew a gasp from your throat, your spine arching under him. He cursed under his breath, forehead pressing to yours as he held still, just for a moment, trembling.

“Gods, you’re still so—” He couldn’t finish the sentence, only whimpered against your lips as your name fell from him like a sin.

You kissed him through it. Softly. Desperately. He tasted like longing, like a man running out of time.

He moved with aching tenderness at first—hips rocking, slow and deliberate, like he was memorizing you. Then faster. Messier. His grip on your thigh tightened, his fingers digging into your skin as he pushed deeper, overwhelmed by the sounds you made, the way your hand slid down to feel where your bodies joined.

“Don’t—don’t do that,” he breathed, jaw clenched, voice shaking. “I’ll—gods, I’ll lose it.”

You smiled, breathless. “Then lose it. You’re not going anywhere tonight.”

He kissed you again, but this time he broke apart mid-kiss, the rhythm of his hips faltering.

“Say it again,” he gasped, panting into your mouth. “That I’m not going anywhere. That I can stay here. With you. That you love me.”

“I love you,” you said between the thrusts, each one deeper than the last. “I love you, Jaime. I love you—I’ll wait for you, but gods, I wish they didn’t have to take you.”

He moaned so loudly at that, shameless and desperate, his fingers curling into the headboard as he held himself above you. “I’ll give you another,” he gasped, mouth at your ear. “Another child, I swear it—Elia won’t be the only one—”

Fucking gods—” he groaned into your mouth, voice hoarse and broken. “Missed you—missed this—missed you, my sweet girl, my fish—”

You whimpered into him, nails dragging down his back as he pressed you into the mattress, pace already desperate. He couldn’t hold still. Couldn’t think. His hands were everywhere—your waist, your breast, your thigh slung high around his hip as he ground deep, chasing that ache that had haunted him every night he lay alone in his chambers.

“Say it,” he gasped. “Say you missed me. Say you’re mine.”

“I missed you,” you whispered between moans, lips swollen, eyes wet. “I’m yours, Jaime—I’ve always been yours.”

His groan cracked in his throat. He kissed you too hard, too fast, teeth knocking together before he dragged his mouth down to your jaw, your neck, sucking until you gasped and clung to him tighter. Every thrust was sloppy, hungry, his forehead pressed against yours as he rutted into you like a man starving.

“Come with me,” he begged, voice shaking. “To the North—fuck—I’ll take you with me, Elia too, we’ll ride behind Robert—I’ll get a carriage, I’ll—gods, please.”

“Jaime—” you tried, but he didn’t let you finish.

“You hate the wet nurse,” he groaned, dragging his hand between your bodies to thumb at your clit. “And I can’t sleep without you, I—need you.”

You were pulsing around him now, your walls fluttering tight. He felt it, nearly collapsed from it.

“Say yes,” he moaned, losing all rhythm. “Say yes, fuck, please—I’ll keep you warm, I’ll build you a bath from snow and rocks if I have to, just—just don’t stay behind.”

Your lips trembled. “I’m scared to travel with her so young.”

“Then let me carry her. I’ll do it all—fuck, I’ll wear her on my chest like a milkmaid if it means you’ll come. Just don’t—don’t leave me here like this.”

He was close, so close, fucking into you like he could drag the answer from your body. You clung to him, kissed him, moaned his name with every breath.

“Please come,” he whispered, his voice breaking, his mouth crushed to your cheek. “I can’t leave without you.”

That was when you tightened, crying out his name as the pleasure crashed over you—hot and helpless, thighs trembling around his hips as he pushed as deep as he could and spilled into you with a moan that nearly broke you in two.

He didn’t move after. Just held you there, buried inside, shaking from the force of it.

“I’ll ask Robert,” he whispered, breathless. “I’ll beg him if I have to.”

Your hands brushed his hair back. Your legs were around his waist, ankles crossed behind him as he drove into you with rough, trembling thrusts. He was everywhere—breath on your neck, hand fisting the headboard, the other holding your thigh so tight it’d bruise. The bed creaked loud, rhythm uneven, like he’d been denied for years not weeks.

“Say yes,” he groaned again, panting into your shoulder. “Say you’ll come north with me—say it—please gods say it—”

Your fingers threaded through his hair, dragging him closer as your hips tilted up to meet every thrust.

“I—Jaime—” you gasped, words caught on a moan as his cock hit deep, too deep, just the way you liked.

“Say it,” he begged again, voice cracking. “You—you’re mine, not Robert’s court, not this castle—me. Come with me. Let me keep you close—fuck—I can’t breathe without you.”

He was shaking. Desperate. The wet sounds of your bodies filled the room, your slick soaking his cock as he rutted harder, rougher, hips slapping into you with no grace left. Just need.

“I’ll build a tent,” he whispered wildly, biting your jaw. “A whole fucking tower of snow if I have to, just—say you’ll come. I’ll take Elia. I’ll guard you both with my fucking life, I swear it—”

“Yes,” you gasped, eyes fluttering shut. “Yes, I’ll go—Jaime—I’ll go with you—gods, don’t stop—” He groaned like a wounded animal. Everything in him buckled.

“Fuck, fuck, my girl,” he choked, kissing you like he was drowning, thrusts suddenly frantic, pace ruined. “You’ll come with me—you’ll stay with me—say it again—”

“Yes—yes—I said yes!” you sobbed against his lips, legs shaking as he drove you toward the edge.

“That’s it, that’s my good girl—fuck—my wife, my fucking wife—” You fell apart with a cry, pulsing so hard around him he nearly collapsed, fucking through your high with curses and whimpers. He didn’t last another second. “Mine—mine—mine,” he moaned, voice low and broken as he spilled into you with a sob, burying himself as deep as he could go. “You’re coming with me, sweet girl—you’re mine.”

When it was done, he didn’t move. Just lay there shaking, still inside you, whispering your name over and over.

“I’ll tell Robert tomorrow,” he said against your neck. “You’re coming with me. Our daughter too. We ride north… as a family.”

Your thighs still trembled as you curled against him, breath hot against his chest, one hand draped lazily over his heart. His seed still inside you, sticky and warm, a mess neither of you cared to clean yet. His body hadn’t moved far, still draped half over yours like he was afraid you might disappear if he gave you space.

“When do we leave?” you murmured, voice hoarse and soft, edged with the ache of being stretched for the first time in moons.

He sighed, almost guiltily, as he brushed sweat-slick hair from your cheek.

“A moon. Maybe two.” His voice was low, gentle now that the desperation had passed. “Preparing to ride north is no easy feat. Horses, wagons, guards—it’ll take five weeks just to reach Winterfell.”

You shifted under him, heart skipping, and he saw it in your eyes. The flicker of doubt, the ache of new motherhood, the fear of leaving the only home you’ve known—of dragging a baby through snow and dirt and gods-know-what. Your face faltered, just a little.

And he panicked.

“No—my girl,” he said quickly, voice breaking as he cupped your face again, kissed your lips like a promise. “Don’t take it back. Don’t let fear ruin what we just—don’t, please—”

You blinked, but he kept going, nose brushing yours, thumb dragging across your bottom lip.

“It’ll be comfortable. I swear it. I’ll make it so. You won’t lift a finger. I’ll get a nurse for Elia, extra cloaks, furs, a litter if I have to carry you both like queens.” He kissed you again. “You’ll have your own tent, with a fire. With blankets. With me. I’ll keep you warm. I’ll keep you safe.”

“Jaime—”

“No more courts. No more hiding. I want to fall asleep with you every night and wake up to Elia’s cry. I want to sit by a fire and brush your hair. I want to be a father in front of the world and call you mine without shame.”

Your fingers curled against his jaw.

“You’ll hate the cold,” you whispered, smiling faintly.

“I’d eat snow if it meant I could have you beside me.” He kissed your forehead, a different kind of reverent now. “Just… don’t leave me there. Don’t let them take you from me.”

You leaned up, kissing him slow and certain.

“I already said yes, didn’t I?” His eyes shut like that yes was a prayer.

───── ♛ ─── ⚔️ Lannister ⚔️ ───── ♛ ────

The morning air clung soft and cool against the stone corridors, the hush of a castle slowly waking. You stood in the sun-drenched gallery near the window alcove, swaying gently with your babe in your arms—little Elia curled against your chest, drowsy from her morning feed, her fingers clutching your gown with milky satisfaction. You hummed under your breath, a river song your father used to sing on storm-heavy nights.

Your other hand rested low on your belly, already heavy with your second child.

A moon ago, you’d begun to swell again. Three moons after birthing Elia, and the gods had quickened you once more—much to the shock of the midwives and the rage that roiled behind Cersei’s perfect smile. You’d hardly left the birthing bed before Jaime had put another child in you. And it showed.

Your cheeks glowed, your skin dewed with that soft fullness that came with being wanted, kept, loved. Every corner of you was bloomed and softened. Jaime hadn’t stopped touching you since.

Tyrion, leaning on the edge of a carved table, raised his goblet with a smirk. “You know, you’re becoming quite the legend in court. Some say you’re carrying the fourth lion already. Others say you’re a witch who’s bewitched my brother.”

You smiled over Elia’s curls. “Only a fool would believe it took witchcraft. I simply loved him. That was enough.”

Tyrion hummed and toasted your honesty. “And he worships you for it. That’s rarer than magic in this place.”

From the far end of the gallery, Jaime stood listening—half-shadowed, arms crossed, his eyes not on Tyrion but you. The way you leaned into the light. The way your smile bloomed just for his brother. He trusted you, but still, something curled hot and green in his gut.

“Talking to our brother again?” Cersei’s voice cut like a blade. She’d come from the other hall, her steps soft as a snake. “You’ll see her old lover soon enough.”

Jaime didn’t look at her.

“She loved him to death,” Cersei continued, soft, serpentine. “Benjen Stark. The one who took the Black. She cried when he took the oath. I remember—gods, the way she wept.”

He finally turned. “Stop.”

She smiled, too wide. “What? You’ve knocked her up again—twice in one year, Jaime. Shouldn’t you know who you’re breeding with? Or would you rather be surprised if the next one’s born with Northern eyes?”

His jaw clenched. Across the room, your laugh floated up at something Tyrion had said, and Elia cooed.

“You’re vile,” Jaime said low.

“She’s a Tully,” Cersei hissed. “They drown in emotion. You think she’s forgotten him?”

But her words melted away when you looked over your shoulder, catching Jaime’s eye. Your smile was soft, tired, glowing. You mouthed something to him.

“Come”

He was already moving before Cersei even blinked.

He left her there, fuming behind her perfect hair, her hands clenched so tight the knuckles went white. She needed him back, she needed him to see that it was only her.

[perkqularkreashions]

The Wolf’s Rock

SUMMARY:: requested: Tywin Lannister is married to the wild sister of Ned Stark.

WARNINGS: Explicit Content, p in v, oral, multiple times, pregnancy trope (sorry, I love a good pregnancy trope), Robert being him. Cersei and Jamie twincest mention.

AN: I really like this idea, I have a few more ideas tied into this one, alsooooo, I have a Celtigar reader insert dropping soon and I really hope you guys like that one too!

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The Rock rose all around you, a fortress of red and gold, yet in the chambers of the Lord of Casterly Rock the air felt close and heavy. A fire guttered low, throwing long shadows across carved lion-shaped pillars. You sat astride your husband, the Lion himself, your skin flushed from his touch. Tywin Lannister was undone in a way the realm would never believe: his hair mussed, his broad chest bare, his eyes fixed on you with a hunger he would never confess aloud. His hand clamped hard upon your waist as though to hold you there forever, while your fingers curled possessively about the strong column of his neck.

“Husband,” you breathed, lips curving into a slow smile, “my brother has sent word.”

Tywin’s voice was low, dangerous even here, in this moment of intimacy. “What is it? He wages war again?”

“Not war,” you whispered, wild hair spilling across your shoulders like a wolf’s mane. “Ned has never been so foolish. He had joined Robert’s cause in the Rebellion long ago. He is my Quiet Wolf, The realm knows this. But he writes now…to say he would see the babe. And me. His glorious sister once again.”

His mouth pressed thin, his pale eyes glinting as a blade unsheathed. “Would he? And where, pray, does he propose this tender reunion?”

“In the North,” you answered, soft as snow falling. “At Winterfell.”

Tywin’s hand tightened on your waist until you drew a sharp breath. “No.” The word came swift and cold.

You laughed low in your throat, leaning closer, pressing your forehead to his. “No? You speak as though my brother were some common foe, and not the blood that made me.”

“Your blood is wolf,” he said, cruel as ever, “and wolves snarl at lions until their throats are torn. Do you think Stark invites us north for feasting and song? He despises me. He despises the gold that binds you here.”

“And still,” you murmured, lips grazing his ear, “I wish you to come. I wish him to look upon us — upon me, upon our son — and see I am not cowed. I am wife to the greatest lord in Westeros.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, but there was no true fire behind them, only thought, calculation. His voice lacked the conviction it once carried. “The North is barren stone and bitter snow. I have no need of it.”

“Yet I have need of you,” you said, with the stubbornness only a Stark could wield. “If I go alone, he will see me as stolen. If I go with you, he will see me as chosen. Let him learn that I have not been broken, nor kept in some gilded cage.”

Tywin tilted his head, studying you as though weighing a battle yet unfought. His hand slid up your spine, fingers threading into your wild hair. “You would drag me into that frozen waste to play at happy kinship with a man who would put a sword through my heart, given half a chance.”

“You will not die by Ned’s sword,” you replied fiercely. “He would sooner cut his own hand. He loves me too well.”

Silence stretched, long and taut. At last he exhaled, a sound almost like a growl, his mouth brushing the corner of yours.

“You play a dangerous game, wife,” Tywin said. “But perhaps it is time the wolves remembered that lions do not yield.”

The chamber soon smelled of fire and sea-salt, the great waves crashing below the Rock as if to remind you of the world beyond those golden walls. The hearth burned low, gilding his bare skin in red light. You sat astride him still, hair wild as a storm-tossed wolf’s mane, your lips close enough to taste the sharpness of his breath. His hand clamped to your waist, bruising, unrelenting; his eyes, pale and green, never wavered from you.

The conversation had dissolved, “Husband,” you whispered.

“Wife?” His voice was low, heavy, as though he already dreaded what you would say.

“Say you love me,” you breathed, tilting your head, wild smile tugging your mouth. “I would like to hear it once, before I die a tragic death.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. “You will not die.”

“I might,” you teased, with the drama only a Stark could muster in the face of lions. “The gods are cruel, war is crueler. One day I may find myself speared, or cast from a tower, or slain in my bed. Say it once, husband. Let me die knowing you loved me.”

His eyes narrowed, fierce and wounded all at once. “Do not mock me with your foolish tongue. You know what I feel.”

“I know what you command,” you answered, pressing closer, your hand cupping his neck. “I know what you hold. But what you feel? That you never say.”

His hand shifted, sliding up your spine, fingers curling into your wild hair. He dragged your head back just enough to force your gaze into his.

“Words are wind,” he said, voice low and sharp. “Love is not a vow murmured into the night. It is a hand that holds fast, a will that does not falter. It is this.” His grip tightened, keeping you there, bound to him. “I would sooner let the Rock crumble into the sea than let you go.”

Your lips curved into a defiant grin. “You say everything but the words, husband.”

“Then be content with that,” Tywin growled, though the sound was almost a plea. His mouth brushed the line of your throat, rare softness breaking through the steel. “You are mine, wife. That is love enough.”

You laughed softly, leaning down until your lips brushed his ear. “One day, when I am old and grey, I shall haunt you as a wolf-spirit for never saying it plain.”

Tywin’s hand slid to the small of your back, drawing you against him with bruising need. “One day,” he muttered against your skin, “you may force the word from me. But not tonight.”

The fire burned low in the hearth, throwing your tangled hair into a crown of wild shadow. You sat astride him, your hands cupped at his neck, his pale eyes drinking you in as though he might never look away. The gold lions carved into the chamber walls seemed to leer down in judgment, but here, in this chair, he was not the great Lord of Casterly Rock. He was only your husband, undone beneath your touch.

“Fine,” you sighed, dramatic as only a wolf-maid could be, and loosened your grip on him. “I shall leave, then. Find love elsewhere, if my lion cannot speak the word.”

You made to rise from his lap, but his hand clamped down on your waist with a bruising force. His voice came rough, low, edged with something perilously close to panic.

“You will not leave.”

Your lips curved, sly, testing. “You said you would not follow. Perhaps another man would, with softer words—”

That was as far as you got before he hauled you down against him, teeth bared in something not quite a snarl, not quite a kiss. His mouth claimed yours with the desperation of a man who could not abide losing. His hands—always so steady, so sure—shook faintly as they gripped your hips, dragging you down until you felt all of him, hard and unyielding.

“You will not speak of other men,” Tywin hissed against your lips. “Not in this chamber. Not ever. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, husband,” you whispered, voice taunting, your hair spilling into his face.

“Say it again.”

“Yes, husband.”

He groaned low in his throat, lifting you and driving you back down upon him with a force that made your breath break. The rhythm began rough, punishing, his jealousy spilling into every thrust, as though he meant to brand you from the inside out. Yet beneath the fury was something deeper, something wordless, a truth he would never name.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, wild and untamed as your own. “Is this how you cage a wolf?” you gasped.

“This is how I keep what is mine,” he rasped, dragging your mouth down to his again. “You are mine, wife. There is no elsewhere for you. No other hands, no other bed. Only this.”

The words poured from him in place of the one you craved: not love, never love, but possession, devotion carved in iron. His lips found your throat, your breast, your shoulder, each kiss fierce as a claim. The chair groaned beneath the violence of his need, yet he never loosened his grip on your waist, as though the very thought of you rising away would unman him.

Your pace met his, stubborn and wild, turning the rhythm from conquest into battle. He tried to command, to hold, but you met him stroke for stroke, defiance in every gasp, every shudder. He cursed you, low and hoarse, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat dampening his unkempt hair.

“Gods damn you,” Tywin groaned, his voice breaking in a way the court would never know. “You’ll be the ruin of me. Do you know that?”

You were astride him still, your hair wild and unpinned, your hand curled about his neck, his pale eyes fixed unblinking on yours. The lions carved into the chair pressed cold against your skin, but Tywin was hot beneath you, taut with a fury he could not name.

“Say you love me,” you whispered against his mouth.

His answer was a growl, a sharp snap of his hips that made you gasp. “Do not ask me again.”

“Say it,” you demanded, defiant even as your body arched to his. “Say it once, husband. Is it so difficult?”

Another thrust, harder, deeper, until your breath shattered. His grip bruised your waist as he dragged you down. “What I feel does not need a name. You will know it here.” His hands tightened, his voice low, cutting through your moans. “Every time I take you. Every time I hold you fast. This is love enough.”

You laughed breathlessly, though it broke into a whimper as he drove into you again. “You think thrusts are words?”

“They are stronger than words,” Tywin bit back, sweat dampening the strands of his usually ordered hair. “Words are wind. This is truth.” He snapped his hips again, each movement deliberate, punishing. “Mine. Mine. Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasped, clawing at his shoulders. “But husband—”

“No.” He cut you off with another deep, brutal rhythm, his hand threading into your hair, pulling your head back so he could see your face, hear every broken sound you made. “No more foolish questions, no more childish pleas. I will not prattle like a bard.” His lips brushed your throat, your jaw, your ear. “I give you myself in deed. That is more than any vow.”

Your nails dug into him, half in defiance, half in surrender. “You are cruel,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “Too proud to give me the word.”

His jaw clenched, his breath hot against your cheek. “Cruel?” His pace slowed suddenly, each thrust long, deliberate, dragging fire through your body. “Cruel is letting you think there is any man alive who would dare take you from me. Cruel is what I would do to him, if he tried.” His hand cupped the back of your neck, forcing you to meet his eyes. “You are bound, wife. In blood, in bed, in every breath you take. Do not speak of leaving me again.”

The rhythm built again, faster now, his jealousy bleeding through every movement, his body claiming you with more eloquence than any sonnet could.

“Say you love me,” you whispered one last time, your voice breaking under the force of him.

His answer came in a ragged groan, his forehead pressed to yours, his thrusts near desperate now. “I will say it in the only way I can.” His mouth captured yours, brutal and bruising, his hand clutching your waist like iron. “I will say it until you can no longer speak at all.”

Your body moved with his, the rhythm sharp and relentless, yet you found your tongue even as your breath caught. “I only want you to say it once, husband,” you gasped, your lips brushing his ear. “Is it so much to ask?”

He gave you nothing but another punishing thrust, his jaw hard, his eyes burning.

You smiled, wicked as any wolf. “Perhaps your son, Tyrion would say it. I see it, the way he looks at me—”

His grip turned brutal, your gasp breaking as his pace snapped faster, fiercer. “Do not speak of him. Not here.”

“Or Robert,” you taunted, though your voice shook with the force of him. “He would drunkenly say it until his ears fell off—”

Tywin’s mouth crushed yours, silencing you with a kiss more savage than tender, his teeth grazing your lower lip. When he pulled back his breath came ragged. “If Robert Baratheon so much as breathed the word in your direction, I would spill his entrails on the floor of his hall.”

You laughed breathlessly, even as you clung to his shoulders, you moaned loudly, as drove deeper into you. “And the Dornish prince…he was—”

The growl that broke from him shook through you. His hands seized your hips, slamming you down upon him with such force that the chair itself groaned. “Enough. No Dornishman, no king, no son, no man alive will claim you. Only me. Do you hear?”

“Then say it,” you whispered, your voice breaking into a whimper. “Say the word I beg for.”

His thrusts slowed suddenly, deep and measured, drawing pleasure out until your cry caught in your throat. His forehead pressed to yours, his voice low, almost tender. “I will not cheapen it with sound. I will show you. I will carve it into your bones with every breath I take inside you.”

You trembled, half in defiance, half undone by the way he said it — not love, never love, but everything else.

“Say it,” you pleaded again, your wild hair tangling with his.

His lips brushed your jaw, then your throat, his words hot against your skin. “No one else. No one. You are mine, wife. That is the only truth that matters.”

The rhythm built again, furious then soft, possession tempered with a tenderness he would deny come morning. He talked you through every movement, each thrust a vow unspoken: mine, mine, mine.

And though he never gave you the word, you felt it burn hotter than any flame, in the way he held you, in the way he broke against you, in the way he would not let you go.

Your laugh was breathless, your hair wild as the waves crashing against the cliffs beneath the Rock. You arched against him, your lips brushing his ear as your smirk curled sharp as a dagger.

“I will never say it to you again,” you moaned softly, the words rolling off your tongue like a taunt.

He stilled. Not entirely — his body still moved within you, but the rhythm faltered, slowed, softened, betraying him. His pale eyes fixed on you, hard as glass, yet flickering with something else, something dangerous.

“Do not,” Tywin said, his voice ragged, “do not mock me so.”

Your smile only deepened, though your moans caught as he rocked into you slow and deep, dragging fire through every nerve. “Am I mocking you? Or am I only speaking truth? If you will not say it, then why should I?”

His grip on your waist trembled, not from weakness but from restraint. You felt it — the crack in his armor, the word trembling on the edge of his tongue, held back by sheer force of will.

“Say it,” you whispered, cupping his jaw, forcing him to meet your gaze. “Once, husband. Give me what I beg of you.”

His thrusts grew languid, torturous, each one slow enough to make your body writhe. His lips hovered at your throat, his breath hot, uneven. “You…you know already. Gods damn you, you know.”

“But I want to hear it,” you sighed, your smirk faltering into something softer, needier. “You have given me gold, a son, your name, but never the word. Am I so unworthy?”

His forehead pressed to yours, his hair damp, his eyes burning with war between pride and surrender. His mouth opened, the shape of it forming against your lips, almost —

Almost.

Then his jaw clenched, his teeth gritted, and instead of the word he groaned into your mouth, breaking against you in silence. His body gave you everything, every thrust, every tremor, every shred of himself, but the word died on his tongue.

When it was done, when the fire of it left your body trembling, he gathered you against him, still inside you, his hand in your hair.

His voice was hoarse when he finally spoke: “Do not ever say such things again. You will not speak of leaving. You will not speak of other men. You are mine. That is the only vow you will ever need.”

You smirked faintly, though your voice was little more than a breath. “One day, husband. One day you will say it.”

His eyes flickered, soft for the span of a heartbeat, before hardening once more. “Pray that day never comes. For if it does, it will be the end of us both.”

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Dawn broke over Casterly Rock, pale light seeping through the high windows, gilding the chamber in muted gold. The cries of gulls carried in from the sea below, harsh and distant.

You stirred beneath furs, hair still tangled, and turned to the sight that stole the breath from your chest. Tywin Lannister stood tall at the hearth, bare save for the crimson cloak thrown hastily about his shoulders. In his arms, he held your son.

Five moons old, dark hair like a raven’s wing already curling at his temples, grey eyes sharp as any Stark’s before him. No lion’s golden mane, no Lannister green gaze. He was Winterfell’s child, Winterfell’s son — despite the blood that carried him south.

Tywin’s hand, so often wielding quill or sword with unshaking precision, curved now around the babe’s small body. He held the boy firm, steady, as though daring the world itself to challenge his claim.

“Steady your head,” he murmured under his breath, adjusting the infant with surprising gentleness. “A lord does not bow, even in his mother’s arms.”

Your smile came unbidden. Always commanding, even now. Even to the smallest life he had made with you.

Servants bustled about the chamber. At his orders, food was set, horses readied, gold counted, guards doubled. The Lion of the Rock never faltered; his voice cut clear, his commands brooked no question. Yet you watched him closely, saw what no bannerman ever would — the way his arm never shifted far from your son, the way his eyes flicked back to the boy as though to anchor himself.

You knew then, as you had known in the firelit night, that he would go North. That your words had lodged deep, thorn-sharp, in the pride of him. He was jealous — of Robert’s drunken longing, of Tyrion’s wandering eyes, of every man who had dared to glance your way. He would not admit it, but it burned in him all the same.

Always jealous. Always yours.

And so you smiled to yourself, drawing the furs close, watching the most powerful man in Westeros cradle a Stark son as if the boy were the heart of the realm.

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The solar smelled of ink, wax, and parchment. Sunlight cut in narrow beams through the high windows, glinting off the golden lions worked into every surface. At the far end, your son slept in a cradle newly built at Tywin’s command — oak inlaid with gold, the lion of Lannister snarling across its sides. Lion pride, you thought with a smile, and for all its grandeur there was sweetness in it too: the most calculating man in Westeros had wanted his child close, even in the seat of his power.

Tywin sat at his desk, quill scratching, pale eyes sweeping line after line with the hunger of a man who had never known leisure. His hair, washed and combed back to its proper order, gleamed like pale fire in the morning light.

“Tell me, wife,” he said, his voice low, controlled, never lifting his gaze from the parchment.

You leaned against the carved pillar, your smile sly, your hair still unpinned. “Tell you what, my sweet lion?” you whispered, drawing out the words.

The quill stilled a moment, just the faintest pause, but he did not look up. “You know well enough.”

You drifted toward him, hips swaying beneath your gown, soft steps meant to tease. “Do I?” you asked, voice mocking in its sweetness. “Am I to guess at the secret cravings of the Lord of Casterly Rock?”

His jaw shifted, clenched. His eyes did not rise. “Do not toy with me.”

You came to stand at his side, hand resting upon his shoulder, fingers slipping into the folds of his crimson cloak. “Toy with you?” You bent, lips brushing the line of his jaw, the scent of parchment and ink mingling with his skin. “No, husband. I only wish to please you.”

“Then say it,” he muttered, the mask of command fraying for but a heartbeat. His hand tightened on the quill until the feather bent. “Say it, and be done with your games.”

You smiled against his skin, pressing a kiss to the hollow beneath his ear. “You want it too much,” you whispered. “You crave it more than you admit. That is why I will not give it yet.”

At that his quill snapped, ink spilling across the parchment. His head turned sharply, pale eyes finally catching yours. The fire in them was near desperation, though his mouth twisted into disdain.

“You are a cruel woman,” Tywin said.

“Cruel?” you echoed, brushing your nose against his, your lips hovering a breath away. “No, husband. Only a wolf. And wolves do not yield so easily to lions, no matter how they roar.”

From the cradle, your son stirred faintly, and for a moment the room held nothing but the sound of his small breath. Tywin’s eyes flicked to the boy, then back to you. His hand rose, cupping the side of your face with a roughness that bordered on tenderness.

“You will say it,” he vowed, voice rough, low, as though the words cost him dearly. “One day, wife. You will break, and you will say it.”

You kissed him then, slow and taunting, tasting the edge of his pride. “Perhaps, my lion. But not today.”

The quill snapped between his fingers, black ink bleeding across his parchment like a wound. He did not move to clean it, only stared at you with that pale, unblinking fury that was not truly fury at all.

You gave him a wolf’s smile, daring, and began to drift back toward the cradle, toward the door beyond. Your skirts whispered across the stone as though you had dismissed him from his own solar. But before you could pass the threshold, his voice cut low and sharp.

“Where are you going?”

You turned, slow and languid, tilting your head. “Away. If you will not say it, then what is left for me here?”

His hand slammed flat upon the desk, the crack echoing off golden walls. Your son stirred faintly in the cradle, but did not wake. Tywin’s gaze followed you, taut as a bowstring.

“Come back,” he ordered.

You laughed softly, wild and sweet. “Commanding, always commanding.” You stepped closer again, eyes glinting as you leaned against the pillar. “I want to hear it first, husband. Say it, and I will give you what you want.”

His breath came heavier, though he masked it with stillness. “You dare barter with me?”

“I dare,” you whispered, the word a challenge. “You would have me speak, but you never do. I am not some bannerman to obey your wordless will. Give me truth, or I will withhold mine.”

His chair scraped back as he rose, taller than the pillar, every inch the lion. In two strides he had you caged between stone and his body, his hand at your chin, forcing your eyes to his.

“You think I cannot break you,” Tywin said, voice low, dangerous, his body pressing you into the cold pillar. “You think I need words to hold you. But you are wrong, wife. You are mine without them.”

You smiled against his grip, lips curling sly. “And yet, I still ask. Still taunt. Perhaps you are not so certain as you pretend.”

His eyes darkened, narrowing. “I will not speak it.”

“Then I will not either,” you breathed, your lips brushing his knuckles where they held your chin. “And we shall see who breaks first.”

His mouth came down on yours then, hard, furious, yet shaking with the need he denied. His other hand gripped your waist, pulling you against him, already betraying that he would give in to you before he ever gave you the word.

The cradle creaked softly as your son stirred again, the carved lions glinting in the sunlight. Tywin broke the kiss only long enough to mutter, rough and ragged:

“You will say it, wife. One day, you will beg to say it.”

And you laughed softly against his mouth, defiant as any Stark. “Not before you do, my sweet lion.”

━━━━━━━━━━ ☼ ━━━━━━━━━━

The road unwound like a serpent, one moon’s march of dust and stone. Each day Tywin rode at the head of his men, crimson cloak a flare against the gray skies. You watched him from the carriage, your son stirring beside you in his gilded cradle. At night, the inns were cleared at his command, chambers emptied, tables laden, fires stoked. Always, the lion took what he required.

He watched you, making a mental note that your bleed should be soon. He packed that dried meat just for you, some fruits that you craved and the sweets he demanded his men to procure for you but in the nights, when the babe lay quiet in his traveling cradle, it was you he sought most.

You felt it in the way his hand lingered at your back when he drew you against him beneath heavy furs, in the restless turns of his body, in the silence that pressed too long between you. He was a man who conquered kings, who bent lords to his will, yet you had left him with a hunger he could not master.

It came one night as the hearth burned low, shadows crawling long across the walls. He pulled you into his lap, his arms wound tight around you, his mouth hot at your temple.

“Say it,” Tywin muttered, low and hoarse, voice stripped of its iron. “Say it now.”

You smiled into his shoulder, your fingers toying with the gold chain at his throat. “I told you, husband. Not until you give me the same.”

His grip tightened, his body tense. “Do you delight in tormenting me?”

“Yes,” you whispered, pressing your lips to his jaw. “I delight in seeing the lion beg.”

The words struck him like a blade. He turned your face up to his, eyes pale and fierce, yet unsteady in a way you had never seen. His breath shuddered against your cheek.

“You think me unbending stone,” he said, voice near breaking. “But you—you are the one thing I cannot master.” His mouth brushed yours, desperate though his tone remained sharp. “I need it from you. Do you hear me? I need it. I have built kingdoms on obedience, on fear, on loyalty bought with blood. Yet I cannot still my own thoughts until you say it. Gods damn you, wife—say it.”

You cupped his face, your smile soft now, though your eyes still glinted with wolf’s fire. “There it is. My proud lion admits need.”

He groaned low, pressing his forehead to yours, his hands running through your hair as though he meant to hold you together by sheer force. “You will ruin me.”

“Then let me,” you whispered, kissing the corner of his mouth. “But first—you must earn it.”

The words made him shudder, his restraint crumbling, his body betraying what his pride would not allow. He kissed you then, hard and desperate, each breath thick with the word he would not say.

And though the night stretched long with his hands, his mouth, his desperate rhythm within you, he never gave the word. But in the breaking cadence of his body, in the rare admission he could not take back, you knew it all the same.

━━━━━━━━━━ ☼ ━━━━━━━━━━

 The fire in the Great Hall roared, shadows leaping across stone and timber, the banners of direwolf and stag stirring in the draught. The king sat slouched upon the high seat, goblet in hand, his voice thick with wine and frustration.

“She was meant to be mine,” Robert said, low but heated, his eyes fixed on the dark red in his chalice as though it held her reflection. He drank deep, then slammed the cup down with a rattle. “Wild, beautiful — gods, she kissed me before I went to war. Told me to gut that Targaryen cunt, and I swore I would.”

Ned’s lips twitched into the ghost of a smirk. He remembered — remembered you at his side in those bitter days, begging him to march with Robert. You had seen your father burn, your brother strangle, and still you had fire in you. The Mad King had a softness for you, though, and Ned had barred you from the field. Stay, he had said. Stay, for your safety. You obeyed, though it near broke you. You were the first to hold Jon when he came squalling into the world, and for a time the boy had called you mama. You had known the truth, but sworn silence at Ned’s bidding.

“She is happy,” Ned said now, firm though quiet.

“Happy?” Robert barked, half rising from his chair. “She is caged, Ned. A wolf upon the Rock, surrounded by gold and lions! You call that joy? She was meant to run free, to roam — not to rot in a gilded cage. And now…” His voice lowered, bitter. “Now she bears that Lannister cunt’s son.”

The word snapped in the air like a whip.

Cersei’s eyes rolled, her smile tight. She sipped her wine, saying nothing, though she had more claim to your heart than any of them knew. She had never despised you, not wholly, though she had little fondness either. Yet in girlhood, you had never judged her — never called her cruel, nor whispered poison about her name. When you caught her once with Jaime, tangled in shadows, you had not threatened or condemned. Instead, you had smirked.

“He’s handsome, Kingslayer,” you had teased her, lips curved with mischief. “I would too. Gods, Ned’s far too ugly — I’d sooner cut my own cunt out.”

Despite herself, she had laughed.

And one night, with the candles guttering low, you had told her another secret, voice soft with wine: “I once bedded a girl. She was blonde — not as golden as you, but close. She kissed me softly.”

Cersei had arched a brow, lips curved. “You’re telling me this?”

“Because I will not judge you,” you had said, smiling that wolf’s smile. “You know mine, I know yours. We could both be burned, both be shamed. But we will not.”

And you had left her with that, the bond unspoken, the secret shared.

Now her green eyes snapped back to the hall, to the men still debating your name as though you were not flesh and blood but prize and possession.

“She will be fine,” Catelyn said with a soft smile, ever the gentle lady. “She writes and writes. Her letters speak of her son — ‘handsome,’ she calls him.”

Robert slammed his goblet again, wine spilling down his beard. “Complacent. Caged and complacent! That is what she is. The lion has snuffed the fire from her.” Ned’s jaw clenched. He said nothing, but gods help him — he feared the king was right.

The children waited in the Great Hall, restless beneath the high stone arches. On rare occasion Jon was allowed to linger with them, and tonight was such a night — for you had made it clear you would brook no slight against the boy. If Jon was kept from greeting you, the castle would know your fury. Even Catelyn, though she held her tongue, had come to respect you for it. She loved you as though you were her own sister, though the words would never pass her lips.

“She named the boy Arys,” Catelyn said softly, a smile curving her lips as she bent to kiss little Arya on her dark head. “A winter’s name, for a Lannister child.”

Before Ned could answer, the hall doors slammed wide, and your voice rang bright across the cold stone.

“Eddard!”

It was wild and warm, carried on the wind of travel, full of laughter and life. You came striding through the doors as if the Rock itself had never tried to cage you. Your hair was loose, untamed, spilling down your shoulders like the northern wind. Your cheeks were flushed from the cold, your smile broad enough to banish the shadows in the hall.

Ned stood at once, the children with him, his breath caught in his throat. Gods, you looked unchanged — wild as ever, untamed by lion’s chains. His eyes fell to the babe in your arms: hair dark as a raven’s wing, grey eyes bright. A Winter’s son. He breathed a sigh he had not known he was holding. No lion there. No gold.

Behind you, Tywin Lannister entered, red cloak sweeping, his guard flanking him like twin shadows. His hand went to your back, firm, possessive, tugging you close as though to remind the North of what was his. His voice was low at your ear, sharp as steel.

“Behave, my wild wolf. Remember, you belong to me. All of you.”

You smirked, flashing him a look over your shoulder, half-taunt, half-promise, before turning your face back to your kin.

You moved to Ned with the grace of a wolf, your arm sweeping around him even as you cradled the babe close. He caught you up in his own embrace, his eyes soft, his jaw tight.

“Arys,” you said warmly, glancing down at your son as though the whole world lay there in your arms.

Ned gave a low laugh, rough with relief. “Sounds like Arya.”

“Well, yes!” you said with a grin, voice full of mischief. “It’s all I could get away with. No Rickon, no Rickard. He wanted to name him Lyon!” You threw your head back dramatically, laughter ringing across the hall. “Can you believe it? A Stark babe, named Lyon!”

“He’s a Lannister,” Tywin’s voice cut in, cold as a blade. His eyes swept the hall, daring anyone to dispute him.

You turned, fire in your smile, voice bright and defiant. “He belongs to Winter. My winter’s child, born when the moon was brightest and fullest.” You looked down at the babe, your hand stroking his soft hair. “He is ours. A Stark son, whatever his lion-father may say.”

Jon lingered on the edge, as though afraid to step forward, though his eyes never left the babe. At last he cleared his throat, awkward as a boy grown too fast for his years.

“I will always be your first son…right?” he asked, voice low, a shy laugh softening the words.

You turned at once, bright as sunlight in Winterfell’s stone hall, and cupped his face between your hands. “Of course!” you said, joy bubbling in your voice. “My first son, my first everything. You taught me all I know, Jon. You were so fussy, always pulling at teats. You wouldn’t go to the nursemaids, wouldn’t go to Ned. You were worse than Robb!”

Jon flushed crimson, ducking his head, but his smile showed.

“That he was,” Catelyn agreed, her voice gentled, a rare softness in her eyes as she remembered.

You laughed, pressing a kiss to Jon’s dark curls. “You were mine, no matter what anyone says. You will always be mine.”

Jon took Arys then, careful as if cradling glass. The babe blinked, little fists waving, and Jon’s smile broke wide as the boy gurgled against his chest. Your heart clenched at the sight, wolf sons together.

Catelyn moved close, her hand brushing Arys’s hair with surprising tenderness. “He looks like Arya when she was born,” she murmured, a smile softening her stern face.

A low snort cut through the moment. “He is no Arya. He is a Lannister. My son.” Tywin’s voice rang cold, every word a steel edge.

You only smiled, your warmth refusing to bend to his chill. “He is both,” you said softly, still watching Jon rock the babe. “A lion by blood, a wolf by soul. Winter claimed him first — and I will not see it denied.”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening, but he said no more. The hall had gone quiet, all ears turned toward your words, and you stood as you ever had — wild, untamed, and unafraid, even with a lion’s hand pressed to the small of your back.

━━━━━━━━━━ ☼ ━━━━━━━━━━

The hall roared with firelight and voices, meat sizzling on spits, cups brimming with wine. Yet for all the din, you felt the weight of eyes upon you. Wolves and lions and stags alike watched as you sat near the king, your son cradled in your arms, your smile bright as ever.

Robert leaned forward, his cheeks flushed with drink, his eyes lingering too long on your face. “Gods,” he muttered, loud enough for those closest to hear, “you were meant to be mine. I should’ve taken you when I had the chance. You kissed me before the war, do you remember? You told me to gut that silver-haired bastard.” His laugh was booming, but there was bitterness in it still. “I’d have given you freedom, not a cage of gold.”

The hall quieted, ears pricking at the king’s confession.

You smiled softly, though your hand tightened protectively on Arys. “You gave me much, Robert. A brother’s protection when I needed it, and laughter when the world was grim. That is no cage.”

Across the table, Cersei’s lips curved into a knowing smirk. She caught your glance, and for an instant the hall faded — only you and she, two women bound by shared secrets. She sipped her wine with queenly grace, her eyes glinting, as if to say: you are clever, as I am clever; we will not be judged by men who would own us.

Ned’s chair scraped back as he leaned closer, his voice firm, protective. “Enough, Robert. She is wed, and happily so. Leave the past where it lies.”

Your brother’s hand brushed your arm, his eyes dark with warning, his mouth drawn tight. He had seen too much — father’s bones, brother’s strangled cries — to bear the thought of losing you to another man’s folly.

Robert grunted, waving Ned off with a heavy hand, but his eyes still lingered on you. “A lion’s wife,” he said with disdain, “but still a wolf at heart. Don’t forget that, Ned.”

You lifted your goblet, smiling as though the words had not cut deep. “A wolf I was born, a wolf I remain. Even in Casterly Rock, Winter runs through my veins.”

“Do I cage you, wife?” Tywin asked at last, his voice carrying over the feast, pale eyes fixed only on you.

You laughed gently, your cheeks flushed from wine and warmth. “Gods, yes!” you cried, throwing yourself against his shoulder with mock despair, hand pressed to your brow in dramatic fashion. “A golden cage, with a lion’s head on the lock. I can scarce breathe, husband — I cannot escape!” Your giggle rang bright as the hall chuckled.

His hand, ever instinctive, found your waist, fingers curling with quiet possession. “Good,” he said, his tone cruel as iron, though there was the faintest glint in his eye. “May you never roam free again.”

You leaned close, your voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper meant only for his ear. “Even a caged wolf bites, husband. One day I might gnaw the bars and slip away.”

His mouth curved the barest fraction, though it was no smile. “If you do, I will follow. To the ends of the world, I will drag you back.”

“Drag me?” you teased, eyes gleaming as you tipped your cup to your lips. “Perhaps I should make it a game then — run far, run fast, and see how long it takes the lion to catch the wolf.”

His grip tightened, a warning, his voice low enough that only you heard. “Do not tempt me, wife. I would catch you too quickly. You would not enjoy the punishment.”

“Oh, but perhaps I would,” you whispered back, laughter soft as snow.

Robert’s booming laugh broke through the moment. “Seven hells, Stark, she’s still wild! I told you she was not meant for chains!”

Ned bristled at the king’s words, his hand clenching the cup before him, but you only leaned closer into your husband’s side, your smile as bright as the firelight.

“And yet,” you said sweetly, your voice carrying across the table, “I am here. By choice or cage, who can say? But I am here, and I will not be moved.”

Tywin’s hand pressed firmer at your waist, his silence saying more than words ever could.

━━━━━━━━━━ ☼ ━━━━━━━━━━

Later that night, Winterfell lay quiet, its halls hushed but for the crack of distant torches in the wind. Catelyn came to you with gentle words, hands clasped before her. “Let me put him to bed,” she pleaded, her eyes soft on the babe. “It has been so long since I held one so small in these halls. Please, sister.”

You glanced to Tywin, his pale eyes already narrowing.

“He is mine,” your husband said flatly, voice brooking no question.

But you only laughed, your smile bright. “He’s all yours tonight, Catelyn,” you said warmly, brushing the dark hair from Arys’s brow before passing him into her arms. “Keep him near the fire. He’ll sleep better for it.”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, his silence sharper than steel. He turned without a word, his crimson cloak sweeping behind him as he stalked down the hall.

When at last you entered the guest chamber, he was already there. The chamber was cold stone softened by Stark furs, yet Tywin looked every inch the lion — cloak unbuckled with sharp motions, golden clasp clattering against the table. His hands worked with fury at the belts and fastenings of his doublet, every movement precise, violent in its restraint

“Robert Baratheon,” he spat, his voice low, cold enough to crack stone. “Drunk, loud, boasting before an entire hall that you were meant for him. As if you were some bauble lost in a wager. As if our son were his to jest about.”

You leaned against the bedpost, your smile faint, sly. “He has always been Robert. Loud, foolish, too fond of wine. You should not waste your temper on him, husband.”

Tywin’s head snapped up, pale eyes narrowing. “Do you think me blind? He covets you still. He dares speak of your kiss, of what he believes should have been his.”

“Covet, perhaps,” you said with a little shrug, “but coveting and having are different things.”

His jaw flexed. “It should not have been spoken at all.” He stepped toward you, hands curling at his sides. “No man should speak of you in my presence and live unscathed.”

You laughed gently, shaking your head. “Always commanding. Always furious. Tell me, do I live in your protection, or in your cage?”

Tywin stopped, eyes flashing. “You mock me.”

“I soothe you,” you corrected softly, crossing the chamber to lay your hand against his chest. “If I were caged, do you think I would laugh so? Do you think I would taunt a lion, if my chains were real?”

He caught your wrist, holding you still, voice rough. “You think this is a game, wife? Robert, Ned, your northern lords — all of them watch, all of them whisper. They see a wolf they think has been tamed. They cannot know what you are to me.”

You tilted your head, eyes gleaming. “Then tell me. What am I to you?”

His breath caught. He turned sharply away, bracing his hands on the table, shoulders rigid. “You are mine. That should be answer enough.”

“It never is.” You came behind him, sliding your hands up his back, your lips brushing his ear. “Mine, you say. But what else? Speak plainly for once, Tywin. No command, no title. Speak as a man.”

He spun then, sudden, seizing your face between his hands. His mouth was inches from yours, his voice low, ragged, stripped bare.

“You are the woman that I love.”

The words rang louder than any shout. His eyes burned with fury at himself, but his grip did not falter. For once, the lion could not take them back.

Your lips parted in shock, then curved into a wolf’s grin. “Gods, husband,” you whispered, pressing your forehead to his, “you nearly sound human.”

He growled low in his throat, kissing you hard, as if to smother the words he had loosed. But the fire had already burned them into the air — and into you.

You had teased him before, begged him, laughed at his silence, but never had he said it. And now, fury had ripped it free from his tongue.

He kissed you hard, crushing, his hands seizing your face as though he feared you might vanish. You gasped against him, half-wild with the suddenness, your fingers clawing at his doublet. He tore it open himself, cloth and clasps scattering across the floor.

“Damn you,” he rasped, his mouth against your jaw, your throat, his hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. “Damn you for making me say it. You should never have heard those words.”

“And yet I did,” you whispered breathlessly, your laugh catching in your throat as he lifted you, carrying you to the bed like a man in battle-madness. “Say it again, husband. Once more.”

He laid you down with more force than care, climbing after you, his cloak pooling red across the furs before he snatched it off. “No,” he growled, tearing at your gown until your skin gleamed in the firelight. “Not again. Never again. Once was too many.”

You arched beneath him, your hands tangling in his hair, drawing him down. “Then prove it,” you gasped, teeth grazing his ear. “Prove your love if you will not name it.”

His control shattered. He thrust into you with a fury that was half-jealousy, half-desperation, his rhythm rough at first, as though to punish you for the word wrung from him. But his voice betrayed him, ragged and unguarded.

“You are mine,” he panted, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes closing as though the sight of you undid him. “Mine in the sight of gods and men. Not Robert’s, not your brother’s, not the North’s. Mine.”

Your nails dug into his back, pulling him closer still. “Then love me, husband. As a man, not as a lion.”

He groaned low, his pace faltering, slowing — not to ease but to draw it out, to make you feel every inch of his need. His lips brushed your cheek, your temple, your mouth, softer now, trembling in a way you had never known from him.

“I do,” he whispered against your skin, the words torn from him in spite of himself. “Gods curse me, but I do. I love you.”

The admission broke him. His thrusts turned desperate, uneven, each one driven more by need than control. He clutched you as though the world itself might steal you away, his breath ragged in your ear.

You held him, kissed him, laughed softly through your gasps. “Say it again.”

He shook his head, jaw clenched, but his body betrayed him. “No more words,” he growled, but when release came, it was with your name torn from his lips and the word buried in it, unspoken yet unmistakable.

His body moved over yours, every thrust a clash of fury and need, his jaw clenched tight against words he would not loose.

“Say it,” you gasped, your arms winding around his neck, your lips grazing his temple. “Say it again.”

“No.” His voice was a growl, sharp as steel. His hips drove harder, rougher, as though each stroke could silence you. “You will not take that from me. Once was too many.”

You laughed softly through your moans, your hand cupping his cheek, forcing his pale eyes to yours. “I take nothing, husband. I only want what is already in you.”

He shook his head, teeth bared, sweat shining at his brow. “No,” he rasped, thrusting deeper, slower, punishing, “you will not make me—”

You kissed him then, slow and tender, your mouth brushing his in a way that robbed him of fury. When you pulled back, your voice came sweet as snowfall.

“Say it for me, Tywin.”

His body faltered, the rhythm breaking. His breath caught in his throat, his eyes squeezed shut as though he could force the word back.

“Say it, husband,” you whispered, soft as prayer, your thumb stroking his jaw. “Please.”

Something cracked. His thrusts grew desperate, uneven, as though the strength of him was pouring into each stroke faster than he could bear. His mouth trembled against yours, and at last, ragged, broken, the word tore free.

“I love you.”

It came low, hoarse, ripped raw from him. He buried his face against your neck, repeating it once more, as though he hated himself for yielding, yet could not stop.

The chamber was stifling with heat, the fire snapping in the hearth, the furs twisted and damp with sweat. His body moved above yours in a rhythm that had lost all command — no longer the measured precision of a lion in control, but the desperate, faltering pace of a man undone. His pale eyes burned into yours, his jaw clenched as though he could grind the words back into silence.

“Say it again,” you gasped, your nails raking across his back, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Say you love me.”

He groaned, low and ragged, thrusting harder, as though he could drive your plea from existence. “No,” he hissed, his forehead pressing to yours, sweat dripping between you. “Do not ask me. Not again.”

You laughed softly through your moans, wild as a wolf in the snow. “Husband,” you whispered sweetly, tilting your head so your lips ghosted his. “Please.”

His control cracked. His thrusts slowed, deepened, every stroke shaking through his body. His mouth trembled over yours, and then the words broke free, hoarse and raw.

“I love you.”

Once, with his lips on yours.

Again, against your cheek, almost a prayer.

And again, muffled in your throat, as though he hated himself for yielding but could not hold it back.

Your body arched to him, clutching him closer, your wild smile breaking through your gasps. “Then give me another,” you pleaded, your voice fierce with longing. “Another heir, Tywin. Another Winter’s child.”

He froze mid-thrust, his breath catching, eyes locking on yours. The world stilled in that heartbeat — lion and wolf, fire and frost.

“Another…” he rasped, his voice breaking.

“Yes,” you whispered, cupping his face with both hands, your hair spilling wild across the furs. “Give me another child. Fill me with Winter again. Let the Rock hear the cry of wolves.”

His mouth fell open, and for once no command, no cruelty, only need spilled from him. He thrust again, deep and shuddering, his words torn free with every movement.

“I would give you anything.” His lips crushed yours, broken between gasps. “Anything you asked. Gods curse me, wife, I would give you everything. Another child. Ten. The whole world, if you wanted it.”

You cried out, his name spilling from your lips as his rhythm faltered into abandon, desperate and uneven. He clutched you as though he would never let go, his mouth on yours, your cheek, your throat, whispering the word he had sworn never to give.

“I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Each one sharper, rougher, until he broke with a groan, his body trembling, his seed spilling deep inside you. He collapsed against you, still moving in languid aftershocks, his weight heavy but his arms holding you as if you were too precious to be lost.

At last he lifted his head, his face pale and damp, his eyes stripped of all their armor. He smoothed your wild hair back from your brow, his fingers trembling faintly.

“Do not ask me again,” he whispered hoarsely, though his lips brushed your temple with rare tenderness. “For each time you do, I will yield. And I cannot bear to yield to anyone but you.”

You smiled, pressing your lips to his cheek, then his nose, then finally his mouth. “Then I will ask, husband,” you murmured, soft but certain. “Until the end of days.”

He closed his eyes, forehead to yours, the lion undone by the wolf.

And though pride would make him silent come the morning, you had torn the words from him, and the fire knew them, and so did you.

━━━━━━━━━━ ☼ ━━━━━━━━━━

The bow was light in your hands, familiar. The string snapped as you loosed, and the arrow sank deep into the painted circle. Bullseye. Arya shrieked in delight, Bran clapped, even Jon grinned as if it were his own victory.

Tywin’s pale eyes narrowed, his voice cool. “This is unbecoming of a lady.”

“I am no lady, Tywin,” you retorted, tossing your wild hair back as you reached for another arrow.

“You were once,” he said, folding his hands behind his back. “I recall you blushing like a maiden, dressed in silk, laughing too eagerly at my jests.”

“That was strategy,” you said loftily, drawing the bowstring back. “I wanted you, so I planned and I got you.” The arrow flew, striking near the first.

The Stark children laughed, Arya bouncing on her toes.

Tywin’s mouth curved, though faint. “Not how I recall. You came to Casterly Rock wild-haired, your tongue sharp, mocking me in my own court. And after one supper, you declared I was courting you.”

You turned to him, mock-offended. “Declared? I assumed! You asked me to stay five days. Five. You said I was to oversee the process and keep you company. What else was I to think but that the lion was courting the wolf?”

The children erupted in laughter. Ned, standing nearby with Catelyn, hid his smile poorly in his beard.

Arya darted forward. “She’s right! That is courting. Why else keep her there?”

Jon crossed his arms, smirking. “If my lady-aunt says it was strategy, then it was. She won. Look at you now.”

Tywin’s gaze cut sharp to the boy, but Robb stepped in with a grin. “No, Uncle Tywin has it right. He didn’t waste five days on anything he didn’t intend to keep. That sounds more like him.”

Sansa nodded primly, her hands folded. “Lord Tywin would never let someone else decide what he wanted. If he asked her to stay, it was because he had already chosen her.”

Arya stuck out her tongue. “Or because she tricked him! Wolves are cleverer than lions.”

“Not cleverer. Quicker,” Jon added, smirking at you. “She cornered him before he knew it.”

Robb laughed. “He’s not cornered now, is he? Look who has the Rock, the guards, the gold.”

Catelyn raised her brows, amused despite herself. “It seems we have sides forming in the yard.”

“Aye,” Ned said, folding his arms as he watched his children bicker, his eyes soft on you. “But whichever way the tale is told, the ending is the same. The wolf sits beside the lion still.”

Tywin’s hand slid absently to your waist, his eyes gleaming faintly. “And the lion,” he said quietly, “does not let go what he claims.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder, grinning at the children. “Or what the wolf steals,” you teased.

The yard rang with laughter, split down the middle — wolves against lions, each convinced their version the true one.

━━━━━━━━━━ ☼ ━━━━━━━━━━

The guest chamber was hushed but for the fire and your mingled breaths. The weeks in Winterfell had worn on, one moon on the road, near another beneath Stark stone. And yet no blood had come. He had checked the sheets himself each morning, when you stirred late and he rose early. No stain of red, no sharp scent of iron.

He knew your ways — how you demanded meat, salted heavy, during your bleed. How you drank near like a sailor to dull the ache, how you lay beneath him after, letting the weight of him ground you. But there had been no requests, no salt, no wine-drowned nights.

So he watched you. Always watching.

Tonight, he touched you softer than he had in many moons. His lips brushed your temple, your jaw, the hollow of your throat as he moved above you. His hand skimmed down, possessive and reverent both, lingering over the faint swell of your stomach. Not yet visible, not yet certain — but his pale eyes burned on it as though the proof were plain.

You laughed softly beneath him, brushing back the gold-streaked hair that had fallen loose from his temples. “Why so tender, husband? Have you grown weary of your cruelty?”

His mouth brushed your ear, his breath warm. “I have no cruelty for you, wife.” His thrusts were slow, deep, each one drawn out as though he meant to carve them into your very bones. “Not tonight.”

You arched, your nails dragging along his back, your voice breaking into a moan. “Then what is it? Speak to me.”

He cupped your face with one hand, forcing your eyes to his. “Because you may carry another heir of mine.” His voice was low, nearly a growl, yet soft in its own way. “Because I will not let the Rock, or the North, or Robert Baratheon himself, take from me what I built in you.”

Your breath caught, your lips parting, but his mouth claimed yours before you could answer. He kissed you fiercely, then pulled back only to whisper, words uncharacteristic of him, words he could not stop.

“You are mine. My wild wolf. My lioness. My love.”

Each thrust followed the words, his rhythm steady but tender, as if he worshiped what he feared to name. His gaze kept straying down to your stomach, his hand pressing there, thumb circling gently as though to coax life into being.

You smiled through your gasps, tears bright at your eyes. “Then speak it again, husband. Tell me.”

And though he had sworn before that he would never say it twice, he did — breaking against you, his forehead pressed to yours, his voice hoarse with surrender.

“I love you. And if the gods are kind, you will give me another child. Another Winter’s child, born of you.”

When you cried out beneath him, he kissed you as though he could drink the sound into his very soul, his body trembling with release, his hand never straying from the place where he already claimed his legacy.

The fire hissed low in the Winterfell chamber, the wind battering the shutters, the howl of wolves carrying over stone. You lay half-asleep against him, but Tywin Lannister did not sleep. His arm anchored you close, yet his eyes were fixed on the hearth as his thoughts marched on like soldiers.

“The North is peril,” he said suddenly, his voice low but firm, as if speaking to a council of one. “It clings to old gods, old ways, savage and stiff-necked. Even here, in your brother’s hall, I feel the weight of suspicion. They will always whisper that our son is wolf, never lion. That his blood is theirs to claim. They are wrong.” His hand brushed your belly, lingering. “He is mine.”

You shifted faintly, your lips brushing his throat, but he pressed on, relentless.

“Our legacy cannot be left in Winter’s hands. Too cold, too soft, too stubborn. They dream of honor while the Rock builds kingdoms. I will not see my line diluted by northern filth — not Robert’s drunken claims, not Stark mutterings, not even these children who look at you as though you are theirs.” His jaw clenched, his eyes narrowing. “You are mine. The babe is mine. And the next will be mine.”

He exhaled sharply, his voice steady but edged. “It will be a daughter this time. I have decided it. You will give me a daughter.” His thumb traced a circle over your stomach, almost possessive. “And you will name her something northern, I have no doubt. Some stone name, some Stark relic. But I will not have her diminished. No long-winded grave-name dragged from crypts. Something simple. Strong. A name that can be spoken in the Rock’s halls without shame.”

You stirred at that, murmuring, but he kept on, the commander unspooling his plan.

“She will not be a plaything of this place. She will not run wild with wolf pups, nor be buried in furs and forgotten. She will be raised to rule. She will stand where lions stand, but she will have the wolf’s steel as well. And they will bow to her — here, in the North, and in the South. A daughter of mine will command, not beg.”

His hand slid to your hair, smoothing it back, his voice quieter now, but no less firm. “And you will guard her as you guard that boy. Fiercely. Wildly. Even if it kills you.”

At last he stilled, his chest heaving faintly, his eyes hard in the glow of the dying fire. He had spoken as though to himself, but his hand had never left you — your hair, your waist, your belly.

You smiled against his chest, eyes closing once more. “Then we will give her both, husband. Wolf fire and lion pride. A true daughter of ours.”

He said nothing, but his grip tightened, the commander already planning her place in a world that did not yet know her name.

The fire was nearly spent, the chamber washed in shadow. You lay curled against him, your cheek on his chest, his hand never leaving the gentle swell of your belly. His voice broke the quiet suddenly, cold and clipped, though you could feel the faint tremor beneath it.

“It will be a girl,” he muttered. “And you’ll name her something northern. I can see it already. Gods forbid it be Lyanna.” His jaw tightened. “Every bard in the realm would croon songs, and Robert Baratheon would never shut his drunken mouth.”

You smiled faintly against his chest, offering no reply, only a soft kiss to his skin.

“Alys, then? Too simple. Too common. A daughter of mine is not some hedge knight’s wife.” His tone sharpened as though the name itself had offended him. “Wynafryd? Ridiculous. She would sound like a serving maid before she could walk.”

You stifled a laugh in his chest, kissing him again. He did not falter.

“Barbrey?” He scoffed, the sound harsh. “A bitter woman’s name, fit for a widow clinging to past grudges. No.” His hand pressed firmer to your stomach, as though the child might hear him already. “Not Rowena, not Wylla, not some wildling-sounding nonsense you dig from a snowbank.”

You hummed softly, lips brushing the base of his throat, and he sighed as if your silence only urged him on.

“Lyarra,” he continued, voice dripping disdain. “Another relic buried in Winterfell’s crypts. You would choose it to spite me, I know. Gods, I can hear the whispers now: the lion’s daughter, named for Stark bones.”

You kissed the line of his jaw, and his pale eyes narrowed, though his mouth curved faintly at one corner.

He exhaled sharply. “I will not have it. Not a name that stinks of stone and ice. I will not have my daughter called Marna or Sera or whatever dull scraps the North remembers.”

Your hand smoothed over his chest, but still you gave him no answer.

He shifted, settling you closer against him, though his eyes never left the fire. “Rowena. Old, brittle, all bone and no bite. My daughter will not be some relic, walking history to be pitied. She will have a name that cuts. Cerelle. Lanna. Names with teeth.”

Your lips curved against his chest, though you never spoke, only kissed him gently as he went on.

“Walda,” he muttered suddenly. “Fat, foolish Walda. The North is riddled with them. Would you make me suffer that shame? No. A lioness is lean. Sharp. She bears names that command. Not Walda. Not Goodwife-this or Widow-that.”

“Something simple,” he muttered, half to himself now, his voice like a general reviewing a battle plan. “Strong. Short. A name with bite. Not every half-forgotten lady who ever bred wolves in this cursed land.” His eyes flicked down at last, meeting yours. “And do not think your silence tricks me, wife. I know your game. I will know the name, sooner or later.”

You only smiled, kissed his cheek, and closed your eyes again. His mutterings continued long into the night, names sharp as arrows, dismissed one by one. And you, his wild wolf, listened and kissed him gently, the lion pacing circles even in his own bed.

The fire cracked low, shadows heavy on the walls. You pressed a kiss to his jaw, your voice soft but clear.

“Elira. I like Elira husband.”

Tywin stilled. His hand tightened on your waist, his pale eyes narrowing as though he weighed the sound on his tongue. Slowly, he spoke it back to you.

“Elira.”

Once, clipped. Again, longer, savoring the syllables. “E-li-ra.” He sat straighter against the headboard, his jaw working. “It is Stark enough to please your brother, but lion enough to echo in Rock’s halls. It bends, but it does not break.”

You smiled faintly, lips brushing his throat, but he kept going, as though in council.

“It is not a whimper. Not a relic. Not a milkmaid’s call. Elira… no, that is a name a hall will rise to. A name men will bow before. Not Wynafryd, not Lyanna, not some crypt-ghost. Elira.”

He said it again, firmer, like a general presenting his line. “Lady Elira of Casterly Rock. Our daughter.” His hand drifted down to your stomach, thumb pressing there as though to seal the name into the flesh. “Not theirs. Not Ned’s. Not the North’s. Mine.”

You kissed his temple, murmuring, “Ours, husband.”

His mouth twitched — not a smile, never that, but something softer in the firelight. His voice dropped, quieter, almost reverent. “Elira Lannister. My daughter.”

And though the babe was yet only a thought, you felt the weight of it — a lion already carving a place for her in his legacy.

[perkqularkreashions]

I know you have Velyaron reader a lottttt but can do you more! I love it so much!!!! Like pirates and dragons are literally my fav that you wrote about!!! You’re married to Vaemond or someone doesn’t matter but you have eyes on Daemon, always have. You invite him sailing and wellll you naurrrrrrr!!!

Ok this is lowkey an old one but I found it so, I’m going to post it today or tomorrow.

[perkqularkreashions]

Pentos x Daemon or Aemond where they visit the city and fall in love with her. Spends his time there, ends up getting her pregnant and former s/o is jealous and the baby is born at Kings Landing/Red Keep

I love a good Daemon love story, I think I’ll do both Daemon and Aemondddd!

[perkqularkreashions]

Hey, dear! if your requests are open, can I get *Soft For Her, Cruel to Everyone Else with* Daemon Targaryen x Martell/dornish poc(or ambiguous appearance) fem reader, please?

It’s on the wayyyy, I keep changing the idea but I’m on it!

[perkqularkreashions]

Cregan Stark X Celtigar Reader no one has done it yet I just know you would absolutely nail it ! 🥰🥹 please pretty please ? 🥺 you nailed the stark x Baratheon fic !

This is actually such an interesting concept!! It’s in the works!!🥰

[perkqularkreashions]

Where the Wild Things Are!

Cregan Stark x Baratheon!Reader

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.

Benjen chuckled low behind you. “Storm meets snow — let’s pray Winterfell survives it.”

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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.