summary: as the second wife of lord cregan stark, you’ve poured your heart into raising his son rickon as your own, finding purpose in a north that views you as an outsider from a minor house. but at rickon’s third nameday feast, northern lords, obsessed with the stark legacy, dismiss your role and pressure cregan to wed a “proven” noblewoman to secure heirs, ignoring your unfruitful womb. when lady cerys, cregan’s former love, is proposed as his new bride, her venomous revelations and cregan’s wavering loyalty shatter your trust.
warnings: intense angst, emotional betrayal, public humiliation, themes of infertility pressure, verbal cruelty, pregnancy-related tension, mild language, heated arguments, emotional manipulation, themes of isolation and rejection. suitable for mature readers due to heavy emotional content.
rickon’s third nameday feast, a rare burst of joy in the north’s eternal frost. you sit at the high table, your spine straight, your smile practiced, as you watch rickon, your heart’s son, toddle through the crowd, chasing a hound pup with a giggle that melts the hardest of northern hearts. he’s yours, not by blood but by every stitch you’ve sewn into his cloaks, every lullaby sung in the dark, every scraped knee kissed. you’ve loved him since the day you wed cregan stark, mere moons after arra norrey’s death, vowing to be his mother in all but name. rickon calls you “mama,” and that word is your anchor, your shield against the north’s cold judgment.
but tonight, something darker than winter’s chill. the northern lords, their faces weathered by war and duty, drink deeply and cast sharp glances your way. you hear their whispers, carried like blades on the wind, stark line, no heirs, barren wife. your fingers clench the arm of your chair, the wood biting into your palm. you’re no stranger to their doubts, but on this night, with rickon’s laughter and your role as his mother so vivid, their words carve deeper, slicing at the fragile pride you’ve built as lady stark.
cregan sits beside you, his presence a mountain of strength, his eyes warm when they meet yours. his hand, calloused from sword and plow, rests briefly on your knee beneath the table, a gesture that once steadied you. but as the feast wears on, you notice his jaw tighten, his gaze flicker to lord umber, who approaches with a grim purpose. their voices are low, but you catch fragments, duty, legacy, a stronger match. cregan’s responses are curt, his eyes darting to you once, then away. your chest tightens. you know what they speak of: your womb, empty after two years of marriage, and the stark line’s precarious future.
you don’t crumble. you’ve never crumbled, not when you left your minor house to wed a stark, not when the north’s lords sneered at your lack of noble blood, not when the maesters whispered of your ‘unproven’ body. you are steel, forged in the fire of their scorn, and you will not break now. instead, you lift your goblet, your smile a mask, and toast rickon’s health, your voice clear and unwavering. the hall echoes your call, but the lords’ eyes linger, judging, dismissing.
the feast ends late, and you carry rickon to his chambers, his small body heavy with sleep. cregan follows, silent, his boots heavy on the stone. you tuck rickon into his furs, brushing a kiss to his brow, and when you turn, cregan’s watching, his face shadowed.
“what did umber want?” you ask, your tone even, though your pulse races.
he hesitates, scrubbing a hand through his dark hair.
“the same as always. talk of the stark line, the future.”
“and me,” you say, stepping closer, your eyes locked on his.
“they spoke of me, cregan. of my failure to give you heirs.”
his sigh is a gust of winter wind.
“they’re worried, that’s all. they’re old men, set in their ways. they see rickon and want more.”
“more than i’ve given,” you say, your voice low but sharp.
“they don’t see me as rickon’s mother. they see me as a barren outsider, don’t they?”
“you’re his mother,” he says, voice firm.
“i’ve never doubted that.”
“but you let them doubt me,” you counter, your words precise, cutting.
“you let them question my place, my worth. what did you say to umber? did you defend me, or did you listen?”
his silence is a wound. he steps toward you, but you hold up a hand, stopping him.
“if you can’t answer, don’t touch me.” you say, your voice cold.
“i’m not considering their nonsense,” he says, frustration creeping into his tone.
“but i can’t just dismiss them. they’re my bannermen, my father’s men. they’ve fought for this house.”
“and i haven’t?” you snap, your control fraying.
“i’ve fought everyday to be rickon’s mother, to be your wife, to prove myself to a north that doesn’t want me. but you’re leaving the door open, cregan. you’re letting them think another wife, a ‘proven’ wife might be better.”
“i’m not,”
he insists, but there’s a crack in his voice, a hesitation that betrays him. you step back, your heart a storm of hurt and fury.
“i won’t be your placeholder,”
you say, your voice steady despite the ache.
“i deserve better than your half-answers.”
you turn, leaving him in rickon’s chamber, your head high, your tears held back. you are steel, and steel does not bend.
you rise early the next morning, your body heavy with a secret you’ve carried for days. the maester confirmed you’re with child, a fragile hope you’ve guarded fiercely. you meant to tell cregan, to share the joy and bind your fractured trust, but his silence last night changed everything. now, the secret feels like a weapon, one you’re not ready to wield.
you avoid the great hall, breaking your fast with rickon in his nursery. he babbles about his nameday gifts, a wooden wolf cregan carved himself, and you smile, your love for him a light in the dark. but your thoughts churn. the lords’ whispers, cregan’s wavering, the weight of a north that sees you as less, these are battles you’ve fought alone, and you’re tired, so tired, but you will not break.
sara, cregan’s half-sister, finds you at midday, her face etched with worry.
“there’s a council meeting,” she says, her voice low.
“the norreys are here, and they’re pushing hard. you need to know.”
your blood chills. the norreys, arra’s kin, are a proud, unyielding clan, and their loyalty to her memory is a blade they’ve never sheathed. you nod, entrusting rickon to his nursemaid, and follow sara to the council chamber. you don’t enter, ladies don’t, not uninvited but you linger outside, the cracked door revealing a storm of voices.
lord norrey’s is loudest, his words a hammer.
“lady cerys is proven, my lord. she’d honor arra’s legacy and give you heirs. your current lady, forgive me, hasn’t, and the stark line cannot falter.”
cerys. the name is a dagger, twisting old wounds. you’ve heard of her. cregan’s courtship after arra’s death, a fleeting flame before he chose you. you thought it buried, but the norreys’ proposal unearths it, raw and bleeding. cregan’s voice is measured, deflecting without refusing, and that ambiguity is a betrayal in itself.
“i’ve made my vows,”
he says, but it’s weak, a shield with cracks. the lords press harder, and he doesn’t silence them.
you step away, your breath shallow, your resolve hardening. you will not weep, not here, not where they can smell weakness. you return to rickon, your hands steady as you braid his hair, your voice calm as you sing him a northern ballad. but inside, you’re a furnace of rage and hurt, forging your pain into armor.
that afternoon, in the godswood’s crimson hush, lady cerys finds you. she’s a vision of northern beauty, a tall, with piercing blue eyes and hair like spun gold, her presence a calculated strike. you’re kneeling by the heart tree, praying for strength, when her shadow falls over you.
“so you’re the one he chose,”
she says, her voice a blade wrapped in silk.
“i expected more, not a mouse from a house no one remembers.”
you rise, your chin high, your eyes unflinching.
“i’m lady stark,” you say, your tone ice. “and you’re trespassing on my peace.”
she laughs, sharp and cruel.
“your peace? you’re a shadow in a seat that should’ve been mine. cregan loved me, you know. after arra died, he came to me, swore he’d make me his lady. we shared nights, promises things you’ll never understand. but his council wanted someone safe, someone who wouldn’t stir the north. so he settled for you.”
her words are venom, each one a precise cut. you feel them, deep and raw, but you don’t flinch.
“if he loved you, why am i his wife?” you ask, your voice steady, though your heart screams.
“duty,” she spits, stepping closer.
“he’s a stark, chained to honor. but he’ll always want me. you’re a duty, a compromise. and now the north sees you for what you are, a barren, weak, unworthy. i’m leaving winterfell, but i wanted you to know the truth that he’ll never love you like he loved me.”
you hold her gaze, your face a mask of stone.
“leave, then,” you say, your voice low, lethal.
“but don’t mistake my silence for weakness. i’m cregan’s wife, the mother of his son, and i’ll outlast you.”
she smirks, but there’s a flicker of frustration in her eyes. she turns, her cloak sweeping the snow, and you’re left alone, the weirwood’s red eyes watching. her words burn, searing doubts you’ve buried cregan’s choice, his heart, your place. you’re carrying his child, but cerys’s venom and cregan’s silence make it feel like ash. you press a hand to your stomach, your resolve steeling. you will not break, not for her, not for him, not for anyone.
you withdraw. it’s a calculated retreat, not a surrender. you stop dining in the great hall, taking meals with rickon or alone in your chambers. you avoid cregan, your paths crossing only when duty demands, rickon’s lessons, winterfell’s upkeep. when he speaks, you’re polite, distant, your words clipped, your eyes averted. you tend to winterfell’s needs with ruthless efficiency, settling disputes, overseeing stores, earning the smallfolk’s respect. but with cregan, you’re a ghost, present but untouchable.
he notices, of course. you see it in his furrowed brow, the way his hand hovers when you pass, the tightening of his mouth when you excuse yourself early. but you don’t yield. let him feel the weight of his silence, the cost of his hesitation. you’ve given him your heart, your body, your life now he must earn them back.
the northern lords their whispers louder, and cerys remains, her departure delayed by some pretext. her presence is a constant barb, her smiles at cregan in the hall a public wound. the norreys push their case, and cregan’s deflections grow weaker, his patience fraying. you hear from sara that he’s clashing with the lords, but he hasn’t banished cerys or silenced the talk. each day, your hurt festers, your trust erodes, but you channel it into strength, into rickon, into the child growing inside you.
one evening, in the library, you’re reviewing grain ledgers when cerys’s voice cuts through the quiet. she’s with a norrey cousin, unaware of your presence behind the shelves.
“he’s faltering,” she says, her tone smug.
“he’ll bend soon. the north needs a true stark wife, not that barren girl. i’ll have him yet, and she’ll be nothing.”
you step forward, your voice like a whip.
“say it to my face, cerys.”
she startles, then smirks, her cousin shifting uncomfortably.
“you’re bold for a woman with nothing to show for it,” she says. “no heirs, no lineage, no hold on cregan’s heart. enjoy your title while it lasts. lady stark.”
you advance, your eyes blazing, and she falters.
“i’ve raised rickon, held winterfell, and earned the love of its people,” you say, your voice low, lethal.
“what have you done, cerys, besides cling to a past that doesn’t want you? leave, or i’ll make you.”
her cousin tugs her away, and you’re left trembling, not with fear but with fury. you return to the ledgers, your hands steady, but the encounter hardens your resolve. you won’t let cerys or the lords define you. but cregan’s silence, his failure to end this, is a wound you can’t ignore.
weeks pass, and cregan’s patience snaps. you’re in the courtyard, overseeing a shipment of furs, when he strides toward you, his face a storm.
“enough,” he says, his voice rough, drawing eyes.
“you’ve shut me out for weeks. i can’t bear it anymore.”
you straighten, your face impassive, though your heart races.
“i’m busy, my lord,” you say, turning to the furs.
“winter’s coming. there’s work to be done.”
“damn the work,”
he snaps, grabbing your arm, his grip firm but not cruel.
“talk to me. you’re my wife, not a stranger.”
you pull free, your eyes flashing. “am i your wife? because the north seems to think otherwise. your lords, cerys they’ve made that clear, and you’ve done nothing to stop them.”
his jaw clenches, guilt flickering in his eyes. “i’ve tried—”
“tried?” you cut in, your voice rising, heedless of the onlookers.
“you’ve let them humiliate me, cregan! you’ve let cerys spit venom, let your bannermen call me barren, let them propose her as your new bride while i stand here, carrying your child!”
the courtyard stills, the words hanging like a thunderclap. cregan’s eyes widen, shock and hope warring in his face.
“you’re with child?”
you curse your slip, your throat tightening.
“yes,” you say, voice low, trembling.
“and i’ve carried it alone, wondering if you’d cast me aside for cerys, for a ‘proven’ wife. you loved her, cregan. she told me… nights, promises, a future. was i just duty? a safe choice?”
he steps closer, his voice raw.
“cerys was a mistake, a comfort when i was broken after arra. i cared for her, aye, but it was fleeting. i chose you because you were light, because you loved rickon, because you made winterfell home. i’ve never regretted it.”
“then why didn’t you fight for me?”
you demand, tears threatening but held back.
“why let them tear me apart? i’ve given you everything, my heart, my life, my body and you’ve left me to face this alone.”
“i was a fool,” he says, his voice breaking.
“i thought i could balance duty and love, keep the lords in line without bloodshed. but i failed you. i see it now, and it’s killing me.”
you shake your head, stepping back.
“words aren’t enough, cregan. i’m tired of fighting for a place you won’t defend. i’m rickon’s mother, i’m your wife, and i’m done begging for you to see it.”
you turn, walking away, your head high, the courtyard watching. he calls your name, but you don’t stop. you’re steel, and steel doesn’t bend.
that night, he acts. you’re in your chambers, braiding rickon’s hair, when sara bursts in, breathless.
“he’s done it,” she says.
“he banished cerys and her kin. told the norreys if they speak of another wife again, they’ll answer to his sword. he’s in the great hall now, facing the lords.”
you pause, your heart lurching. you hand rickon to his nursemaid and follow sara, your steps quick but steady. in the great hall, cregan stands before the lords, his voice like iron.
“lady stark is my wife,” he says, his tone unyielding.
“she’s rickon’s mother, the heart of winterfell, and she carries my child. anyone who questions her place insults me, insults house stark. speak of another wife again, and you’ll find no mercy here.”
lord umber shifts, but cregan’s glare silences him.
“the stark line is secure,” he continues. “and my loyalty is to my family, my wife, my son, my unborn child. if you can’t honor that, leave this hall and don’t return.”
the lords murmur, some chastened, others defiant, but none dare challenge him. you watch from the shadows, your heart a tangle of hurt and hope. he’s fighting for you, finally, but the wounds are deep, the trust fractured.
later, he finds you in the godswood, the snow falling soft around the heart tree. you’re bundled in furs, your face pale but resolute. he kneels before you, a rare vulnerability in his eyes.
“i’ve been a coward,” he says, his voice rough.
“i let duty blind me, let the lords and cerys wound you. i thought i could protect you by staying silent, but i only hurt you more. i don’t deserve your forgiveness, but i’m begging for it.”
you study him, the man you love, the man who’s broken you.
“you should’ve fought for me from the start,” you say, your voice steady, though it trembles inside.
“i’ve stood alone, cregan, while you wavered. i’m strong, but i shouldn’t have to be steel for both of us.”
“i know,” he says, his hands reaching for yours, hesitant.
“i see you, your strength, your love, your fire. you’re more stark than any of them, and i’ll spend my life proving it. no more silence, no more hesitation. you’re my wife, my love, my home.”
you let him take your hands, his warmth seeping through the cold.
“i’m tired,”
you admit, your voice softer now, the weight of weeks spilling out.
“i’m tired of fighting, of doubting. i want us, rickon, this child, you. but i need to trust you.”
“you will,” he vows, his eyes fierce.
“i’ll guard your heart as fiercely as i guard winterfell. no one will hurt you again not cerys, not the lords, not me.”
you nod, tears finally falling, but they’re cleansing, a release. he pulls you into his arms, and you let him, your strength meeting his, your hurt finding solace in his promise. the snow falls, the weirwood watches, and you begin to mend.
moons later, you birth a son, torrhen, with cregan’s stormy eyes and your fierce spirit. rickon dotes on him, calling him ‘torry.’ and winterfell’s halls echo with their laughter. the northern lords, humbled by cregan’s wrath, toast your son’s health, their doubts buried. cerys is a fading memory, her name unspoken.
one night, as you lie with cregan, torrhen asleep between you, he kisses your brow.
“i’ll never fail you again,” he murmurs.
you smile, your hand on his heart.
“you’re learning,” you tease, but your eyes are warm. “we’re enough, cregan. we always were.”
pairing: aemond targaryen x fem!reader, cregan stark x fem!reader
summary: six moons after leaving king’s landing, you’ve found refuge in winterfell with your son, daeron, shedding the targaryen name and embracing a quieter life. lord cregan stark offers you kindness and protection, and you begin to heal, finding strength in motherhood and the north’s stark beauty. but a letter from helaena arrives, revealing that alys rivers and her newborn child, aemond bastard, now reside in the red keep, stirring up old wounds and fresh doubts.
warnings: emotional angst and themes of betrayal, lingering heartbreak and internal conflict, subtle hints of potential romantic tension (not explicit), no physical violence, but heavy emotional weight, cliffhanger ending.
cregan said, voice low, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
“strong, like his mother.”
daeron, now ten months old, giggled in your lap, his tiny hands grasping at the wooden wolf carving cregan had whittled for him. the stark lord sat across from you, his dark eyes soft as he watched your son play.
you managed a small smile, though your heart felt heavy.
“he’s all i have now,” you murmured, brushing daeron’s silver hair back.
it was true, here, in the north, you were no longer lady targaryen, no longer bound to a name that carried betrayal. you were just you, a woman carving out a life for her child. winterfell had been kind, its people welcoming despite their wariness of southerners. cregan, especially, had been a steady presence, never pushing, always there, offering a quiet strength that made you feel safe.
six months had passed since you’d left king’s landing, since you’d stood before aemond and shattered his pleas with words that still haunted you. you hated bastards so much… now you’re having a child with a bastard. you’d meant to wound him, and you had but the memory of his face, broken, pleading, lingered like a ghost. you’d tried to bury it, to focus on daeron, on the snow-dusted hills and the life you were building. but some wounds refused to heal.
a servant entered, bowing low, a scroll clutched in her hands.
“my lady,” she said, hesitating at the title you no longer claimed. “a raven from king’s landing.”
you took the scroll, its wax seal bearing the three-headed dragon. helaena’s hand, you knew at once, her gentle script unmistakable. cregan watched you, his gaze steady but questioning.
“do you want me to stay?” he asked.
“please excuse me,” you said softly, though you weren’t sure why. “i’ll read it alone.”
he nodded, rising with a quiet grace, and left you by the fire. daeron babbled, oblivious, as you broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. your eyes skimmed the words, and the warmth of the hall seemed to drain away.
‘to my dear friend in the north,
i write with a heavy heart, hoping this finds you and daeron well. winterfell suits you, i think its strength matches your own. but i must warn you of tidings from the south. alys rivers has come to king’s landing, her child born, a boy, with targaryen eyes. aemond has allowed her to stay in the red keep, claiming duty to his blood. the court whispers, and i fear this news will reach you one way or another. he is a shadow of himself, torn between guilt and pride, but i thought you should know. you deserve peace, but the south has a way of pulling us back. write to me, if you will. i miss your voice.
yours in kinship,
helaena targaryen’
the parchment trembled in your hands. alys rivers, in the red keep. her child, a son, like yours living under the same roof where you’d once dreamed of a future with aemond. and aemond, letting her stay. the betrayal, months old, roared back to life, sharp and searing. you pressed a hand to your chest, willing your breath to steady, but tears stung your eyes. daeron sensed your shift, his giggles fading as he reached for your face.
“oh, my love,” you whispered, kissing his brow, grounding yourself in his warmth.
but your mind raced. why had aemond done this? was it guilt, duty, or something worse, some lingering affection for her? you’d thought leaving would sever the tie, but here it was, tugging you back into the storm.
the door creaked, and cregan stepped back in, his expression cautious.
“bad news?” he asked, reading your face.
you set the letter down, swallowing hard.
“alys rivers,” you said, voice low.
“the woman who… she’s in king’s landing now, with her child. aemond’s child. he’s let them stay.”
cregan’s jaw tightened, a flicker of anger in his eyes, not at you, but at the man who’d caused this.
“he’s a fool,” he said plainly.
“to wound you once was shame enough. to let her linger in your place? that’s cruelty.”
you looked away, the fire blurring through unshed tears.
“i thought i was free of him,” you admitted, voice breaking.
“but every time i try to move forward, he’s there, in my head. in my heart. i hate it.”
cregan knelt beside you, not touching, just close enough to feel his warmth.
“you’re stronger than this pain,” he said, voice steady.
“you’ve built a life here, for you and the lad. he doesn’t get to take that from you.”
you met his gaze, finding solace in its honesty.
“what if he comes for me?”
you whispered, the fear slipping out before you could stop it.
“what if he wants daeron?”
“then he’ll face the north,” cregan said, a quiet fierceness in his tone. “and me.”
you nodded, grateful, though the ache remained. that night, you lay awake, daeron asleep beside you, the letter’s words looping in your mind. alys in the red keep. aemond’s son. the life you’d left behind, clawing at your heels. you thought of the words you’d hurled at aemond, the venom in them, and wondered if they’d hurt him as much as he’d hurt you. part of you hoped they had. part of you hated that you cared.
the next morning, as you walked the snowy courtyard with daeron bundled in furs, a shout rang out from the gates.
“rider from the south!” a guard called, and your heart stopped.
you turned, clutching daeron tighter, as hooves thudded against the snow. a cloaked figure dismounted, their face hidden, but the sigil on their cloak, a dragon, gleamed in the pale light.
who were they?
a messenger with a summons?
or
aemond himself, come to beg or demand? the question hung in the air, sharp as a blade, as the rider approached, and winterfell’s walls seemed to close in around you.
i’m actually considering two, maybe three possible endings. one, of course, is with lord cregan, but the other could be with aemond or maybe even someone else. perhaps ser harwin strong? ser gwayne hightower? or someone entirely unexpected :) does anyone want reader to end up with someone other than cregan stark? let me know!
read part 1 , part 2 to know what i’m talking about.
summary: three moons have passed since the devastating revelation of alys rivers’ letter, and your once-loving marriage to aemond targaryen has crumbled into a cold, distant ruin. you’ve moved to separate chambers, treating him with icy indifference.
warnings: intense emotional angst and marital breakdown, themes of betrayal and rejection, verbal confrontation with hurtful language, no physical violence, but heavy emotional weight.
author notes: read part 1. well, i know it’s kinda short, but i hope you’ll enjoy part 2 as much as part 1! i actually want to hear your thoughts on this. i personally feel sad for daeron, but honestly, aemond deserves it, so i don’t mind at all lol. hope daeron gets to have a great and lovely life at winterfell… and with cregan stark then ;)
not a taglist, but still tagging you guys since everyone loved part 1 so much!! hope you enjoy part 2!
three moons had passed since that night, the night the letter from alys rivers tore your world apart. the red keep felt colder now between you and aemond. you’d moved to your own chambers the very next day, unable to bear the sight of him in the bed you’d once shared. daeron, your sweet boy, stayed with you, his cradle a constant in your new chamber.
today, though, you couldn’t avoid him any longer. you’d made up your mind, and he deserved to hear it. you stood in the small solar of your chambers, daeron napping in the next room, when aemond entered. he looked worn, his silver hair unkempt, the lines around his eye deeper, as if sleep had eluded him as much as it had you.
“you sent for me,” he said, voice cautious, hopeful even.
“it means i’m done,”
your tone flat but firm. you crossed your arms, steeling yourself against the pain in his face.
“i want to end this marriage, aemond. i can’t do this anymore.”
he froze, the air between you thickening with the weight of your words. he stepping closer.
“no, you don’t mean that. we can fix this… i’ll fix this. i’ve kept my distance, given you space, but please—”
“aemond.”
you held up a hand, your voice trembling now, though you fought to keep it steady.
“there’s nothing left to fix. the moment you laid with her, did you ever think of me? of how it would feel to know my husband, the man i loved, gave himself to someone else while i carried our son?”
aemond’s eye widened, and he shook his head, desperation creeping in.
“it was a mistake, one night, nothing more. i thought of you every day after, hated myself for it. i never wanted her, never loved her.”
“and yet she carries your child,” you snapped, the dam breaking as your voice rose.
“you hated bastards so much, aemond, preached about purity and honor, and now you’ve made one with her, a bastard carrying your bastard. did you think of that when you scorned others for the same?”
he flinched as if you’d struck him, the words cutting deeper than any blade.
“i’m not proud of it,” he said, voice cracking.
“i’d give anything to undo it. but you, you’re my wife, my heart. i can’t lose you.”
then, to your shock, he dropped to his knees before you, his hands reaching for yours.
“please,”
he begged, his pride shattered, his eye glistening with unshed tears.
“don’t leave me. don’t take daeron from me. i’ll do anything anything you ask.”
you stared down at him, your chest aching with fury and sorrow. once, you’d have melted at his vulnerability, his love but now it only deepened the wound.
“you should’ve thought of that before,”
you said, stepping back, pulling your hands free.
“i gave you everything, aemond. my trust, my love, my son. and you threw it away for for a bastard. i deserve more than this.”
he stayed there, on his knees, head bowed, as you turned and left the room, your heart pounding in your ears. the decision was made, and no amount of pleading could sway it.
the next day, you stood before alicent and queen helaena in the throne room, daeron cradled in your arms. the iron throne behind them, a stark reminder of the power they held and the power you sought to reclaim over your own life.
alicent’s face was stern, her hands clasped tightly in front of her.
“an annulment?”
she said, her tone sharp.
“you’d cast aside a targaryen prince, my son, so easily?”
“not easily,” you replied, meeting her gaze.
“but necessarily. he betrayed me, your grace. alys rivers carries his child, conceived while i carried daeron. i’ve borne this in silence for months, but i won’t anymore.”
alicent’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes flickering with anger, or shame.
“marriages endure worse,” she said.
“you’re of a kind house, famed for strength. can you not find it in you to forgive?”
“i’ve tried,” you said, voice softening but resolute.
“but every time i look at him… i see her. i feel the lie. i won’t live like that.”
helaena, seated beside her mother, tilted her head, her pale eyes studying you. she’d always been quiet, strange in her way, but there was a knowing in her gaze now.
“i felt it too,” she murmured, almost to herself.
“the weight of a love that falters. it crushes you.”
alicent turned to her daughter, frowning, but helaena continued, her voice gentle.
“let her go, mother. she’s suffered enough.”
a long silence followed. alicent’s resolve wavered, her shoulders slumping slightly.
“i’ll consider it,”
she said at last, though her tone suggested reluctance.
“but this is no small thing.”
“it’s decided,”
helaena interjected, surprising you both. she stood, stepping closer to you, her hand brushing daeron’s silver hair.
“take your son north. lord cregan stark will shelter you. i’ll see it done.”
you blinked, gratitude swelling in your chest.
“thank you, your grace”
you whispered, and she offered a small, sad smile.
in moon turn, you rode north with daeron, the wind was cold, biting, but it felt like freedom. you were no longer lady targaryen, shedding the name like a heavy cloak, leaving the pain and the title behind. winterfell rose ahead, its grey walls stark and lord cregan stark greeted you at the gates. his dark eyes steady as he took your hand.
“you’re welcome here,”
he said simply, his voice a low rumble.
“you and the boy.”
“thank you, my lord.”
you nodded, daeron fussing in your arms, and followed him inside. cregan offered a chair by the fire, and as you sat, watching the flames, you felt the first stirrings of peace.
the north was harsh, unforgiving, but it was a place to heal, to rebuild.
Hi! I stumbled upon one of your works about aemond. Please do not give him a second chance. I am begging! But please give us a happy ending (could be with cregan stark ehem 👀). Love you writing and works. Thank you for existing.
hi!! first of all, thank you so much for your kind words, that truly means a lot <3 and omg, i hear you!! no second chances for aemond, noted!! as for a happy ending… cregan stark, you say? 👀 hmmm, that’s definitely something to consider ;) thank you for reading and supporting my work!!
summary: you and cregan stark were bound by a betrothal forged in childhood. he was your first love, the boy with a wolf’s grin who promised you a life of warmth amid the cold of winterfell. you grew up dreaming of a marriage filled with tender moments, only for war to tear him from you before the vows could be spoken.
warnings: emotional angst, themes of war and loss, slow-burn, mild depictions of grief and trauma, heavy emotional weight.
author notes: currently listening to ‘goodbye brother by ramin djawadi’, and the melody is just so sad yet warm at the same time, it’s making me want to write something truly heartbreaking at the start, with just a flicker of warmth at the end. also, i’m considering opening a taglist! not sure when, but would you want to be tagged in my latest works whenever i post? my requests are open now, so if you have any ideas, don’t be shy and drop them in my ask! i only accept requests through asks, and don’t forget to read my rules too!
“my lady, they’ve returned.”
the guard’s voice cracks through the stillness of the hall, rough like the scrape of steel against stone. you’re seated by the hearth, a half-finished embroidery in your lap, the needle stilled between your fingers. you look up, slow, deliberate, as if moving too fast might shatter the fragile hope you’ve nursed for years.
“who?”
your voice is a whisper, barely audible over the pop of the logs.
“the men from the warband. survivors.”
the guard shifts, his boots scuffing the floor, his eyes avoiding yours.
“lord cregan… they say he’s not among them.”
the needle slips from your grasp, a tiny sound that echoes like a thunderclap in your chest. you stand, the embroidery tumbling forgotten, your hands trembling as they clutch the edge of the table. many moons of waiting, of staring out frost-rimed windows, of tracing the lines of his letters until the ink blurred beneath your fingertips. they’d stopped coming so suddenly, and with them, the rumors of cregan stark, lost in the south, cut down, burned, drowned. dead. they’d said it a thousand times, in a thousand ways, but never with proof. never with his body. and so you’d held on, stubborn as the ice that clings to winterfell’s walls, believing he’d come back to you.
“not among them?”
you echo, your voice sharper now, cutting through the haze.
“then where is he?”
the guard hesitates, his jaw tight.
“they… they don’t know, my lady. they saw him fall, they say. in the thick of it. no one could reach him. the field was chaos, in fire, blood. they’re certain he’s gone.”
gone.
the word lands like a blade between your ribs, your breath catches, and for a moment, the room tilts. but then you straighten, your chin lifting, your eyes burning with something fierce, something stark.
“no,” you say, quiet but firm.
“no, he’s not gone. not until i see him. not until they bring me his bones.”
the guard opens his mouth, then closes, nodding once before stepping back. you don’t cry. you don’t scream. you turn to the window, pressing your palm against the icy glass, and stare out at the snow-dusted courtyard where the survivors will soon stumble through. your reflection stares back—older now, sharper-edged, but still the girl who’d promised her heart to a boy with a wolf’s grin. he’s out there, you tell yourself, as you’ve told yourself every night since he left. alive. waiting.
five years bleed into six, and winterfell grows quieter, heavier, as if the stones themselves mourn him. you move through the days like a ghost, tending to the keep, smiling thinly at the servants, deflecting the lords who whisper of new betrothals.
they don’t understand.
they didn’t see the way cregan looked at you the day he rode out, his hand warm on your cheek, his voice steady, promising he’d come back to make you his wife. you’d been children when the betrothal was sealed, two small figures beneath the heart tree, giggling through vows you barely understood. but it had grown into something real, something that rooted deep in your soul. he’d been your first love, your only love, and you his.
his chambers remain untouched, a shrine to that promise. his furs still draped over the chair, his sword rack empty but polished, his letters stacked neatly on the desk. you sit there sometimes, late at night, running your fingers over the parchment, imagining his voice in the words.
“i dream of you, even here. keep the fire lit for me.”
you do. you always do.
the sixth winter is the harshest yet, you’re in his chambers again, wrapped in one of his old cloaks, when the horn sounds low, mournful note that reverberates through the keep. you freeze, the cloak slipping from your shoulders. footsteps pound outside, voices rising, and then the door bursts open.
“my lady!”
it’s the same guard, older now, his face flushed beneath his helm.
“he’s here. lord cregan, he’s alive. he’s at the gates.”
your breath stops, your knees buckle, and you catch yourself against the desk, his letters crumpling under your hand.
“alive?”
you rasp, the word tasting of snow and hope.
“half-dead, maybe, but alive. he came alone. on foot. gods know how.”
you don’t wait for more.
you’re running, the cloak forgotten, your boots slipping on the stone as you tear through the halls. the courtyard is a blur of torchlight and snow, men shouting, horses snorting, but all you see is him standing by the gates.
he’s taller, broader, his hair longer and matted with dirt, his face carved with scars that weren’t there before. his armor is dented, caked with mud, and he leans on a sword like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.
but it’s him.
cregan.
your cregan.
you stop a few paces away, your chest heaving, tears burning behind your eyes. he sees you then, his gray eyes lifting, dull, haunted, nothing like the bright spark you remember. he doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, just stares as if you’re a dream he’s afraid to believe in.
“cregan,”
you whisper, stepping closer, your voice trembling with six years of longing.
“you’re alive.”
he flinches, almost imperceptibly, his jaw tightening.
“i shouldn’t be,”
he says, his voice rough, scraped raw by time and war.
“i didn’t think i’d…”
he trails off, looking away, as if the words are too heavy to finish.
you close the distance, reaching for him, your hands shaking as they hover over his chest.
“you’re home,” you say, soft but fierce.
“you came back to me.”
he doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t meet your eyes either.
“i’m not… i’m not what i was,”
he mutters, so low you almost miss it.
“you shouldn’t have waited.”
the words sting, but you shake your head, tears spilling now, hot against the cold air.
“i knew you weren’t dead. i knew it. i’d have waited a hundred years.”
he looks at you then, really looks, and something in his gaze, something that remembers you, that feels of what you once had. but it’s buried deep, smothered by shadows you can’t yet name. you take his hand, cold and calloused, and lead him inside, past the stunned guards, past the whispers, into the warmth of winterfell. into his chambers.
the door creaks shut behind you. he stands there, a stranger in his own space, his eyes sweeping over the room, the furs, the desk, the letters. it’s all the same, frozen in time, just as he left it. you watch him, your heart aching at the way he moves, slow and deliberate, like he’s afraid to touch anything.
“you kept it,”
he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. he steps toward the desk, his fingers brushing the edge of a letter, the parchment yellowed with age.
“everything,”
you reply, stepping closer.
“every piece of you. i couldn’t let it go.”
he turns, and for the first time, you see the weight he carries the lines etched into his face.
“out there,” he starts, his voice breaking,
“when it was bad… your face kept me alive. i’d close my eyes and see you, hear you, telling me to come home. but i didn’t think i’d ever…”
he stops, swallowing hard.
“i didn’t think you’d still be here.”
“where else would i be?”
you say, your voice soft but steady, the tears streaming freely now.
“you were my home, cregan. you still are.”
he shakes his head, stepping back, his hand falling from the desk.
“i’m not him anymore. that boy you loved... he’s gone. i’ve done things, seen things… i’m not worth waiting for.”
you move before he can retreat further, grabbing his arm, your fingers digging into the leather of his sleeve.
“don’t you dare say that,”
you hiss, your voice raw with desperation.
“you’re still cregan stark. my cregan. i see you, even if you don’t see yourself.”
he stares at you, his breath uneven, and for a moment, you think he’ll pull away. but then his hand lifts, tentative, trembling, and brushes your cheek, wiping away a tear.
“you’re too good,”
he murmurs, almost to himself.
“too good for what’s left of me.”
“then let me remind you,”
you whisper, leaning into his touch.
“let me show you what we had, what we still have.”
the days stretch into weeks, and he doesn’t leave, but he doesn’t fully return either. he’s a ghost in his own keep, sitting silently by the fire while you talk of the years he missed. you tell him of the winters you endured, the letters you wrote and never sent, the nights you sat in his chambers praying to the old gods.
he listens, always listening, but his responses are clipped, guarded, as if he’s afraid to let himself feel too much.
yet there are small, fleeting moments, where the boy you knew peeks through. when you catch him staring at you across the table, his eyes soft with something like wonder. when his hand lingers on yours after you pass him a cup, the touch warm despite the cold. when he laughs at a story you tell of a clumsy servant, and the sound cracks something open in your chest.
you’re patient.
you don’t push, don’t demand. you simply stay, a constant presence, a tether to the life he left behind. and slowly, so slowly, he begins to thaw. he starts to seek you out, sitting closer by the fire, asking questions about the keep, brushing his fingers against yours without pulling away.
one night, he finds you in his chambers again, reading one of his old letters aloud, your voice trembling with the memory of him.
“stop,”
he says, but there’s no anger in it, only a quiet plea. he’s standing in the doorway, his shadow long against the floor.
you lower the letter, your heart pounding.
“why?”
“because it hurts,”
he admits, stepping inside, his boots heavy on the stone.
“hearing you… it’s like hearing a life i don’t deserve anymore.”
you stand, crossing the room to him, your hands reaching for his face. he doesn’t flinch this time, doesn’t pull away.
“you deserve it,”
you say, fierce and certain.
“you deserve me. us. everything we dreamed of.”
his hands cover yours, holding them against his skin, and his eyes close, a shudder running through him.
“i thought of you every day,”
he confesses, his voice breaking.
“every damned day. i fought to come back, but i didn’t know if you’d still…”
“i’m here,”
you cut in, pressing your forehead to his, your tears mingling with his breath.
“i’ve always been here.”
he kisses you then, sudden, desperate, his lips rough against yours, tasting sorrow and six years of longing. it’s not gentle, not like the shy kisses you’d shared as children, but it’s real, raw, a reclaiming of what war tried to steal.
you cling to him, your fingers tangling in his hair, and when he pulls back, his eyes are brighter, alive in a way they haven’t been since he returned.
“marry me,”
he says, breathless, his hands still framing your face.
“marry me now, before anything else tries to take you from me.”
the godswood is silent, the snow falling soft around you, the heart tree looms above, its red leaves stark against the gray, its face watching as you stand before it, cregan at your side.
you wear a simple gown, gray and fur-lined, a cloak of stark colors draped over your shoulders. he’s in his armor, cleaned and polished, but still bearing the scars of battle, a mirror to the man he’s become. the vows come slow, each word a promise carved into the air, into your souls.
“i am hers, and she is mine,”
he says, his voice strong now, unwavering, his eyes never leaving yours.
“from this day, until my last day.”
“i am his, and he is mine,”
your voice trembling not with fear, but with joy, with love so deep it aches.
“from this day, until my last day.”
he slips a ring onto your finger, a simple, silver, etched with a direwolf and you do the same, your hands shaking as you bind yourselves together. t
he septon steps back, and cregan pulls you close, his lips finding yours beneath the tree, the gods as witness. it’s softer this time, a vow in itself, and when you part, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin.
“i’m home,”
he whispers, and you feel it, the boy you loved, the man he is, finally yours.
Omg I feel like such a bad person, BUT I would totally make aemond get rid of alys and her child*cough murder cough*. I would totally be like “it can all be as it once was if they no longer existed” you know promises of love and honeyed words but after he does it and he comes back to her full of hope (and proof) I’m like HAHA NOPE YOU THOUGHT, I just wanted you to feel a glimpse of hope and now you have nothing. Not me, not our child, nor your whore and your bastard and then set off into the sunset to live my days at my family’s estate
OH THIS??? THIS IS SO INSANELY PETTY I LOVE IT. making him think he won, only to pull the rug out from under him and leave him with absolutely nothing?? peak vengeance. ultimate poetic justice. imagine the look on his face when he realizes he lost everything. chef’s kiss!!!
summary: you are aemond targaryen’s wife, married for love in a union that defied the cold traditions of westeros. just days after giving birth to your first child, a son named daeron, a raven arrives bearing a letter from alys rivers.
warnings: angst, themes of betrayal, postpartum vulnerability and exhaustion, heartbreak and doubt in a romantic relationship, no physical violence, but intense emotional conflict.
author notes: do you guys want a part 2? also… would you forgive him? personally, i wouldn’t, i’d take my babe and leave. but what do you think?
your body still ached from the birth, a quiet soreness that lingered beneath your skin, but there was a warmth too, a fierce love for the babe you’d brought into the world, little daeron slept in his cradle beside you, his tiny chest rising and falling with soft, shallow breaths. he was only four days old, a perfect blend of you and aemond with your gentle features and his sharp targaryen silver hair. aemond had been there, holding your hand through the long hours, whispering promises of a future for the three of you. his love had always felt like a steady flame, unyielding and true.
you were propped against the pillows, tracing daeron’s little fingers with your own, when the door opened. aemond stepped in, his long stride quieter than usual, as if he feared waking the babe.
his eyepatch was off, something he only did with you and the sapphire in its place glinted faintly.
“you should be resting,”
he said, warm voice, crossing to sit beside you on the bed. he brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch tender.
“i will,”
you murmured, offering a tired smile.
“he’s been fussy. i think he misses you.”
aemond’s lips quirked upward, and he leaned down to press a kiss to daeron’s forehead, then yours.
“i’ve missed you both,”
he said, settling beside you. for a moment, it was perfect, the quiet, the closeness, the family you’d dreamed of.
then came the knock. a servant entered, bowing low, a small scroll clutched in her hand.
“my prince, my lady, a raven came for you,”
she said, placing it on the table before slipping out.
you frowned, a letters for you were rare, especially now, when all of westeros knew you’d just given birth.
aemond’s brow furrowed.
“who’s it from?”
he asked, but there was a tightness in his voice, a shadow you didn’t catch at first.
“i don’t know,”
you said, reaching for it.
the wax seal was plain, unmarked, and your fingers hesitated as you broke it. the parchment unrolled, and as your eyes skimmed the words, the warmth in the room slowly drained away. your breath caught, sharp and painful, and you read it again, silently, to be sure. then, with a voice that shook despite your efforts, you read it aloud.
“to the lady targaryen, wife of aemond,
i am alys rivers, a woman of the riverlands. i write with a heavy heart, for i know the joy you must feel with your newborn child. yet i cannot keep silent. your husband and i shared a night together, months past, when he rode through my lands. he spoke of you even then, of his love for you, but the gods saw fit to leave me with a piece of him. i carry his child, soon to be born. i seek no claim on his heart, only acknowledgment of what is true. i leave my fate to you, trusting in the kindness your house is known for. may the old gods and the new watch over you and your babe.
in humility,
alys rivers”
the words heavy as a storm cloud. the parchment slipped from your hands, fluttering to the floor, and you stared at it, numb. aemond didn’t move, didn’t speak, his silence louder than any confession. you turned to him, searching his face the face you’d loved, trusted, clung to through every trial. his eye was fixed on the floor, his jaw tight, and that alone cracked something inside you.
“when?”
your voice was a whisper, fragile and raw.
“when did this happen?”
he swallowed hard, still not meeting your gaze.
“before daeron,” he said, barely audible.
“during the campaign in the riverlands. it was once. a mistake.”
a mistake. you pressed a hand to your chest, as if you could stop the ache spreading there.
“you never told me,”
you said, louder now, though your throat burned.
“i gave you everything, aemond, my heart, my trust, this child and you kept this from me?”
aemond finally looked at you, and the guilt in his eye was a blade twisting deeper.
“i didn’t want to hurt you,”
he said, reaching for your hand. you jerked it away, the motion instinctive, and his face fell.
“it was nothing, i swear it. i love you. i’ve only ever loved you.”
“then why does she write to me?”
your voice broke, tears stinging your eyes.
“why does she carry your child, aemond? how am i supposed to believe you when i’m lying here, still bleeding from giving you a son, and she’s out there with another?”
he flinched, as if your words had struck him, and maybe they had.
“i don’t know what she wants,”
he said, desperation creeping in.
“i didn’t ask for this. i didn’t—”
the room spun, the exhaustion of childbirth and the weight of this betrayal crashing over you like a wave. your family was known for kindness, for strength and you’d borne pain with grace, faced every challenge with a steady heart.
but this? this felt like a wound you couldn’t mend.
daeron stirred in his cradle, a soft whimper breaking the silence, and you moved to him instinctively, lifting him into your arms. you held him close, tears slipping down your cheeks as you looked at aemond.
“i thought we were different,” you whispered.
“i thought your love was mine alone.”
“it is,”
he said, standing now, his voice rough with emotion.
“gods, it is. i’ll write to her, send her away, anything you want.”
“what i want?” you laughed, bitter and broken.
“i wanted a husband who didn’t lie to me. i wanted to believe you when you said i was enough.”
you rocked daeron gently, his cries quieting, but your own storm raged on.
“she’s asking for my kindness, aemond. my mercy. how do i give that when i feel like i’m falling apart?”
he stepped closer, hesitant, his hand hovering near your shoulder.
“i’ll spend my life making this right,”
he said, voice cracking.
“i swear it on daeron, on you, on everything i am.”
you didn’t answer.
you couldn’t.
the letter lay on the floor, a cruel reminder of the crack in the life you’d built. your heart, so full of love for him just hours ago, now ached with doubt. you looked down at daeron, then at aemond, and the question burned in your chest.
could you forgive this? could you still believe in him?
summary: in the harsh, frostbitten lands of the north, you, the fierce valyrian-blooded wife of cregan stark, find your world unraveling with the return of arra norrey. pregnant with your first child, your strength is tested as arra’s presence stirs doubt and jealousy, threatening your place as lady of winterfell.
author notes: hi! in this one-shot, i picture the reader as having valyrian blood running through their veins, but without the signature silver hair or purple/blue eyes like the targaryens. however, they do speak high valyrian and ride dragons just like them. of course, this is an imagine, so feel free to picture the reader with any appearance you like. as always, enjoy and happy reading!
“do you think the babe will have your eyes?”
cregan’s voice rumbled low, a rare softness threading through it as he rested a hand on the swell of your belly. the fire crackled in the hearth, his calloused fingers traced absent circles over your gown, and for a moment, the world felt warm, safe.
you tilted your head to meet his gaze, your dark hair spilling over your shoulder like ink against the pale furs.
“i hope they have yours,”
you murmured, a faint smile tugging at your lips.
“grey like the north, steady and strong.”
he chuckled, a sound that vibrated through you, grounding you.
“strong, aye. but they’ll have your fire, i reckon. that valyrian blood of yours, it burns brighter than any hearth.”
you wanted to hold onto that moment, to bottle it and keep it close. your hand found his, pressing it tighter against your stomach, where the babe stirred faintly.
“a wolf with dragon’s blood,”
you said, your voice teasing but laced with pride.
“the north won’t know what to make of them.”
“nor will i,”
he admitted, his grey eyes softening as they held yours.
“but i’ll love them all the same. as i love you.”
the words wrapped around you like a cloak, and you leaned into him, resting your head against his chest. his heartbeat was steady, a drumbeat against the howling wind outside.
but the peace shattered when the doors creaked open, a servant stepping in with a hesitant bow.
“my lord, my lady… arra norrey has arrived. she’s in the great hall.”
the name hit you like a gust of winter wind, sharp and unyielding. cregan’s hand stilled on your stomach, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly. you watched him, searching his face for a crack in the mask he wore so well.
“arra?”
you asked, keeping your tone even despite the sudden knot in your chest.
“i thought she’d settled in the mountains.”
“so did i,” he said, rising to his feet.
his voice was clipped, not cold, but distant like he was already halfway out the door.
“i’ll see what she wants. rest, love. i won’t be long.”
he pressed a kiss to your forehead, firm and fleeting, before he left. and as the door shut behind him, you felt it, the first splinter in the foundation you’d built together.
arra norrey was no stranger to winterfell.
she was a ghost from cregan’s past, a woman of the north with wild auburn hair and a sharper tongue. she’d been his companion in youth, a friend, a whisper of something more before you’d swept into his life like a storm from the south. the youngest daughter of a valyrian line, your black hair and fierce spirit had captivated him, binding him to you in a way that felt unbreakable. or so you’d thought.
you didn’t mind her shadow at first. you were secure in your place, in the way cregan looked at you, in the child growing inside you. but when she swept into the great hall that day, her presence was a tempest you hadn’t braced for. she was all sharp edges and familiarity, her voice cutting through the air as she greeted cregan with a smile that lingered too long.
“it’s been years, cregan,”
she said, her tone warm, almost possessive.
“the north hasn’t changed, but you… you’ve grown into it.”
you stood at the edge of the hall, unnoticed at first, watching as he returned her smile, not the one he gave you, but something softer, older.
“you’ve not changed either, arra,”
he replied, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes you couldn’t name.
nostalgia?
affection? it clawed at you, that uncertainty.
she barely glanced your way, her focus locked on him. and as the days bled into weeks, it only grew worse. she found reasons to be near him, of bringing tales of the mountains, offering to scout with him, brushing his arm as she laughed at some shared memory from a time before you. you told yourself it was nothing. you were his wife, carrying his heir. but every touch, every glance she stole, chipped away at the steel you’d forged around your heart.
one afternoon, you watched from a window as they stood in the courtyard, her hand resting on his arm as she spoke animatedly. he didn’t pull away. he laughed, a sound that once belonged to you alone and the sight twisted something deep inside you. your hand pressed against your belly, where the babe kicked harder, as if sensing your turmoil.
“i don’t know what to do, sara,”
you confessed one evening, your voice trembling as you sat with sara snow in the quiet of the godswood, the air was bitter. sara, with her dark eyes and gentle demeanor, had become an unexpected anchor in the storm. she carried no judgment, only understanding.
she tilted her head, studying you.
“you’re his lady, his wife. she’s a memory, nothing more. why let her haunt you?”
you pressed a hand to your belly, feeling the faint kick of the life within.
“because he doesn’t see it, the way she looks at him, the way she tries to pull him back to what they had. and i… i feel like i’m fading. like i’m not enough.”
sara’s hand found yours, her grip firm.
“you’re more than enough. you’re valyrian steel in flesh, stronger than she’ll ever be. but you’ve got to tell him, not me. he’s a man, thick as they come sometimes. he won’t know unless you make him see.”
“i’ve tried,”
you whispered, your voice breaking.
“but every time i look at him, i see her shadow behind him. i see the way he softens when she speaks, and i wonder… did he settle for me? did he choose me because i was here, because i was convenient?”
sara frowned, shaking her head.
“you think cregan stark, lord of winterfell, would marry a woman out of convenience? he chose you because you’re a force, a flame in this frozen hell. arra’s a spark that’s long gone out. don’t let her make you doubt that.”
you wanted to believe her, but the doubt had taken root, spreading like frost over glass. that night, when cregan slipped into your chambers, his hands cold from the yard, you couldn’t meet his eyes. he sensed it, kneeling before you as you sat by the fire, your hands folded over your swollen belly.
“what’s wrong, love?”
his voice was gentle, but it broke something in you.
“arra,”
you said, the name tasting like ash.
“she’s everywhere, cregan. every time i turn, she’s there, pulling you away. and you let her.”
his brows furrowed, confusion etching his face.
“she’s an old friend. she means nothing—”
“don’t,”
you snapped, your voice rising despite the tears burning your eyes.
“don’t tell me it’s nothing when i see the way she looks at you, the way you smile at her. i’m your wife, cregan, carrying your child, and i feel like i’m losing you.”
the silence that followed was suffocating. he reached for you, but you pulled away, the ache in your chest too raw.
“i thought i was your fire,”
you whispered, your voice cracking.
“but maybe i’m just the shadow she’s casting.”
he stood then, his expression hardening not with anger, but with something deeper, something pained.
“you think i’d choose her over you? over our family?”
his voice was low, strained, each word deliberate.
“i’ve been a fool not to see it, how it’s hurt you. but you’re wrong, my love. you’re everything.”
you wanted to believe him, but the wound was too fresh, too deep.
“then why does it feel like i’m fighting for you?”
the words slipped out, fragile and broken.
“why does it feel like i’m begging for a place that should already be mine?”
he didn’t answer right away. instead, he turned and left the room, the door closing with a soft thud that echoed in your bones. you sank into the chair, tears streaming down your face as the fire dwindled to embers. the babe kicked again, harder this time, and you pressed your hands to your stomach, whispering apologies to the life you carried, for the fear, for the doubt, for the cracks in the love you’d thought unbreakable.
the next morning, arra was gone.
you heard it from the servants first, she’d been sent back to the mountains, her horse saddled before dawn. the news came like a cold wind and unexpected, and you stood in the courtyard, watching the empty space where she’d last been. the snow crunched under your boots, your breath clouding in the frigid air.
when cregan found you, he looked weary, his eyes shadowed with something you hadn’t seen before, regret, perhaps, or resolve. he stopped a few paces away, his cloak dusted with snow.
“she’s gone,” he said simply, his voice rough.
“i told her to leave. for you.”
you stared at him, your heart pounding.
“why?”
“because i saw it, how she looked at me, how it tore at you. i’d never dishonor you, never let anyone come between us. arra… she was a piece of my past, a friend i thought i could keep at arm’s length. but i was wrong.”
he stepped closer, his hands reaching for yours, and this time you didn’t pull away.
“i should’ve sent her off the moment she arrived. i was blind, and i’m sorry.”
tears spilled down your cheeks, hot against the cold.
“i thought… i thought you regretted me,”
you admitted, your voice trembling.
“that i wasn’t enough. that she was the one you wanted, deep down.”
he cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears, his touch warm despite the chill.
“regret you? gods, no. you’re the fire in my blood, the steel in my spine. i’d burn the north to ashes before i let you doubt that. arra was a memory, a ghost i didn’t bury well enough. but you… you’re my life, my heart, the mother of my child.”
you broke then, a sob escaping as you fell into his arms. he held you tight, his warmth seeping into you, thawing the ice that had settled in your chest.
“i love you,”
he murmured against your hair, fierce and unwavering.
“only you. always you.”
you clung to him, the weight of your fears lifting, replaced by the steady beat of his heart against yours. the babe kicked between you, a reminder of the life you’d built, the love that held despite the cracks. he pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands framing your face as snowflakes caught in your dark hair.
“i’d fight the world for you,”
he said, his voice low but steady.
“every inch of it. you’re my lady, my wife, my flame. no one else.”
you reached up, your fingers curling into his cloak, pulling him down until his lips met yours. the kiss was desperate at first, all the pent-up fear and longing spilling out, but it softened into something tender, something sure. the cold faded, the shadows retreated, and all that remained was the heat of him, the strength of you, and the promise of what lay ahead.
as the snow fell silent around you, you rested your forehead against his, your breath mingling in the frozen air.
“i believe you,”
you whispered, and it felt like a release, a weight you hadn’t known you carried.
“i love you too.”
he smiled then, the one he saved for you alone, soft, unguarded, and full of the north’s quiet strength.
“good,”
he said, his hand slipping to your belly.
“because this little one needs us both.”
and in that moment, with the wind howling and the world vast and wild around you, you knew no shadow could dim the fire you shared.
summary: you have fled to the stormlands with queen rhaenyra’s leave, seeking solace with your mother and father after the fractures in your marriage to jace deepen. as you dine with your parents one stormy night, grappling with the ache of being second in jace’s heart, he arrives unannounced. your parents, aware of the strain between you, bear witness as jace humbles himself, offering an apology to them for his failings as your husband.
warnings: angst, emotional distress, themes of unrequited love, familial tension, unresolved conflict. | part 1.
author’s note: heyy! hope you like part 2 as much as the first one. there’s a possibility of a part 3, so stay tuned! also, if you have any feedback, i’d love to hear it. enjoy!
the stormlands roar tonight, rain hammering the high walls of raventhorne keep, you sit at the long oak table in the hall, the hearth’s warmth warring with the damp chill seeping through every crevice. your mother, lady ellyn, slides a goblet of spiced wine toward you, her keen eyes tracing the shadows beneath yours. your father, lord cedric, carves a slab of roasted boar with a steady hand, though his silence cuts deeper than the storm’s din. they know, queen rhaenyra’s raven granted you these days away, but it’s your hollow gaze and restless fingers that betray the state of your marriage.
“you’ve scarce touched your plate, y/n,” your mother says, her voice soft but piercing.
“is it the journey, or does dragonstone still cling to you?”
you muster a smile, fragile as dry leaves.
“the sea road wearies me, mother. that’s all.”
your father grunts, setting his knife down with a thud.
“wearies you, she says. yet here you sit, with the queen’s leave and no word of your husband. we’re not blind, girl.”
before you can even reply, the hall’s heavy doors groan open, a gust of wind sweeping in alongside a figure cloaked in black. the servants falter, but you recognize that stride, the faint clink of a sword sheath against leather.
jacaerys velaryon stands there, drenched, his dark hair plastered to his brow. his eyes lock on yours across the hall, and the air tightens, sharp, electric, like the calm before a thunderclap.
“jace?”
your voice slips out, small and unsteady, as you rise. your parents trade a look, their expressions hardening.
“lord cedric, lady ellyn,” he says, bowing stiffly despite the water pooling at his feet.
“i beg your pardon for coming unbidden. i rode from dragonstone without rest.”
your father leans back, arms crossed.
“a hard ride in wretched weather. what drags the heir of driftmark to our door, and not at his wife’s side where he belongs?”
jace straightens, a tremor in his stance exhaustion, perhaps, or shame.
“i’ve come to speak with y/n. and to you both.”
he pauses, then steps forward, firelight catching the regret in his eyes.
“i’ve not been the husband she deserves. i’ve wronged her, wronged your house and i seek your forgiveness for it.”
your mother’s brows arch, her tone cold as forged steel.
“bold of you, prince jacaerys. you think words stitch up what’s been unraveling for years? we entrusted our daughter to you, not to see her return to us a shell.”
“i know,”
he says, voice breaking, raw and unguarded.
“i know what she’s endured my silences, my choices. i thought duty could hold us together, but i see now how it’s wounded her deeper than any sword. i’ve let… baela’s shadow stretch too far, and i’ve no defense but my own failing.”
you stand rooted, your heart a snarl of anger and longing.
“you say this now?” you whisper, stepping closer.
“after i’ve begged, after i’ve broken, you ride here to confess to my parents what you couldn’t face with me?”
“i tried, y/n,”
he says, turning to you, his gaze pleading.
“in dragonstone, i tried, but you were right, i’ve been a coward. i thought i could bury what i felt, for baela, for the past, and offer you what remained. but it wasn’t enough. it’ll never be enough until i reckon with it.”
your father stands, his presence looming.
“and what do you reckon with now, boy? a wife who’s given you her loyalty, her name, and what have you given her? a cold bed and a colder heart?”
jace doesn’t waver, though his hands clench.
“i’ve given her my shortcomings, lord cedric. but i swear on my honor, on my blood i’ll do better. not for duty, but because y/n worth more than i’ve allowed myself to see.”
your mother’s eyes shift to you, softening.
“y/n, what say you? this is your hearth, your pain. we’ll not choose for you.”
the hall falls quiet save for the storm’s fury, all eyes on you. your throat tightens, tears you’ve held back for days prickling hotly.
“you think words mend this, jace?” you say, voice quaking.
“you think riding through the rain erases the years i’ve been your second choice? i stood by you when baela turned away, when the court sneered, when i wanted to hate you but couldn’t. and now you come here, to my father’s hall, and heap your guilt at my feet?”
“i don’t ask forgiveness tonight,”
he says, stepping nearer, his voice low and fierce.
“i ask you to let me try. to prove i can be more than the fool who let you slip away.”
you meet his gaze, the boy you once raced through the vale warring with the man who’s shattered your heart.
“and if i say no?” you ask, barely a breath.
“if i choose to stay here, with storms i understand, instead of the ones you carry?”
he falters, pain etching his face.
“then i’ll ride back to dragonstone alone. but i’ll not stop trying, y/n. not until you tell me there’s nothing left to save.”
the weight of his words presses down, heavy as the rain-soaked cloak he wears. your parents watch, waiting, but you feel the choice looming a ledge you’re not ready to leap from.
“stay,”
you say at last, the word slipping out before you can stop it.
“the storm’s too fierce to ride back tonight. take a chamber here for a few days. we’ll speak when the skies clear.”
he blinks, surprise flickering in his eyes, then nods slowly.
“as you wish. my thanks, y/n and to you, lord cedric, lady ellyn, for your hospitality.”
your mother rises, gesturing to a servant.
“see him settled. dry clothes and a fire, he’ll catch his death otherwise.”
then she turns to you, her voice low.
“show him, y/n. it’s your home.”
you hesitate, but nod, stepping forward.
“come, jace.”
he follows you through the shadowed corridors, you lead him to a guest chamber, its wooden door creaking as you push it open. inside, a small fire already crackles, and a servant has left a stack of dry linens on the bed. jace lingers at the threshold, water dripping from his cloak onto the stone.
“you’ll need to shed that,”
you say, nodding to his sodden clothes.
“it’ll only chill you more.”
he glances down, then begins unclasping his cloak, his fingers stiff from the cold. you step closer without thinking, reaching to help him with the stubborn knot at his shoulder. your hands brush his, and he stills, his breath catching. for a moment, you’re children again, untangling nets by the river, laughing as the wind tugged at your hair.
“you didn’t have to come,”
you murmur, not meeting his eyes as you work the knot free.
“not through this.”
“i did,” he says softly, watching you. “i couldn’t leave it as it was.”
the cloak falls to the floor with a wet thud, and you step back, fetching a dry tunic from the pile.
“here,” you say, handing it to him.
“warm yourself. i’ll have broth sent up.”
he takes it, his fingers grazing yours, and the touch lingers, a quiet ache.
“y/n,” he starts, but you shake your head.
“not tonight,” you say, turning to the fire.
you kneel to stoke it, the flames leaping higher, and feel his eyes on your back.
“rest. we’ll talk when the storm breaks.”
he doesn’t argue, and you hear the rustle of fabric as he changes. when you rise, he’s by the hearth, the dry tunic clinging to his damp skin, his hair still a mess of wet curls. you pause, then reach for a cloth, tossing it to him.
“dry your head, at least. you look half-drowned.”
a faint smile tugs at his lips a small, fleeting, but real.
“thank you,” he says, rubbing the cloth through his hair. it’s a simple thing, but it softens the air between you, if only for a moment.
“sleep well, jace,” you say, stepping toward the door.
“the keep’s yours for now.”
he nods, the firelight casting shadows across his face.
“goodnight, y/n.”
you leave him there, the door clicking shut behind you, and return to the hall. your mother takes your hand as you sit, her voice a whisper.
“what will you do, my raven?”
you stare into the flames, their heat a distant comfort, and murmur,
“i don’t know, mother.”
outside, the storm rages on, and with it, the question of what these days will bring.
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summary: you, y/n raventhorne of house raventhorne, have spent your life tied to jacaerys velaryon. first as his childhood companion, then as his wife through a political marriage. though your bond once held promise, it’s now a shadow of what it could have been. jacaerys’ heart has always belonged to baela targaryen, his intended bride, until she refused him. you stepped into her place, a willing substitute, but never his true choice.
warnings: angst, emotional distress, themes of unrequited love, political marriage, heartbreak. | part 2.
author note: my first ‘hotd’ fanfic! hope you like it. any questions or requests are very much appreciated! i’m not sure if i’ll write a part 2 yet, but if you really want one, just let me know. xx
“you’ve been staring at that fire as though it holds answers i cannot give,” jacaerys says.
his voice cutting through the quiet of the chamber. the stone walls of dragonstone loom around you, the salt-heavy air seeping in from the sea. he stands near the door, his dark curls tousled, the faint clink of his sword sheath brushing his thigh a sound you know too well.
you don’t turn from the hearth, your hands clasped tightly in the folds of your black velvet gown. the silver raven sigil of house raventhorne glints at your breast, a cold reminder of your name, your duty.
“perhaps it does,”
you reply, your tone clipped, honed by years of swallowing words you longed to speak.
“the flames do not lie, jace. they burn what’s false and leave only… the truth.”
he steps closer, his boots scuffing the stone floor.
“and what truth do you see there, y/n? that i’ve wronged you somehow? that i’ve failed you?”
you laugh, a bitter sound that surprises even you, and finally face him. his brown eyes meet yours, steady, guarded, achingly familiar.
“failed me? no, my lord. you’ve honored our vows, kept me fed and cloaked and housed. a fine husband, by the measure of duty. but we both know where your heart lies.”
his jaw tightens, a flicker of guilt shadowing his face.
“baela has naught to do with this.”
“baela has everything to do with this,”
you counter, stepping toward him, your skirts whispering against the cold floor.
“do not stand there and weave half-truths. i’ve borne them long enough. every choice you make carries her name, and when she refuses, i am the one who steps into the void. i am your wife, jacaerys, bound by blood and oath, and yet i am ever the shadow of what you wanted.”
“she made her choice,” he says, voice low, almost pleading. “she refused me. you know this.”
“and yet she lingers,” you press, the words spilling out like a wound breaking open.
“in your silences, in the way you pause before you touch me. i see it, jace every time you ride to war, whose favor do you seek? when you return, blood-stained and weary, whose name do you murmur in the dark? i’ve stood by you, carried the weight of this alliance, of our houses, of a crown you might one day claim. and still, i am second.”
he flinches, running a hand through his hair, a gesture you once found endearing, now a dagger to your chest.
“you think i don’t care for you? we were friends, y/n… more than that, once. i’ve tried—”
“tried?” you cut him off, your voice trembling despite yourself.
“i do not want your efforts, jacaerys. i want your heart. i want to be seen not as the one who took baela’s place, but as me. y/n raventhorne. your wife. not the consolation you settled for.”
he steps forward then, closing the gap, his hand hovering near your arm.
“you speak as though i’ve cast you aside. i’ve honored our marriage, our duty—”
“duty,” you spit, stepping back from his reach.
“i am no child to be placated with talk of duty. i’ve played my part, smiled at feasts, held my tongue when you lingered too long at her side, endured the court’s whispers. but i am flesh and blood, jace, not stone. i feel every wound you deal me, every moment you choose her over me.”
his hand falls, his shoulders slumping as though your words have struck true.
“what would you have me do?”
he asks, raw and unguarded. “i cannot unmake the past. baela was my first betrothed, yes, but you… you are my wife. my future.”
“and yet you do not love me,”
you whisper, the truth slipping free, sharp and final. it hangs between you, heavy as a storm cloud. his silence answers, and your chest tightens, tears prickling at your eyes.
“y/n…” he begins, but you shake your head, cutting him off.
“do not offer me pity,” you say, voice breaking.
“i’ve had my fill of it.” you turn toward the window, the sea a restless blur of black and silver beyond the glass.
“i thought i could bear it, being second in your heart. i thought time might shift the balance. but i am weary, jace. weary of chasing a shadow i’ll never outrun.”
he’s quiet, the crackle of the fire and the distant roar of waves filling the void. when he speaks again, his voice is soft, threaded with something you can’t name.
“if you wish to be free of this, if you wish to return to the vale, to your house… i would not stop you.”
your breath catches, a fresh pain blooming within you. freedom. he offers it like a mercy, but it cuts like a blade. to leave would be to surrender, to abandon the years you’ve given him. to stay would be to break beneath the weight of his indifference.
you face him, eyes blazing through unshed tears.
“and what then, jacaerys? you’d summon baela the moment my ship sails? or find another to fill my place, as i filled hers?”
he doesn’t answer, and that silence carves a deeper wound than words ever could. you step toward the door, your voice steady despite the storm within.
“i’ll not decide this night. but know this, my lord husband, i am done being the one you settle for.”
you brush past him, the scent of leather and steel clinging to him as you go, and you don’t look back. the hall stretches dark and endless before you, and as you vanish into its depths, one question burns in your mind.
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