all the fantastic fics i’ve ever read and liked in one place. hope y’all enjoy them just as much as i did :D. and i’d like to thank all the authors for putting their time and energy into creating these masterpieces <333
pairing: baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader
and so the story goes: a dragon falls in love with a wolf, ice invites fire.
content warnings/contains: stark!reader (no physical description other than the fact you're barthogan stark's daughter); set pre-akotsk so no show spoilers, but post first blackfyre rebellion; strangers to lovers; implied age gap; protective!smitten!baelor; angst/fluff; mutual pining; falling in love; sexual tension; court drama.
Clarice cleared her throat. “I can’t reach my feet,” she said simply.
Aerion stared at her. He looked at her feet, then at her face. His expression flickered between irritation, disgust, and then something else. Something swift and sharp and much too vulnerable that he buried before it could settle into his features.
Aerion let out a short, humorless breath. “Pathetic,”
He dropped to one knee.
a/n: just a small drabble of something that's been on my mind for a while
The heat in the Reach wasn’t anything like the heat of King’s Landing. In the capital, the summer air smelled of shit and old fish; it was a dry, baking oven that trapped the city against the Blackwater. Here at Ashford, the heat was contrastingly green. It rose from the meadow damp and heavy —distinctively too heavy— smelling of crushed grass, horse sweat, and the river. It clung to the skin like a second layer of silk, inescapable and suffocating.
Clarice Arryn sat on the edge of the camp bed, her blonde hair crimping at the ends, her hands resting on the swell of her stomach. The child was kicking again; a frantic, rhythmic drumming against her ribs that felt less like a baby and more like a trapped bird throwing itself against the bars of a cage in an idle attempt to escape.
A dragon, she thought, the notion tired and familiar.
She was six months pregnant, heavy enough that her balance had shifted, and that daily activities had become nothing short of grueling exercise. She stared defeated at the leather straps lying limp on the rug, then at her swollen ankles. The once simple act of fastening her sandals felt impossible now.
The tent flap swept open.
It didn’t flutter; it was shoved aside with the sharp snap of brute force. Aerion entered. He brought the day’s violence in with him; the metallic tang of fresh oil on armor, the smell of a cheap wine and ale, and that peculiar, electric tension that seemed to crackle around him whenever he was bored.
And Aerion Targaryen was currently very, very bored.
He stopped in the center of the pavilion. He was wearing a doublet of red velvet that looked far too heavy for such suffocating weather, slashed with black satin, the three-headed dragon embroidered in golden thread upon his chest. His silver hair sat short, glaringly too short, over his skull, and his violet eyes were bright, restless, and cruel. He was undeniably magnificent to look upon, in the way wildfire or a venomous viper are magnificent.
He looked at her. He didn’t smile. He never smiled when he looked at her; he merely assessed, his gaze traveling from her face to the mound of her belly, then back up to her eyes. He curled his nose.
“You look ghastly,” he said. His voice was melodic and clear, cultured in a way that made every sentence sound like it was carved in judgment.
“And you, husband,” Clarice replied, her voice dry and cool, “look like a summer mummer who has raided a brothel’s wardrobe. Did you steal from a street juggler?”
Aerion’s lips quirked into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. It was a smile that usually promised violence to everyone else, but for her, it was simply the opening move in their daily game. He crossed the room, stripping off his riding gloves in a gesture of uncalled exasperation. “The humidity is a plague. I should have the river dammed. Or boiled.”
“I’m sure the river is trembling at the threat, dearest.”
“It should.” He tossed the gloves onto a table cluttered with wine cups and maps. He began to pace, a prowling back and forth that made the large tent feel impossibly smaller. “The commons are already swarming. Hedge knights. Squalid little men riding dying horses, thinking they can joust against princes. It smells of unwashed bodies and desperation out there.”
“You invited yourself to their tourney, Aerion,” Clarice reminded him. “If you dislike the smell of hedge knights, you could have stayed in Summerhall.”
“And miss the chance to remind them what a true knight looks like?” He stopped in front of her, his shadow falling over her lap. He tilted his head. “Why are you half dressed? Baelor, may he choke on his own name, expects us at the evening meal. If you are late, he will look at me with that disappointed heavy lidded stare, and I shall be forced to set the table on fire.”
Clarice cleared her throat. “I can’t reach my feet,” she said simply.
Aerion stared at her. He looked at her feet, then at her face. His expression flickered between irritation, disgust, and then something else. Something swift and sharp and much too vulnerable that he buried before it could settle into his features.
Aerion let out a short, humorless breath. “Pathetic,”
He dropped to one knee.
Clarice didn’t move. She didn’t flinch, and she certainly didn’t thank him. She watched the top of his head as he took her left foot with his hand. His fingers were long and pale, yet surprisingly strong. He didn’t do it gently, Aerion didn’t do gently. He jerked the strap tight, winding the leather around her ankle with a precision that bordered on aggressive.
“You are an Arryn,” he said to her foot, his voice dropping to a scornful murmur. “Mountain stock. Supposed to be hardy. And yet, one half-formed dragon whelp and you are rendered invalid.”
“The dragon takes up a lot of room,” Clarice said, watching his hands. “It has your ego.”
Aerion pulled the knot tight —too tight, just for a second, a spiteful and vicious pinch of warning— before loosening it to a perfect fit. He switched to the other foot.
“Does it hurt?” he asked. He didn’t look up.
“The strap?”
“The child.”
Clarice thought about it. “Yes.”
He paused, his thumb tracing the bone of her ankle. It was a touch that lasted a fraction of a second too long to be accidental, but he withdrew his hand instantly, as if the contact burned him. “Good. Pain clarifies the mind. You’ve been too quiet lately.”
“I am conserving my energy. One of us has to have the temperament of an adult.”
He finished the second sandal and stood up in a single, fluid motion, towering over her again. He dusted his knees, though the rug was clean. “Get up. Wear the blue silk. The dark one that matches your eyes. I won’t have you looking pale and sickly next to Valarr’s wife. Kiera always looks like she’s just eaten a basket of plums.”
Clarice reached out a hand.
It was a test, it was always a test with them. They were common currency in their marriage.
Aerion looked at her hand. He sneered, a bitter curling of the lip that showed his teeth. “Can you do nothing yourself, you feckless woman?”
But he took her hand. His grip was hard, pulling her up with a force that was almost rough, but the moment she was on her feet and slightly swayed, his other hand snapped out, seizing her waist to steady her.
He held her there for a heartbeat. His palm was hot against her side, burning through the thin linen of her shift. He was close enough that she could smell the cloves he had chewed on to sweeten his breath, and the faint, blazing scent of his skin.
He looked into her eyes, searching for fear. He always searched for fear.
Clarice gave him none. She looked back, her dark blue eyes, the colour of the moonlit sea, calm and unblinking.
He released her abruptly and turned away, pouring himself a cup of wine. “My father is in a foul mood,” Aerion muttered. “Daeron has lost Aegon. The drunkard can’t even keep track of a child.”
Clarice remained quiet, placing her hands over her stomach. “Aegon is resourceful,” She then said, after taking a long breath. “He probably went to find a cooler place to sleep. Or to look at the knights.”
Aerion brought the cup towards his lips, not taking a sip, as if weighing her words. He then walked to the entrance of the tent. “Dress yourself. And hide the blade you like to hide in your sleeve. This is a tourney, not a back alley brawl.”
“It’s a small knife, Aerion. For fruit.”
“It’s an Essosi stiletto, Clarice. And you use it to clean your nails when you think I’m not looking.” He took a long drink, and dropped the goblet into the rug. “Hurry up.”
He vanished into the heat.
Clarice was left alone in the tent, but the air still felt charged with his presence. It was exhausting, being Aerion Targaryen’s wife. It was a constant dance on the edge of a cliff, waiting to see if he would push her or pull her back.
*********
The pavilion of House Targaryen was a sprawling construct of black and red fabric, a temporary palace erected on the trampled, suffering grass of the meadow.
Dinner was an exercise in theatre.
Prince Baelor Breakspear sat at the head of the table, dark haired and broken nosed, looking most handsome in a simple, black doublet; radiating the kind of effortless authority that made Aerion grind his teeth. Next to him sat his son, Valarr, small and slim and brown haired, lacking the Targaryen look but possessing a quiet decency that Clarice had always found soothing.
Aerion hated them both. He hated them for their dark hair, and for the way the realm looked at them with hope, while they looked at him with wary, panicked caution.
Clarice sat at Aerion’s right hand. She wore the blue silk, as he had commanded. She usually wouldn’t do as such, as she enjoyed the confrontation, but today she chose caution.
Aerion was restless. She knew the signs well enough. He was yearning for conflict, for a reason to unleash the fire that so viciously burned under his skin. He felt slighted by his father, annoyed by his brothers, and bored by the peace.
Clarice ate small bites of roasted duck, acutely aware of Aerion’s leg pressing against hers under the table.
“The lists are in acceptable condition,” Baelor was saying, his voice a low, steady rumble. “Though the ground is soft near the river end. I’ve warned the master of games to lay down more straw.”
“Straw,” Aerion scoffed, stabbing a fig with his knife. “We are putting knights on horses, Uncle, not bedding down pigs. If a man cannot ride through a bit of mud, he has no business holding a lance.”
“A horse slipping can break a man’s neck, cousin,” Valarr said sharply. “Even a good rider.”
“Then the horse was weak, or the man was clumsy,” Aerion retorted. He sliced the fig in half, its purple flesh tearing open. “Natural selection. We coddle them too much. This is meant to be combat, not a dance.”
“It is a celebration,” Baelor said, his eyes now resting heavily on his nephew. “Not a war.”
“Is there a difference?” Aerion asked, smiling that bright, terrible smile.
Clarice felt the tension spike in the air, sharp as a needle. She reached for her goblet, her movement slow and deliberate.
“The difference,” Clarice interjected, her voice cutting through the silence, “is that in a war, the enemy is trying to kill you. In a tourney, they are only trying to knock you down. It bruises the pride more than the body. Perhaps that is what worries you so terribly, husband?”
The table went still. Valarr looked down at his plate, hiding a grin. Baelor watched them, his expression unreadable.
Aerion turned his head slowly to look at her. His eyes were wide, violet irises that seemed too large swimming in white.
“My pride,” he said softly, “is not so easily bruised as a peach, sweet wife.”
“No,” she agreed, meeting his gaze over the rim of her cup. “It is more like glass. Hard, sharp, and spectacular when it shatters.”
Aerion stared at her. For a second, she saw the violence rise in him, a dark tide behind his eyes. He wanted to strike her. She knew it, and he knew she knew it. The air between them buzzed with the electric desire for conflict.
Then, the corner of his mouth twitched.
“Eat your duck, Clarice,” he said, his attention back to his plate. “Before you faint, and I have to drag you out by your hair.”
Baelor cleared his throat, unimpressed by his nephew’s threats. “Clarice, how is the heat treating you? You look flushed.”
Clarice smiled. “I am well, Your Grace,” she lied politely. “Aerion ensures I am... comfortable.”
“I ensure she is kept in the shade,” Aerion corrected, his hand dropping under the table to grip her knee. His fingers dug in, marking her skin. “Like a mushroom.”
The meal continued, a strained affair of pleasantries stretched thin over the rocky road that was Aerion’s temperament. Clarice played her part: the dutiful wife, the Arryn beauty. She smiled at Valarr’s jokes and nodded at Baelor’s wisdom.
But she was tethered to the storm beside her. Every time she laughed at something Valarr said, Aerion’s grip on her knee tightened. Every time she looked away, he shifted so his shoulder bumped hers. He was constantly checking, constantly verifying that she was there, that she was his, that she was paying attention to him and him alone.
When the meal ended, Aerion stood abruptly.
“Come,” he said to Clarice. “The air in here is stale. I want to walk the grounds.”
“Aerion,” Baelor warned, his eyes serious. “Do not antagonize the people tonight.”
“I only wish to see the stars, Uncle,” Aerion said, his voice dripping with false innocence. “Clarice is fond of astronomy. Aren’t you, my love?”
Clarice pursed her lips. “Immensely,” she said dryly.
Outside, the night had brought little relief from the heat. The air was thick with the smoke of a thousand campfires, the smell of roasting meat, and the raucous laughter of people.
Aerion walked with a swagger, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword, his eyes scanning the crowd with open, flaring contempt. He was looking for a fight, she knew. He always was.
He walked fast, his stride eating up the ground, forcing Clarice to keep pace. He didn’t offer her his arm. He walked slightly ahead of her, cutting a path through the crowds, expecting them to part for him. And they did. The sight of the silver-gold hair and the arrogant set of his shoulders was enough to make the smallfolk scramble into the mud.
“Look at them,” he sneered, gesturing vaguely at a group of squires gambling with dice near a crinkling fire. “Insects. They breed and they die and they leave nothing behind but dirt.”
“They grow the food you eat,” Clarice argued, keeping her hand on her stomach to dampen the jostling of her stride. “And they sew the velvet you wear.”
“And worms aerate the soil” he scoffed, “I don’t invite them to dinner.”
He stopped suddenly near the edge of the merchant’s row. A troupe of puppeteers were painting a wooden booth. There were bright dragons painted on the side, in an attempt to be crude and comical.
Aerion stared at the booth. His body went rigid.
“Mockery,” he whispered.
Clarice stepped up beside him. “It’s a puppet show, Aerion. It’s for children.”
“It’s a caricature,” he hissed, in a viperous gesture. “Look at the dragon. It looks like a lizard with the pox. Is that how they see us? Is that what they think we are?”
“They think you are powerful,” Clarice said, her voice firm. She stepped closer, invading his personal space, forcing him to look at her instead of the painted wood. “They fear you. And because they fear you, they make small jokes to make the fear manageable. If you burn down their booth, you only prove that you are exactly the monster they tell stories about.”
Aerion looked down at her. His face was pale in the torchlight, his eyes gleaminng. “I am the monster, Clarice. Haven’t you learned that yet?”
“You are a prince who is currently throwing a tantrum over some plywood,” she argued. “It is beneath you.”
He stared at her, his chest heaving slightly. The violence was right there, bubbling under the skin, searching for a release. He wanted to hurt something.
“You have a sharp tongue,” he murmured, stepping in close. He reached out and took her chin in his hand, tilting her face up. His fingers were cold now. “One day I will have to cut it out.”
“Then who would tell you when you’re being an idiot?” she asked.
His eyes narrowed. For a long, terrifying moment, he didn’t move. She glared at him, her hand instinctively drifting to the small, concealed pocket in the folds of her sleeve where her dagger rested.
Aerion saw the movement. His eyes flashed with delight, with almost manic amusement. “Go on,” he whispered. “Draw it. Let the commons see the Lady of the Vale try to gut the blood of the dragon.”
“I don’t need a blade to gut you, Aerion,” she said softly. “I need only wait for your ego to swell large enough to burst your skull.”
For a moment, they just stared at each other amidst the dust and the noise of the camp. To an outsider, the tension between them might have looked like hatred ; like pure, unadulterated loathing. And it was, in a way. But it was also the only language they knew. It was the intimacy of knives, sharpening each other.
Then, he let out a short, barking laugh. It wasn’t a happy sound, but it broke the spell. “I should have had you poisoned at our wedding feast. It would have saved me a great deal of headache.”
“I recall you tried,” Clarice countered, forcing her tone light, conversational. “Or was that just the Arbor Gold? It tasted vile enough to be hemlock.”
“Next time I shall use the Strangler,” Aerion promised, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper. “I’ll watch the light go out of those big, judgment filled, delectable eyes.”
“Do try not to botch it,” she said. “Incompetence is so unbecoming in a prince.”
His thumb brushed over her skin, surprisingly gentle. It was this exact dichotomy that maddened her. He could flay a man’s skin off with a smile, but with her, his touch was often reverent, as if he were handling a rare, dangerous artifact that he didn’t want to break.
Suddenly, the baby kicked. Aerion’s hand flinched on her chin, his eyes darting to her stomach. He hesitated, then reached down, placing his palm flat against the curve of her belly.
The child moved under his hand, a rolling wave of pressure. Aerion’s brow furrowed, in a flicker of genuine confusion crossing his face, as if he couldn’t quite reconcile the biology with the concept.
“He is restless,” Aerion murmured, his voice losing its edge for a fraction of a second. “He senses the tourney. He smells the blood in the air.”
“She,” Clarice was quick to correct him, “and she smells the roast pork from the kitchens, nothing more.”
Aerion’s hand stiffened over her belly. He looked up, his eyes narrowing. “A son. It must be a son. A dragon, Clarice.”
“It will be a girl,” she said, offering him a sweet, venomous smile. “Just to spite you. She will have my nose and she will hate velvet.”
“Do not jest about legacy,” he hissed, though he didn’t remove his hand. He pressed slightly harder, as if he could command her womb to obey him through sheer force of will. “If it is indeed a girl, we will simply have to try again immediately. Until you get it right.”
“I’ll be sure to tell her she was a disappointment before she’s even born,” Clarice said dryly. “It will save you the trouble later.”
He withdrew his hand as if stung, standing up in a single, fluid motion. “Come,” he said, stepping away. “I saw a Dornish merchant selling Myrish lenses earlier. I want to see if they are flawed.”
Aerion turned and walked away.
*********
Clarice lay in bed, clad in a loose shift of ivory cotton. She was reading a tome she had brought from the Eyrie, a history of the Andals, by the light of a single oil lamp.
The tent flap opened, and Aerion entered.
He brought the smell of the night with him, smoke, roasted meat, and wine. He had been drinking, she could tell, but he wasn’t drunk. Aerion didn’t get drunk like Daeron did; the wine only sharpened his edges, making him more vivid.
Aerion stripped off his doublet and threw it onto the floor. He paced the length of the rug, shirtless, his skin pale and smooth; his back all lean muscle moving like water over bone. He was beautiful, in that marble, statue way that Targaryens often were.
Clarice didn’t look up from her book, though she tracked his movements by sound. The rustle of fabric. The thud of boots. The splash of water as he washed his face in the basin.
The mattress dipped as he climbed into the bed beside her.
Clarice started counting the seconds before her peace were broken.
“Still awake,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
She hadn't made it to ten.
“The noise,” she replied absentmindendly, turning a page. “It’s quite loud tonight.”
“They celebrate their own filth,” Aerion said, lying back against the pillows, placing his hands behind his head. He stared up at the red silk ceiling. “I saw a giant today, Clarice. A hedge knight. Huge brute. Thick as a castle wall.”
“Truly?” Clarice asked, feigning disinterest. “Did you insult him?"
“Not yet,” Aerion grinned at the ceiling, in a boyish manner. “But I will. He offended me.”
“How? By existing?”
“Precisely. He looked... presumpuous.” Aerion turned his head on the pillow to look at her. The lamplight cast deep shadows across his face, making his eyes look black, dangerous. He frowned. “Put the book away.”
“I’m reading.”
“You’re ignoring me.”
“I can do both.”
Aerion reached out and snatched the book from her hands. Clarice didn’t fight him; she just sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. He tossed the heavy volume onto the floor with a loud thump.
“Talk to me,” he commanded.
“About what? Your imaginary grievances? The color of your doublet for tomorrow?”
“About us.”
Clarice laughed; it was a short, dry sound. “There is no ‘us’, Aerion. There is you, and there is the person you are currently tormenting.”
He moved fast, shifting so he was hovering over her, bracing his weight on his elbows, careful not to crush her. His head fell forward, breath tickling her face. He smelled of wine and cloves.
“You challenged me tonight,” Aerion said, lowering his face until their noses almost touched. “In front of Baelor.”
“I spoke but the truth.”
“You undermined me.” He countered, “you made me look... managed.”
“You need managing, Aerion. You were ready to draw steel on a puppeteer.”
“He insulted the blood of the dragon!”
“He painted a lizard!” Clarice snapped, her own temper finally giving in. “Not everything is about you. Not every shadow is an assassin, and not every laugh is mockery.”
Aerion suddenly seized her arms over her head, slamming her hands against the mattress; small wrists caught in between his burning fingers.
“You don’t know what it’s like,” he whispered, his face inches from hers. His voice had lost its mocking edge, replaced by strange, almost feverish wonder. “To hear the buzzing. To feel the heat under your skin. I am a dragon in human skin, Clarice. I am not like them. And I am not like you.”
“No,” she said, holding his gaze, refusing to lean back. “You are worse. You are a child who thinks the world owes him its obedience.”
His face twisted. “I could kill you,” he breathed. “Right now. I could crush your throat. No one would stop me. I am a Prince of the Blood.”
“Do it, then,” she challenged him. Her heart was hammering against her ribs, but she kept her voice steady. “Stop talking about it and do it. Make yourself a widower.”
“You push too far,” he whispered. His eyes were wide, dilated, dancing with that familiar, manic heat. “You forget what I am.”
“I never forget,” Clarice said, holding his gaze, refusing to lean back. “You take great pains to remind me every hour.”
His face twisted into a sneer, a beautiful, cruel expression that he wore like armor. He lowered his head until his lips were brushing her ear.
“I should have had you killed months ago, woman,” he murmured, the threat dripping with dark, twisted affection. “Smothered in your sleep. Or pushed down a very long flight of stairs.”
“And yet, here I am,” Clarice replied, turning her head in the slightest so she could look him in the eye. She didn’t flinch; she offered him a small, challenging smile. “Why is that, do you think? Were you too busy staring into your own reflection?”
Aerion stared at her. He made a sound in his throat that was half growl, half laugh. “Because you are entertaining. And because watching you try to waddle in those sandals is the only amusement I have in this miserable bog.”
“Liar,” she whispered. Clarice knew him. He viewed her as a prize, a piece of himself that he allowed no one else to touch, but in the quiet, dark hours of the night, she knew it was more than that. He was a man who saw enemies in every shadow, yet he slept with his back to her, certain she would never strike while he was vulnerable.
Clarice stared into his eyes. They were burning with a twist of emotions he would not dare name. She kissed him then. It was hard, demanding, a collision of teeth and lips. He kissed her back like he wanted to consume her breath, to own the air in her lungs.
Aerion licked his lips, tongue whirling around in an all too majestic reptilian gesture, his breathing ragged and hot. “Perhaps.”
The cruelty drained out of his face, replaced by a sudden, stark vulnerability that was painful to witness. He looked young, and he looked lost.
He didn’t hit her, he never hit her. He simply lost the strength to hold himself up. He slumped forward, burying his face in the crook of her neck. His weight pressed her back against the pillows.
Clarice didn’t push him away, she never pushed him away.
She lay there, staring up at the silk roof of the tent. She could feel his breathing against her collarbone, ragged and fast, slowly, but surely, evening out. His hand reached up to rest on her stomach, fingers splayed wide over their unborn child. Their unborn, whelp of a dragon.
“You are unbearable,” he mumbled into her skin.
“I know,” she whispered.
She reached up, her hand hovering for a moment before settling on the back of his head. She ran her fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at the scalp. It was the way one calmed a nervous dog, she had learnt.
He sighed, a long, tension, releasing sound, and pressed closer to her.
“You had a knife in your sleeve tonight,” he recalled, his voice muffled by her skin.
“Yes.”
“Were you planning to use it on me?”
Clarice paused. “No.”
He shifted slightly, lifting his head just enough to look at her. His eyes were heavy now, the madness condensing into a dull simmer. A strange, twisted amusement curled his lips.
“I liked you better on our wedding night,” he murmured, his thumb stroking the curve of her belly. “When you were plotting to kill me.”
Clarice let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I wasn’t plotting, Aerion. I was deciding.”
“And?”
“And I decided that you were too loud to kill quietly.”
He smirked. It was a real smile, fleeting and uneven. “You’re a wicked creature.”
He laid his head back down on her shoulder. The fight had gone out of him, leaving only the exhaustion.
“Don’t leave,” he whispered. It was so quiet she almost didn’t hear it. It wasn’t a command. It was a plea, wrung out of him against his will.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Clarice reassured him, her hand still in his hair. “I can’t reach my sandals, remember?”
Aerion let out a soft huff. Within moments, his breathing deepened. He fell asleep like that, draped over her like a shield, or a shackle.
Clarice lay awake in the green scented darkness. She felt the weight of the dragon prince on her chest and the kick of the dragon child in her womb. She reached toward the bedside table, her fingers brushing the cold hilt of the fruit knife. She didn’t pick it up. She just touched it, confirming it was there.
Then she moved her hand back to her husband’s hair, and held him while he slept.
──── Valarr Targaryen┆The Young Prince's Lady
author’s note: Since I was asked here's a small Valarr work , he's THE gentleman of the Westeros (next to Dunk) This work contains: arranged yet happy marriage, smut with barely any plot, p in v, unprotected sex, pregnancy sex, breeding kink if you squint an eye, riding
Valarr Targaryen x wife!reader
mdni
The night fell upon the King’s landing as you finally sat down to dinner. Not exactly how you imagined today’s evening to go nor how you wanted it to go. Not by being surrounded by your husband’s crazy or drunk cousins while your daughter sat by the same table and ate her potatoes with the help of the nursemaid.
A touching sight really – especially when Valarr brushed her brownish hair away from her face and sneaked another cookie into her hand under the table, pretending not to see your scolding gaze. But she only smiled, taking the sweets from him and hiding it in the small pocket of her dress. You were happy that at least she had some appetite – you couldn’t say the same after throwing up the whole morning and when even thinking about food made you dizzy.
You sipped at your juice instead – a poor attempt to imitate wine as it was being poured in every other goblet standing on the table except yours. Yet the sweet liquid was the only thing you could stomach right now that there was a second child growing under your heart. The baby bump became more evident with every morning and the babe was healthy according to the maesters.
The candles were burning brightly as the wax began to drip on the wood of the table. You looked at Valarr – the beautiful blue eyes and looked even softer when glowing in the candlelight and the silver streak almost illuminating against the brown hair your daughter inherited from him.
You watched as his hand stroked up and down her back while his gaze and attention was directed towards whatever his father was saying – the movements were the habits he formed after the years of his little girl falling asleep while laying on his chest.
You remember when she was no more than a babe and how he always laid her down on him and continued to read scrolls he was interested in back then – how his hand brushed her small back to calm her whenever she began to fuss.
Fond memories those were – one that you liked to whisper about in the dead of the night when Valarr’s face was buried in your hair and arms wrapped around you like a lifetime. When the stars hung high and you laid beneath them.
A tug on the sleeve brought you back to the matters at hand – Alyssa’s big blue eyes, so like her father’s stared up at you sleepily as he stood on her tippy-toes trying to get you to lean down to her.
“What is it my darling?” you whispered to her stroking her rosy cheek.
Alyssa pouted before she eyed her nursemaid and turned back to you. “Jane said we have to go to sleep, I want a goodnight kiss.” she said tugging at your sleeve again impatiently and with a awaiting gaze.
Valarr smiled softly as his eyes darted towards you two for a moment and then he turned back to his father before he had a chance to see you planting a goodnight kiss on the crown of your daughter’s head. The little princess smiled sneakily before she pushed away from you and grabbed her nursemaid’s hand and practically tugged her away from the chaos of the dinner, sneaking one last glance at her grandfather who tried hard not to smile warmly at Alyssa as his brother was speaking to him.
They were always like that – the dinners – loud and chaotic as if everyone decided to be extra annoying just for this one evening. Valarr’s older cousin laid passed out on the other side of the table where the rest of Maekar’s children were seated. The younger ones chuckled and gossiped but you couldn’t blame them – they were entertaining themself and you’d gladly join and end your boredom. At the same time your half of the table succumbed to political talk – your father-in-law spoke with his younger brother and Valarr about taxes and trade routes when Matarys looked like he was trying to understand anything from their words but failed miserably – just like you.
You reached for your goblet again before an idea struck you. You took a sip of the pomegranate before putting it back down on a table with an almost hesitant move. You took a deep breath before exhaling shakily as if you were in discomfort all of the sudden. Matarys’ gaze turned to you with knitted eyebrows and alert eyes before he covered his growing smirk with a goblet.
Matarys was a bright boy despite his impish nature. And when his sister-in-law was pulling tricks on his older brother to leave the dinner prematurely? He was the first to spot it.
Your hand raised to rub on your bump as you leaned slightly back against the chair and swallowed down. It took all your strength not to laugh when Matarys kicked Valarr under the table and silently said ‘maybe pay attention to your WIFE dumbass.’
Your husband’s head turned towards you and a small scowl that was meant for his brother turned into an expression full of concern.
“My love, are you well?” he asked in a hushed tone, turning his attention from his father and uncle to you in mere seconds.
You watched as his hand went to the armrest of your chair – squeezing on it slightly as if to ground himself. “I am well… just a… little headache.” you mumbled and smiled at him weakly. “There’s no need for you to worry.”
Yet Valarr didn’t look convinced – his gaze swept over your face cautiously before it dropped to your hand as it still rubbed your belly and his expression hardened before he turned back to his father. “My wife feels unwell, perhaps we shall too return to our chambers.” he said and he didn’t sound like he would accept a no.
Baelor’s gaze flickered away from his brother who turned back to his sons and then rested on Valarr and then back at you almost with worry in his eyes. “Return for the night, take care of your bride, my son” he said and nodded calmly – like he always did.
The chair screeched against the stone floor as you stood up with Valarr’s help before you both headed to the doors of the chamber. Your steps echoed through the halls as you walked towards your bedchambers, you could feel your husband’s strong hold on your waist as if something was really happening and weren’t only finding an excuse to leave the feast.
“How are you feeling now?” Valarr asked worriedly, now that the mask of a fearless warrior came off. “Should we go to the gardens? Get some fresh air?” he added as his gaze moved over your face.
You could no longer hold in the chuckle that left your mouth – it was quiet and almost discreet if not for the fact that he was pressed right beside you. “You are far too dramatic, my dear.” you said as a smile bloomed on your face.
Valarr stopped – staring at you with disbelief then confusion and when realization finally dawned upon him the Young Prince only rolled his eyes in exaggeration “You little minx.” he said pulling you closer to him by your waist. “You are unbelievable, my love, tricking me into thinking the babe is making you ill again.” he said as his blue eyes pierced yours. “Blow below the belt, my love, truly.” he added but the words had to heat in it, only playfulness.
You could only chuckle again as his head ducked to press a kiss to your cheek – a thigh he did often and with eagerness before allowing him to pull you further into the Red Keep. By the time you got to the privacy of your chambers the innocent kisses on the cheeks turned into Valarr’s mouth not leaving yours even to catch a breath.
His hands were on the laces of your dress since you abandoned wearing a corset as soon as Maester confirmed you are expecting again before his head lowered to taste the skin on your jaw and the column of your neck – his lips teasing you as the back of your knees hit the mattress.
“Of all things you could have done during the feast, making me leave was the best of them.” he said and took your hand to press against his chest and the fasteners of his doublet that looked strangely like dragon heads. Oh yes, they probably were – he was an heir of house of the dragons, even if they were all dead by now.
“You are lucky to have a wife that makes excuses for you to abandon the family dinners.” you chuckled as your fingers unfastened the clasps carefully.
Valarr only looked at you with this warm, almost boyish smile of his as if you hanged all the stars on the sky and then joined them as the moon itself – it was in your family’s sigil after all. “I am lucky to have a wife like you.” he nodded and the last lace came undone letting you free yourself from the red-black dress.
There you were – standing between him and your bed in nothing more than a silk slip before you pushed the doublet off of his shoulders and his head leaned in again to plant light kisses on the skin of your shoulder. Your cheeks heated up as you watched him undo his belt and push his breeches off to free his half-hard manhood.
“All those years and you still blush as if you were yet again a maiden on our wedding night.” he said a spun to sit on the mattress with his hands on your hips to pull you between his parted legs. “And twice as beautiful.” he added before pressing a kiss to your growing bump hidden by the silk.
“You’re trying to romance me?” you asked and lifted your eyebrow but let his hands wander under your clothing.
“Is it working?” he smiled cheekily before his fingers brushed over your sweet cunt. “Gods, my love, you’re almost dripping.” he snickered playfully before his fingertips pressed to your clit gently and circled it while his eyes never left your face.
“Then I suppose it must be working.” you breathed out and leaned your hand on his shoulder – just to yelp surprised as he pulled you onto his lap.
Your arms wrapped around his neck almost automatically just like his going to grip at your hips. You could feel his – hard, aching against your thigh, begging to be wrapped by you once again.
You move slowly while he unties your braid, letting the hair fall over your back and shoulders – wild like the Gods intended them to be. Every little grind or brush made you want to squeeze your thigh together and feel the pleasure overwhelming you as you held onto him. Valarr’s breath was deepened, not yet ragged in the way it was after his seed painted your insides, only slightly quickened by the want and yearning that made themselves comfortable in his eyes.
A moan left both of your mouths when you finally sank on him – hot and wet and desperate when he filled you so beautifully, making the blush on your cheek travel up to your ears as your fingers dug into the skin of his freckled shoulders. There was no rush in your moves, only an ache to be satisfied, to feel and be close to the other.
“Be careful.” he said with his voice strained as if he was barely holding back. “The babe–”
“The babe is fine.” you said leaning in to press a kiss to your lips. “There is no need to worry for your future heir.” you smiled and rolled your hips again.
“Heir.” he said and his hands fisted the fabric of your slip. “Unless it’s another girl.” he said and gave you a weak smile as his hips moved slightly to meet yours.
“You’re afraid you can only sire girls?” you asked as you hand brushed over his cheek.
“I am not afraid.” he mumbled only as his grip on you tightened. “If that will be the matter, I will try for a boy again… and then another and another.” he said and smirked playfully as if to taunt you. “Until you’re so full of me, everyone knows whose wife you are.” he said and pressed a kiss to your shoulder again.
“We will have many excuses to leave the feasts” you said and your voice broke slightly as the pace fastened.
Valarr laughed before he leaned back, laying flat on his back with only his head propped on the tousled sheets. “That we will.” he nodded and tilted his head back as the first droplets of sweat made their way on his forehead. “Gods–... you feel so amazing.” he mumbled, squeezing his eyes shut as your pace quickened again.
You were rocking your hips, lifting yourself slightly to sink back on him as your hair sticks to your forehead and back. Another whimper left your lips as your hands pressed against his chest to steady yourself without losing the pace. You could feel how rapidly his heart was beating, could feel every breath he took under your fingertips as his own pressed to your skin, helping you move above him. His hair was a mess – the brown strands messed up while the silver-white streaks seemed to almost match perfectly with the sheets beneath him.
You could feel his coil in your guts, every time his cock hit this one right spot – the one that almost made you see stars or tears to fall from your eyes. “Valarr–” you mumbled looking down at him with need blooming in your eyes.
“I know–... I know–” he nodded and inhaled before his hand disappeared under your shift again and his thumb pressed against your clit and circled it.
The gesture – so simple and almost forgettable was the thing that made you fall apart around him. You clenched on him, tightly, desperately and Valarr spilled deep inside you with a groan and slightly redness on his cheeks.
You panted heavily as you slipped off of his lap to lay under his arm and try to catch your breath. His hand sneaked around waist and lips pressed a kiss to the top of your head as he brushed his hair away from his forehead with the second. “...I doubt this is what my father meant by ‘taking care of my bride’.” he said and chuckled tiredly.
“No…” you nodded against his collarbone. “Yet this is way better.”
I LOVED writing this. Valarr is so easy and comforting to write for, he's so golden retriver coded omgg. Thank you for reading this and I hope you enjoyed it! Please interact with this post it meangt the world to me!
summary: words require more polishing than blades.
warnings: i have been kicked left and right by the flu so this has not been proofread; same base warnings as other chapters so far
masterlist
You made a mental effort to not eat your nails away as you made your way to the royal quarters. You had to present yourself as polished as you could— you were to see the Queen, after all.
The more steps forward you took, the longer the hallways seemed to become. Your mind drifted off after a few turns, and you couldn't help but wonder why you were being summoned. Surely this was a test of some sort, but you had no idea as to why nor on what capacity you were about to be assessed. All you knew was that this would've never happened if you had been sent to the Eyrie instead of this refined prison that people liked to call a keep— what good were jewels and feasts if your head could be served on the next plate?
After what seemed like endless hallways and staircases, you finally arrived at what could only be the Queen's door. You filled your lungs with a deep breath and held your shoulders a little higher than usual before knocking, being let in by a servant right away. Your presence was expected, after all.
Under any other circumstance, you would've been bewildered by the chambers you had just entered. Not only were these rooms exclusive to royalty, but every piece of furnishing and decoration had also been crafted with precision and care. You couldn't gawk for too long, however— she was already there when you walked in, standing by a small table, her expression unreadable.
Cersei Lannister. Once the Light of the West, now the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.
Many stories had been told about her throughout Westeros after her coronation, though you had not discovered yet which were true. Some called her cunning, others thought her to be stupid, some even judged her taste for wine— but if there was one thing the entire population agreed on, it was her beauty. Now that you were given the opportunity to meet her grace more closely, you could finally see it for yourself. Cersei had the looks of a queen; her long golden locks were carefully braided together and secured on top of her head, enhancing the regal quality of her refined features. Her jawline and collarbones were slim and chiseled, making a contrast with her soft lips. The expression on her face was impossible to analyse, but the sharpness in her cat-like emerald eyes looked capable of cutting through your soul with a mere glare. You could tell no sane man would ever even fathom getting in her way.
You curtsied and offered a greeting politely before walking to your seat. The table had been filled with delicacies, from fine herbal brews to tarts that gave you a toothache just by looking at them. It would've been a delightful experience, were it not for the knot that squeezed your stomach as you sat down.
“There is a word or two about you circulating through the South, young lady,” the Queen spoke, “more than one member of the court gossiped about the Pearl of Riverrun. Your arrival stirred up quite a curious crowd.” She glanced your way, but you found yourself unable to sustain eye contact for very long. “I suppose they are in their right— you are a beauty— it's natural for people to be curious. Though I also believe I get the right to know this beauty before the others.”
You sipped on your tea to make time, unsure of what to say.
“I am honoured to meet your grace this afternoon.” The Queen remained silent, simply observing you whilst she waited for you to complete your sentence. “But please, pay no mind to any stories that you may have heard of me— I am flattered by their existence, but they are a vast exaggeration.
“Are they?”
The blonde tilted her head softly, displaying her not so subtle disbelief. She looked at you as you nodded, before gesturing at her handmaiden, who quickly approached.
“Bernadette, would you ask the kitchens to bring me something a little finer than these muddy waters?”
“Of course, your grace.”
Bernadette was out after a solemn curtsy, leaving the two of you truly alone for the first time.
“My sister sends her regards, your grace. Lysa was looking forward to our gathering, but she has been tormented by fits of nausea since the morrow.”
“I was hoping to see you two side by side,” Cersei responded, “though I have seen enough of your sister at court to know why you are the one they grace with titles and tales.”
“You flatter me, your grace.”
You looked down at your cup, but not before seeing the smirk that grew on the Queen's face.
“And so humble! You really are a doll, are you not? No wonder Robert managed to get away from his own affairs to meet you. Even my brother found something to discuss with the Pearl of Riverrun.”
She moved to the chair closest to your own seat, fiddling with a strand of your hair between her fingers. You breathed in sharply, unable to respond.
“You are much better company than Lady Lysa. It seems sucking up is not a Tully trait after all— just a courtesy of your sister's.”
You observed the strand of your hair held between her slender fingers as she waited for your reply.
“I only seek to be honest and agreeable, your grace.”
“You are agreeable indeed, as polished as a pearl...” She let go of your hair, staring into your eyes with her piercing gaze. “And if you wish to be honest, answer me this— what do you think of the King?”
You felt your eyes widen unconsciously before you took hold of your expressions. What answer could she be expecting from you, exactly?
“I find King Robert to be a brave warrior who conquered his seat at the Iron Throne, your grace. There is not much else I can say about his grace since I am not acquainted with the King.”
The Queen let out a quiet hum. Her expressions became slowly more comprehensible; this time, you could tell she was not very entertained by your answer to her question, but wasn’t displeased with it either.
“So polished, what a gracious young lady.”
You sensed she had something else to ask, something unknown to you brewing just below the surface. Nonetheless, the noise of the door opening interrupted your exchange.
Bernadette came back, holding a jug of what you guessed was wine.
“Pardon my intrusion, your grace, but Lord Lannister has arrived. He wishes to talk to your grace in private immediately.”
The Queen's face turned sour for a moment, though not for long— she quickly smoothed her features before turning to you. Was her relationship with her father difficult? You had heard of Tywin Lannister’s ruthlessness, but he was very loyal to his family, supposedly. How deceiving appearances could be, you thought.
“It appears my father needs me.” Cersei rose up, and you followed. “We shall continue our conversation another time.”
“I look forward to it, your grace.”
A trained smile took over the Queen's lips. It was a slight difference, but you knew the effort would not have been there if not for the presence of a third party in the room.
“You seem to be far more equipped for this place than any of your relatives. You will be an interesting addition to the Keep, little pearl. Tell your sister to see the Maester if she does not improve, her absence at court yesterday was noted.”
You curtsied and, much to your relief, before you could speak, the handmaiden called the Queen's attention to something else regarding her father, allowing you to make your exit in silence.
You nearly sprinted to your chambers, longing for your bed like on the day of your arrival at Kings Landing. After the same painfully long path you had walked through earlier, you at last found your warm bed waiting for you. You let out a big breath that you had been holding quietly the whole time of your conversation with Cersei, throwing yourself on the covers before Rhea could even offer to help you change. Supper could wait, you thought.
The evening following your meeting with the Queen had been calm so far. Getting ready for supper was a much welcome distraction from earlier events. You were finally able to relax for a few moments when your maid sat you down to braid a few sections of your hair into a simple updo— you were not as keen on courtly fashion as your sister.
You made your way to the dining hall without trouble, already familiar with some sides of the Keep. When you did enter the hall, however, there was a new face you hadn't seen around the capital before, but whose name you already knew. After all, whoever came to Kings Landing without knowing Tywin Lannister was a fool.
The Warden of the West had a stern face, his expression even harder to unveil than his daughter's. His pale green eyes were hard to read due to his impressively tall stature, and unlike Jaime, he actually scared you, even from afar. The golden hair on his head that you remembered seeing when you were younger had vanished, a decision probably made to fully embrace the marks of his age. Tywin sat at the royal table, closer to the King and your brother-in-law than Cersei or Jaime, you noticed.
Although Tyrion supposedly arrived with his father, you did not find anyone matching the younger Lannister’s physical description in the dining hall. You had heard a servant say something about his sense of humour a few days earlier, and it had made you curious— how mature could a twelve year old boy be, especially to the point of having developed a good sense of humour? Life must have been very tough on him, you figured. Perhaps you could both laugh at your misfortunes.
You took your seat by your family, next to Lysa and Lord Arryn, careful not to disrupt any ongoing conversations. The savoury pie served was as appetising as all the other foods you had seen so far during your stay at the Keep, and you accepted it gratefully now that your appetite had returned. But right after you took your first bite, you heard a familiar laugh that disrupted your peaceful bubble.
The Lannister twins were on a mission to disturb all your meals, apparently. This could only be the Seven trying to tell you to slim down, you thought to yourself. You glared at Jaime and, much to your surprise, he ended up looking your way, making you shyly glance back at your pie.
Great. Making a fool of yourself was becoming your staple at court. People were probably thinking you were allergic to eye contact by now.
You had the rest of your supper quietly, exchanging a word with your sister and her lord husband occasionally. You kept your eyes trained on your plate and your family throughout your meal— the topics Lysa brought up were not the most enriching, but they were useful enough for you to learn about life at court and remain minimally entertained for the evening. The two of you talked about the new ladies in waiting, about the recent increase of dornish barrels arriving at the port, and, of course, about your afternoon with the Queen— regarding which your sister affirmed you did your best and offered an acceptable performance, and that all was fine for now, as long as you continued to behave.
After a good two hours, King Robert got up from his chair and the rest of the table accompanied him, marking the end of supper. You began to make your way to your room like the rest, ready to lie your head down on your pillows and get some desperately needed sleep. You had just walked past the big doors to the hallway when you felt your shoulder bump into a tall figure, causing you to stop in your tracks.
“My apologies, please excuse me, I…”
You looked up, recognising the victim of your hurried dash very well. After all, spun gold hair and green eyes had become a part of your routine as of late.
“Ser Jaime.” You offered him a subtle bow of your head.
“My lady,” he greeted you with the same cordiality before continuing, “you were awfully quiet this evening. Such a shame, I must say.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, unable to truly read below his cocky front.
“I wish I could say the same to you, Ser Jaime, but I fear some of your laughs tonight could be heard all the way in Essos.”
“Ah, there it is,” he let out a softer laugh than the one from earlier, “that tongue of yours is sharper than my fighting sword, my lady.”
“I cannot see why my silence would be a shame from your point of view, then,” you questioned.
Jaime inched closer to you before responding, almost like he was about to tell you a real secret. You wondered where his confidence to act so freely came from— had he just been born with it? How unfair.
“You see,” he lowered his voice, holding back a smirk. “I was hoping they could scout you for the Kingsguard to replace me.”
He really did appear to have a comment or joke about anything and everything.
“And threaten your beloved glory and fame? Never,” you retorted, taking a step towards the hallway and bowing once more. “If you will excuse me, Ser Jaime, I have a glorious bed waiting for me.”
You turned around and continued your walk to your chambers without looking back, anxiously longing for the comfort of your sheets and pillows. No Lannister would get in the way of your rest tonight.
i was the anon who asked for recolours of these https://www.tumblr.com/cursed-carmine/780166581133213696/please-make-the-starry-dividers-in-sage-and-pastel
sorry about the mistake
can you recolour them in neutrals please? like browns. that colour palette
thanks!
Hello hi! I can absolutely do that ♥️ (I'll also post the first one in all the colors of my palette later today)
divider by: @cafekitsune & @finnegancosmos & @anitalerina
word count: 15.5k
synopsis: In the cold of Winterfell, a southern princess learns that duty is not always a cage—and that sometimes, the heart’s desires align with the good of the realm.
a/n: I definitely went a little overboard with this one—this might be the longest one-shot I’ve written to date. Also, yes, I refer to reader as a lioness and imply her to be more Lannister than Baratheon, even though she is technically a Baratheon by name. We’re just rolling with it because thematically it fit much better for this story.
warnings: Arranged Marriage, Joffrey being Joffrey, Cersei.
The King’s arrival had turned Winterfell on its head.
Trumpets, banners, gold—so much gold. The North had not seen such splendour since the end of the Targaryen dynasty, when Robert Baratheon had taken the throne. Now, it seemed half the realm had come marching behind Robert's royal party.
Gold and crimson, black and stag-marked—southern colours that gleamed far too bright against Winterfell’s muted tones. The northerners looked on, some with curiosity, some with cautious, and a few openly awed as they watched the southern procession wind its way through the gates like a river of colour cutting through snow.
At the head of it rode your father—Robert Baratheon himself—larger than life and twice as loud, his booming laughter rolling over the crowd like thunder. His beard was flecked with frost, his furs heavy and rich, his crown sitting askew in a careless way that had once been considered charming but now looked more like neglect.
You had heard endless stories of his youth—the warrior who had swung a warhammer like the gods themselves had forged it for his hands, the rebel who had taken a throne with fire in his blood and vengeance in his heart. Robert the Usurper. Robert the Conqueror.
But the man who rode before you now was not that legend. His armour strained against the swell of his belly, his face ruddy from drinking. The warhammer had long been replaced by a wine cup and a whore on his lap, the crown he wore weighed by the weight of old victories he refused to let die.
You wondered if even he remembered what it had felt like—to be the man the songs still sang of. Now, he was simply a king grown soft, chasing the ghost of glory through the bottom of his goblet and whoring his way through the street of silk.
As for you, you rode among them, sitting tall despite the cold that seeped through your furs and southern silks. Your father had insisted you come north, and you had insisted on riding atop a horse rather than shut yourself away in the carriage with your mother and younger siblings. It had seemed a small act of defiance then, a gesture of freedom. Now, with the wind biting at your cheeks and Joffrey’s endless complaints filling the air, it felt more like punishment.
He had sneered the entire way north—at the chill, the people, the very land itself. “The dreary, filthy North,” he had called it more than once, his tone dripping with disdain. You had ignored him as best you could, your gaze fixed on the horizon, excited to see a different land from the one you grew up in.
You’d always imagined the North as a wasteland of ice and furs, cold and colourless. But when you finally crossed through Winterfell’s borders, the image shattered.
The ancient stronghold rose before you, proud and formidable, its grey stone walls streaked with frost and history. Smoke curled from the forges, filling the air with the scent of metal and fire. There was movement everywhere—men with weathered faces and proud eyes, women calling out to one another across the yard, and children with flushed cheeks laughing as they chased hounds through the snow-dusted courtyard. It wasn’t lifeless at all. It was rough yes, but nothing like the southerners tried to depict.
You drew your crimson cloak tighter around your shoulders, breath ghosting in the frigid air. The cold bit through your clothes, sharp against your delicate skin, and for a moment you thought you might curse your own stubbornness for refusing the carriage. Yet as the wind swept past you again, crisp and fresh, you realized you didn’t hate it as much as you’d expected to.
It was different from the damp, perfumed warmth of King’s Landing. There, beneath the scent of roses and incense, there was always something else—an undercurrent of rot that no amount of perfume could mask. The palace gleamed with splendour, but beyond its stone halls the small folk suffered, and their misery lingered in the air like smog. Even in the height of summer, the city smelled of decay.
You shivered again from the cold. The North was harsh, yes—but there was purity in that harshness, a raw honesty that stripped everything down to what it truly was.
“Gods, it stinks,” Joffrey muttered beside you as the royal party began to dismount, his nose wrinkling as though the very air offended him.
You fought the urge to roll your eyes. The journey north had nearly rid you of patience for his endless vanity, but you found that ignoring him was the best way to deal with him.
Instead, your gaze drifted to the family lined before the steps of the keep—the Starks of Winterfell. They stood proud and poised, and in perfect unity they bowed towards your father not letting you get a proper look at their faces.
Your father went forward first. For a moment, an uneasy hush fell over the courtyard, as they watched what the King would say. You watched your father approach ordering Lord Stark to stand, but soon after it was all laughter and heavy slaps on the back as he embraced Lord Stark. Your mother followed, cold as a blade at Robert’s side.
One by one, the rest of the Starks straightened, rising from their bows as your gaze swept over them. There were three younger children—two boys and a girl with untamed, curious eyes that seemed to hold more mischief than fear. The smallest of the boys stood by his mother, his expression bright with childlike wonder, while the other, taller but still retaining his boyish excitement stood by his sister.
Beside them stood an older girl, her light auburn hair gleaming softly. She was beautiful, the kind of beauty that was more seen in the south. Her hands were clasped neatly before her, and her smile, though polite, carried a faint nervousness as her gaze flickered toward your brother. You didn’t miss the faint blush that coloured her cheeks.
But it was the eldest son who drew your eyes and held them.
Robb Stark.
Named after your father’s namesake.
He stood beside Lord Stark with a quiet confidence that needed no boasting to be felt. His hair was dark auburn, catching faint hints of red beneath the pale northern sun, and his stance was strong—broad-shouldered, proud.
He was handsome, though not in the soft, polished way of the southern courtiers you’d grown accustomed to seeing. He was well groomed, yes, but the rugged strength beneath that composure could not be hidden. His build spoke of long hours in the yard rather than idle ones in a hall, his bearing of discipline rather than indulgence.
His eyes caught you most of all—grey as a storm over the sea, sharp and intelligent. There was a steadiness to them, a kind of calm that unnerved you, because it was clear they missed nothing.
And they certainly didn’t miss the smirk your brother sent his sister’s way. Robb’s expression didn’t so much as flicker in response, though the faint tightening of his jaw told you he had noticed, the way his sister blushed in response.
Before you could look away, those grey eyes found yours—and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to still.
You had never been one of those girls who giggled over handsome lords or whispered about courtly love behind lace fans. You had seen enough of men like that—vain, shallow creatures who mistook charm for worth. But something about Robb Stark was different.
Heat crept up your neck before you could stop it, your cheeks warming despite the chill in the air. You fought the sudden, ridiculous urge to look away bashfully, to hide the small, traitorous smile tugging at your lips.
It was absurd, really—you didn’t even know him.
For a long, unbroken moment, you didn’t move. It was as though the cold had rooted you in place, your pulse thudding softly in your ears. Then, without warning, Joffrey bumped into you from behind with a muttered curse, snapping the spell cleanly.
You blinked, startled, stepping aside as your brother straightened his cloak with a scoff, clearly annoyed at you. But when you looked back, Robb was already glancing away, his expression unreadable.
The feast that night was as loud and unruly as any your father had ever hosted—though the North’s version of merriment came with more ale and less flattery. The great hall of Winterfell was alive with sound: the crackle of hearth fires, the thunder of mugs striking tables, the low rumble of laughter spilling between bites of roasted meat. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and spice and the faint chill that crept in from the open doors each time a servant hurried through.
You sat near the head of the table, your place beside your mother. You didn’t have to look at her to know her jaw was tight, her patience thinning with each booming laugh from your father as he entertained the woman on his lap.
Robert was in high spirits, which was to say, he was halfway to drunk before the first course had finished. His laughter echoed down the hall, drowning out conversation, spilling more wine than he drank as he talked with Ned.
You kept your gaze low, pretending not to notice the way your mother’s fingers curled around her goblet, white-knuckled.
It wasn’t until your father slammed his mug down on the table that the laughter faltered. The sound reverberated through the hall like a hammer on iron, silencing even the musicians.
“Come, Ned!” he bellowed, a drunken grin on his face, his words slurred with good cheer. “You’ve given me your friendship, your sword, your counsel—but not your blood.”
A murmur rippled through the hall. Lord Stark blinked, confusion flickering across his usually steady face. “Your Grace?”
Robert gestured grandly down the length of the table, his cup sloshing in one hand as he waved toward you. “Your boy, Robb—and my eldest daughter!” he declared, his voice booming with the certainty of a man who had never considered refusal. “A match that will bind the North and the West! A son of Winterfell, a daughter of the Crown—what say you, Ned?”
A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the hall. Some courtiers echoed it too quickly, hoping to placate the King, while others bowed their heads, unwilling to draw notice beneath Robert Baratheon’s good humour.
You froze, your hand tightening around the stem of your goblet as your father’s words sank in. Heat crept up your neck, though the hall suddenly felt very cold. You fought to keep your expression composed, the careful mask of royal composure your mother had drilled into you since childhood. But it was impossible not to feel the weight of every gaze turning toward you and Robb.
Across the table, Robb Stark looked up sharply. His storm-grey eyes found yours through the candlelight, steady but startled. There was no arrogance in his stare, no mockery—only quiet disbelief that mirrored your own.
Even your mother stilled beside you. Cersei’s hand froze on her cup, her knuckles whitening as she turned her gaze toward your father, fury flickering behind the mask of a queen’s poise.
“She’s still young,” your mother said tightly, clearly also not having expected this.
You were a woman grown, long past your first blood. Old enough to bear children, old enough for marriage. In truth, it was a miracle you hadn’t been married off earlier.
Robert waved her off with a booming laugh, already reaching for his cup again. “Old enough for betrothal!” he said, dismissive and delighted all at once. “Robb Stark and my eldest girl—the wolf and the lioness! Gods, they’ll make fine cubs, eh?”
Your pulse thundered in your ears as you stared at the table before you, unable to look at anyone. It was not the proposal itself that shook you—marriage had always been an eventuality, a matter of alliance rather than affection—but the suddenness of it, the way your life had been offered up like cow at an auction.
The hall erupted again — laughter, murmurs, wide eyes. Lord Stark looked caught entirely off guard, his calm composure faltering for perhaps the first time that evening. Your mother’s jaw, meanwhile, was set in stone, her fingers tight around her cup as if she meant to crush it.
Your father, oblivious—or perhaps uncaring—of the discomfort around him, only roared with laughter and turned to the young man in question. “What say you, boy?” Robert grinned at Robb, raising his cup. “A fine match, eh?”
Across the table, Robb Stark straightened, caught between the weight of his father’s silence and the King’s drunken insistence. For a heartbeat, his eyes flicked toward Lord Stark, as though seeking guidance. But Ned Stark’s face, though grave, gave nothing away.
Robb’s jaw set. Slowly, he inclined his head toward the King, his tone careful and measured. “Your Grace honours me,” he said evenly, the calm in his voice belying the tension in his shoulders. “But—”
He didn’t get the chance to finish.
“But nothing!” Robert boomed, slamming his cup down hard enough to spill wine across the table. “The girl’s comely, and from good stock. I’ll hear no objections!”
You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. You managed to lift your goblet, forcing a polite smile that didn’t reach your eyes, though your stomach twisted with humiliation. This wasn’t how you imagined meeting your future husband—announced like an offering at a feast, your worth reduced to bloodlines and the King’s drunken cheer.
When Robert finally turned his attention elsewhere, clapping Lord Stark on the back with enough force to rattle the tableware, you dared to look up again.
Robb was watching you. His gaze thoughtful rather than cold.
You wondered what he saw—a spoiled lion cub, soft from silk and wine? You wouldn’t have blamed him for thinking it. The Northerners were born of hard work and harder winters; you were born of gold and servants. And yet, as his gaze lingered for a moment longer before turning away, you couldn’t help but hope that perhaps he saw something else too—something more than what your name and colours proclaimed.
As the feast wore on, the laughter grew louder as everyone grew drunker. You tried to endure it—to play your part, to smile when spoken to—but each passing moment made it harder to breathe.
Finally, when no one was looking, you rose from your seat and slipped away.
No one noticed. Your father was deep in his cups, his booming laughter echoing over the music, drowning out any thought of propriety. Your mother had vanished not long before—where, you neither knew nor cared. You only knew that you needed air.
The courtyard was quiet when you stepped into it, the torches guttering in the wind. Winterfell was different at night—vast and solemn. The cold crept beneath your cloak, but it was a welcome feeling compared to the suffocating heat of the feast hall. You drew the fabric tighter around your shoulders and breathed deeply, letting the icy air fill your lungs. For the first time all evening, you felt the weight in your chest begin to ease.
Your boots crunched softly against the packed snow as you wandered without aim, tracing the paths between torchlit walls. Somewhere overhead, a raven cawed, its cry carrying across the night before fading into the wind. You might have turned back then—returned to the warmth and noise, to the safety of your place beside your mother—had it not been for the sound that broke the stillness.
Steel striking wood.
You paused, listening. The sound came again—steady and rhythmic. Curiosity stirred, and you found yourself following it through the shadowed corridors and out into one of the training yards, half-shrouded in darkness.
There, beneath the pale light of the moon, was a young man. He moved with focus, each swing of his wooden practice sword fluid and measured, the sort of precision that spoke of years of learned discipline. He was focused, wholly absorbed in his task, his strikes landed with a steady rhythm against the straw dummy. He was breathing heavy, every breath came in soft, visible clouds, rising and vanishing into the cold air. Despite the chill, he wore only a simple tunic, the thin fabric clinging faintly to his skin with the sheen of exertion.
The soft sound of your steps must have given you away. He turned sharply, the sword rising instinctively in his hand, and you startled, taking an instinctive step back.
“Apologies,” you blurted, raising your hands slightly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I was only taking a breath from the feast and seem to have lost my way.”
He blinked in surprise, eyes widening as recognition dawned. Even in the low light, you could see the resemblance to Robb Stark—the same sharp lines of the jaw, the same quiet intensity—but his hair was darker, brown like Lord Stark’s, and there was a softness to his gaze that Robb did not possess.
“No, it is I who should apologize, Your Grace,” he said quickly, lowering the sword. “I didn’t expect anyone to be out here.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” you replied, your tone gentle as you stepped closer. “I didn’t expect to find anyone either. I thought I was the only one hiding from the noise.” You hesitated, studying him for a moment. “In fact, I don’t recall seeing you there. I thought all of Lord Stark’s children were present.”
Something flickered across his face at that—an emotion you couldn’t quite place. His jaw tightened slightly, and his eyes dropped to the ground. “I… am not officially considered as such,” he said quietly. “Jon Snow is my name.”
Realization struck, sharp and unbidden. “You’re his bastard,” you said before you could stop yourself. The words slipped free like a breath, unthinking—and the moment they did, you saw the subtle hardening in his eyes, the stiffness in his shoulders.
“Apologies,” you said quickly, your voice softening. “I meant no offence.”
He exhaled through his nose, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly. “No need, my lady. I’ve heard worse.”
Something in his tone—half resignation, half acceptance—made your chest tighten.
“Still, it was rude of me to say it as such. It is not a child’s fault for the sins of their father,” you murmured, your voice soft against the quiet of the yard.
He blinked, as though the thought itself surprised him. The training sword in his hand lowered slightly, his fingers flexing around the hilt.
“Most highborn don’t bother to make excuses for bastards,” Jon said at last, the corner of his mouth twisting—not quite a smile, not quite a sneer. “They just pretend we don’t exist.”
You tilted your head, studying him in the dim light. “Pretending seems to be a southern pastime,” you said dryly. “One I’ve never been very good at.”
That earned you a flicker of amusement—brief, but genuine. The tension in his shoulders eased, his guardedness softening into something closer to curiosity.
“Why are you out here?” he asked after a moment, breaking the silence. “You should be inside—warm, with the rest of them.”
“Yes, I should,” you agreed bitterly, your breath ghosting in the cold. “I should be with everyone, watching my father drink himself into a stupor and insult my mother and his marriage every chance he gets.” You exhaled, a short, humourless laugh escaping you. “Or perhaps I should’ve stayed so I could be congratulated on my upcoming betrothal to your brother.”
Jon’s eyes widened in surprise. “Robb?”
You nodded once, your mouth twisting faintly. “Yes. The King saw it quite fit to announce the offer among everyone in attendance.”
Jon hesitated, his expression unreadable. “You don’t sound very happy about it,” he said finally.
You gave a quiet, mirthless laugh. “Would you be?”
When he didn’t reply, your shoulders lifted in a small shrug as you looked away. “I mean no insult to your brother for my bitterness, but when you’re offered like a broodmare, with no inclination or choice in the matter, I think anyone would find it hard to be happy.” The words left your lips without hesitation. “Sometimes I wish I was a bastard. At least then my father would have ignored me, the way he’s ignored the hundreds of other children he’s sired.”
You hesitated, your voice softening, though the bitterness beneath it remained. “You’re lucky Lord Stark is your father, Jon Snow. At least he seems to care for his children. My father only sees us as bargaining chips—useful when needed, forgotten when not.”
Jon’s grip tightened around the hilt of his training sword until the leather creaked. For a heartbeat, he seemed unsure of what to do with his hands. Then he set the blade aside, the tip sinking soundlessly into the snow.
“That’s… a harsh thing to wish for,” he said quietly. There was no judgment in his tone—only pity and sadness.
You let out a dry, humourless laugh, your breath curling white in the cold. “Harsh, perhaps. But honest.”
Your gaze lifted toward the sky. The stars here seemed closer, brighter—so unlike the smog-veiled heavens of King’s Landing. “I used to think being royal meant freedom,” you murmured. “That power could buy choices. But I grew old enough to realize it only meant I was shackled to duty and expectation higher than most. And for a highborn lady, that will always mean being owned.”
Jon studied you for a moment, the way your voice softened around the edges of those words, as though you’d long since grown tired of speaking them aloud.
“I’ve often thought about what it might mean to be born properly a Stark,” he admitted quietly. “What it would be like to be seen. Properly. To belong somewhere.” His lips curved into a faint, self-mocking smile. “You want to be invisible, and I’d give anything not to be.”
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The cold bit at your cheeks, but neither of you seemed to mind it. The silence was strangely comfortable—a bubble of calm in a world that demanded too much of both of you.
At last, you broke it. “It’s strange, isn’t it?” you said softly. “How both of us want what the other has. You’d give anything to be acknowledged, and I’d give anything to be forgotten.”
Jon’s lips curved faintly, but there was little amusement in it. “Seems the gods have a sense of humour,” he murmured.
“Or cruelty,” you countered, your gaze turning skyward again. “They give us everything we never asked for and keep what we want just out of reach.”
Jon followed your gaze, his expression thoughtful. “Perhaps they think it makes us stronger."
You huffed a quiet laugh, the sound soft in the cold air. “Then the gods have made philosophers of us both.”
Your laughter seemed to ease something in him. The stiffness in his shoulders melted away, and for the first time, the heaviness in his eyes lifted. When he looked at you again, there was no trace of wariness, only quiet understanding.
“You don’t talk like the other highborn ladies I’ve met,” he said finally.
You smiled faintly. “That’s because most of them are taught to be silent. They’re there to be admired, not heard.”
He tilted his head, considering you. “And you?”
“Oh, they tried to teach me the same,” you said, a touch of dry humour in your voice. “But I’m a shit listener.”
Jon blinked, startled at the sound of you cursing—and then, to your surprise, he barked out a laugh. A real laugh. You found yourself laughing along with him.
When his laughter finally faded, he studied you again—longer this time, as though seeing something he hadn’t before. “You know,” he said quietly, “I think Robb might like you.”
Your smile faltered at that, the words cutting through the brief ease between you. The reminder of your betrothal fell heavy in the still air.
Jon seemed to realize it, because his tone softened. “Robb will be good to you,” he said gently. “He won’t see you as a thing to be bartered.”
You looked away, the flickering torchlight catching in your eyes. “Maybe not,” you murmured. “But that doesn’t change what I am. I’m a commodity—something to be given to strengthen the ties between the crown and the North.”
The words hung in the cold air like mist. You exhaled slowly, something between a sigh and a laugh escaping you. “You know,” you said, voice quieter now, “I don’t even know if I’ll be good for him. He looks to be a steady man, one born of duty and hard work. I am a daughter of duty, too, but of a different kind. We both know my southern softness would have no place among the strength you Northerners carry.”
Jon’s brows knit slightly as he studied you. For a moment, he seemed to weigh your words, the silence stretching between you before he finally spoke. “You sell yourself short, my lady. The North doesn’t measure strength by calloused hands or sword arms. We measure it by what a person endures.”
You blinked, surprised by the quiet conviction in his tone. The night air curled white from his breath, and for the first time you noticed how young he really was—a couple years younger than you, but already worn by truths older than his years.
“From what I can see,” he said, his gaze steady on yours, “you’d survive Winterfell just fine.”
The sincerity in his tone caught you off guard. For a moment, you couldn’t quite find your voice. You had expected pity, perhaps—politeness, or some attempt to comfort a princess who had never known real hardship. But there was none of that in his eyes. Only truth. Quiet, unwavering truth.
Something in your chest tightened, a strange ache blooming where defensiveness had lived for so long. You found yourself smiling faintly, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You say that now,” you murmured. “You haven’t seen me try to walk on ice.”
Jon’s lips twitched, the ghost of amusement playing there. “The North has a way of humbling everyone. You’d learn.”
That made you laugh—soft and breathy in the chill, the sound a wisp of warmth in the frozen air. “Still,” you said after a moment, “your brother deserves a wife who belongs here. One who doesn’t flinch when the wind bites or stumble over snow. I’m afraid I’ll be more trouble than treasure.”
Jon studied you, the faintest edge of warmth in his eyes. “You might be surprised what the North considers treasure.”
When you finally spoke again, your voice was quieter, more certain. “You’re far too kind, Jon Snow.”
He gave a faint shrug, the corner of his mouth curving just slightly. “Only honest.”
You smiled then—truly smiled—and this time it reached your eyes. The tension you hadn’t realized you’d been carrying began to ease. “Then perhaps that’s why the gods sent me outside tonight,” you murmured. “To find a bit of honesty.”
Jon opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, a familiar voice broke through the night.
“Jon.”
Both of you turned. Robb stood a few paces away, his cloak clasped at the throat, the faint firelight spilling from the hall behind him. It caught the edge of his hair, gilding it copper in the dark, and cast a soft glow over the snow-dusted stones at his feet. His gaze shifted between you and Jon, pausing on you for a heartbeat longer than propriety allowed.
“Princess,” he said at last, his voice steady but gentler than before. “The King will start a hunt if he finds his daughter missing.”
You straightened, the quiet spell of the courtyard breaking as reality swept back in. “I didn’t mean to worry anyone,” you said softly. “I only needed air.”
Turning to Jon, you dipped your head politely. “It was nice to meet you, Jon.”
He inclined his head in return, that faint half-smile still ghosting his lips. “You as well, Princess.”
With a final, lingering smile, you turned and began the slow walk back toward the hall. “My lord,” you murmured in passing, offering Robb a polite nod as you brushed past him.
Robb hesitated, his mouth parting as if to speak, perhaps to offer his arm or escort you inside. But you were already moving, your crimson cloak trailing behind you like a flicker of fire in the cold.
He watched you go until you disappeared around the corner, the sound of your footsteps fading into the night. Only then did he turn his gaze back to his half brother.
Robb stepped closer, folding his arms across his chest, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at his mouth. “You seem to have made quite the impression.”
Jon snorted, bending to retrieve his training sword from where it rested in the snow. “She made one on me first.”
Robb’s brow arched, his tone teasing but edged with curiosity. “Oh? And what’s your judgment then? She seems as prideful as the rest of the lions. You should’ve seen her when the king announced the offer of her hand—it was as if she’d just tasted bad wine.”
Jon shook his head, straightening. “She’s… not like that,” he said quietly, his voice carrying an unexpected defensiveness. “She’s kind, Robb.”
Robb’s smirk faltered in surprise.
Jon went on, his tone steady but earnest. “She knew nothing of the king’s plans. She was caught unawares—same as you. And still, she spoke kindly of you.” He hesitated, then added, “You know what she said? That you deserve better than her. That you should have a northern wife.”
Robb blinked, caught off guard. “She said that?” He frowned slightly, his tone softening as he considered it. “That’s… not what I expected,” he admitted after a moment, the sharp edge of his usual composure dulling. “Most highborn would rather choke than admit weakness.”
Jon huffed a quiet laugh, the sound low and almost bitter. “She hides it well enough,” he said. “But it’s there. She’s not proud, Robb—she’s trapped. There’s a difference.”
Robb’s frown deepened, though not from doubt. The words settled somewhere deep, unwelcome in how true they felt. “And she told you all this?” he asked finally.
“Not all,” Jon replied, leaning lightly on the training sword. His voice was steady, deliberate. “But enough to see she’s not like the others in her family. She’s weary of being used as a piece in her father’s game, and yet—she still spoke well of you. I think she would be a good match for you. Maybe better than you think.”
Robb’s head turned sharply at that, his brows lifting in disbelief. “Good for me?” he echoed, half a scoff, half a laugh that didn’t quite land. “Jon, she’s the King’s daughter. A lion in silk. I doubt she’s ever known a day’s true labour in her life. The North would swallow her whole.”
Jon’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smile, but his eyes stayed steady. “Maybe,” he allowed. “Or maybe she’d learn to thrive in it.”
Robb exhaled through his nose, running a gloved hand through his hair. The movement was restless, betraying more unease than he intended. “You’ve spoken to her once, Jon.”
“Aye,” Jon agreed, his tone even. “Once. And in that one talk, she showed more heart than half the court’s done in a lifetime. She looked at me—me, a bastard—and saw a person. You think someone with kindness like that wouldn’t make a good lady for Winterfell?”
Robb looked away, jaw tightening as he tried to process that. “I don’t even know what to say to her,” Robb admitted finally, his voice softer, almost reluctant.
Jon smirked faintly, leaning back on his sword. “Try starting with something that isn’t about her family’s reputation.”
That earned a quiet, reluctant laugh from Robb—low, almost self-deprecating. “Seven hells, you make it sound simple.”
“It is,” Jon said, his tone calm, almost knowing. “You’re just too proud to see it. Stop judging her by her name, and you might realize it too.”
Robb didn’t answer, but his silence said enough. His gaze lingered on the snow where your footprints still marked the ground, the faint imprints already fading beneath the falling flakes.
By the next morning, Winterfell was alive with whispers.
Every corridor hummed with speculation, every corner seemed to hold a conversation half-hushed when you entered. Apparently, in you and Robb’s absence, another offer had been made—one that set the Great Hall aflame with rumour. A match between Sansa Stark and Prince Joffrey.
Now, the question that hung over every mouth and meal was simple: who would it be?
Would the King and Lord Stark bind their houses through you and Robb—the eldest daughter and the eldest son—or through their younger, more fitting pair?
No one knew which way the coin would fall.
As you made your way to the morning meal, the murmur of voices followed you like a shadow.
“A Lannister queen in the North?” one servant whispered, their words sharp in the cold air. “The wolves won’t stomach it.”
“Better the Sansa with the prince,” another replied. “Leave the lioness where she belongs.”
You kept your chin high, every inch the King’s daughter despite the sting of their words. The hem of your crimson cloak trailed behind you, its rich colour out of place among the muted greys and browns of Winterfell.
You had grown used to whispers in King’s Landing—court gossip was as common as breath but for some reason hearing the negative gossip about you here couldn’t help but sting. Still, you did what you always did, you kept your chin high and your steps even, even as the truth settled deep inside you. You were unwanted amongst the northerners.
At breakfast, your mother barely looked at you. The flicker of candlelight caught the hard gleam in her eyes. Her hands were perfectly still on the table, though you could see the faint strain in her knuckles—the only sign of the storm simmering beneath the surface.
It was clear both choices displeased her. Yet you couldn’t tell which she detested more: the idea of her daughter bound to the North, far from her control, or her son tied to a wolf’s daughter and forced to share his throne with the Starks.
Across the table, Jaime lounged with his usual easy poise, though his golden eyes flicked toward you, taking in the deep circles around your eyes. “You look as though you haven’t slept,” he murmured.
You forced a small smile, fingers curling around your cup. “Perhaps. I still haven’t gotten used to the northern chill,” You lied.
“Well,” Jaime drawled, tilting his head, “you’ll have to get used to it soon—if you are to become the new Lady Stark.”
His tone was light, teasing, but you could only muster a forced smile finding no amusement in the situation.
“Don’t tease her, Jaime,” came Tyrion’s voice from further down the table. He was already swirling wine in his cup, despite the early hour, his tone dry as ever. “I imagine it’s difficult to rest when your hand may be sold without so much as a whisper of choice in the matter.”
He lifted his eyes to you then, and for a fleeting moment, his usual mockery softened into something resembling sympathy. “My condolences, niece. The North is cold, but at least the Starks have honour—a rare currency in this family.”
Cersei’s head turned sharply, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. “Enough, Tyrion.”
Tyrion only raised his cup in mock salute, a faint smile curling his mouth. “Merely admiring our king’s fine sense of timing. Nothing warms the heart like watching a daughter offered off between wine and roast boar.”
Your mother’s glare could have frozen the sea, but Tyrion only smiled into his drink.
Marcella, ever the softest of your siblings, shot him a reproachful look. “Sansa seems sweet,” she spoke up softly, almost to herself. “I think she’d make a good queen.”
Joffrey scoffed, rolling his eyes. “She’s a northern savage,” he declared. “If it were up to me, I’d choose a proper southern lady—someone who knows how to behave at court. Still,” he added, smirking, “she is beautiful. A fine thing for our future heirs.”
A quiet scoff escaped you before you could stop it—sharp, disdainful. It cut through the your brother’s laughter like a blade.
Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, his expression hardening, but before he could speak, your mother’s voice filled the silence.
Cersei’s gaze flicked between her children, then landed on you, her voice deceptively soft. “It doesn’t matter what any of you think. The King will make his decision, and we will abide by it.”
Her eyes lingered on you just long enough for the meaning to sink in: you will abide by it.
You inclined your head slightly, every inch the dutiful daughter she demanded you be. But as you lifted your cup, the faint tremor in your hand betrayed the truth.
At that moment, the heavy doors opened, and Robert entered the hall. His steps were uneven, his crown was once again askew, and his cheeks were flushed still bleary from the night of wine and laughter. The sight of him was enough to sour the air.
Cersei’s mouth tightened, the barest flicker of disgust ghosting across her face before she rose in one graceful, practiced motion. “I will take my meal elsewhere,” she said, her voice like ice.
Without another glance, she swept from the room, her gown trailing behind her like a crimson wound, the sound of her heels echoing sharply against the stone until it faded into silence.
You didn’t blame her for her fury—how could you? Your father had humiliated her before half the realm for years, and now he was doing the same with you. But you couldn’t share her anger either.
You’d seen enough of King’s Landing to know that power was never clean, and marriage least of all. Every alliance was a transaction to gain more power. And yet… something about the North unsettled that certainty. There was no pretension here, no gleaming façade to hide behind. The people spoke plainly, worked until their hands were raw, lived and died by loyalty.
It was harsh—but it was honest.
And though you hated the lack of choice forced upon you, though you despised being bartered like coin, there was a small, treacherous part of you that wished your father would choose the match with Robb Stark.
When you slipped away later, wandering through the Godswood, the cold seemed to clear your thoughts. The stillness of the place—the way the wind whispered through the Weirwood branches, the sound of water lapping against ice—was almost kind.
You didn’t realize you weren’t alone until you heard the sharp snap of a branch. Your breath caught, a gasp escaping you as you turned, cloak swirling around your legs.
“Lady Y/N,” Robb greeted, stepping into view, his breath visible in the cold air. A small grey pup padded beside him, tail wagging hesitantly, its eyes bright with curiosity.
“Forgive me,” Robb said, pausing a few paces away. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
You exhaled slowly, the rush of surprise fading. “You didn’t,” you lied softly, though your heart was still racing.
You gave him a small polite smile, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. The pup gave a soft whine and trotted toward you and you knelt to meet the little creature. “And who might this be?”
“Greywind,” Robb replied, a trace of pride threading through his voice. “A Direwolf pup—from the litter my siblings and I saved.”
You reached out your hand, letting the pup sniff your fingers before you gently scratched behind his ear. “Greywind,” you repeated fondly, your tone softening. “A noble name for such a handsome little one.”
The pup leaned into your touch, tail swishing through the snow, his small whines muffled by your gloved fingers. Robb watched in silence, something unreadable flickering in his eyes.
He hadn’t expected you to kneel in the snow without hesitation—your silks brushing against frost as though you didn’t care, your expression alight with genuine fondness. Greywind sniffed your hand again, ears perked, tail twitching in excitement before pressing his small head into your palm.
A quiet laugh escaped you then—soft, airy, real. The sound startled Robb more than he cared to admit.
“He’s beautiful,” you murmured, stroking the pup’s fur as he licked at your fingers. “So gentle. I thought Direwolves were meant to be fearsome.”
“They will be,” Robb said, and the corner of his mouth lifted into a faint smile. “He’s only a few moons old. But he’ll grow fast. Father says the bond between a Stark and his wolf runs deep—that they’re born to protect us.”
You looked up at him from where you knelt, your breath clouding in the cold air. The light caught in your eyes then, and something about the way you gazed at him—curious, open, wholly unafraid—made his words falter for just a moment. “That sounds like a rare gift,” you said softly. “The gods don’t give such bonds freely.”
The words lingered between you, carried by the quiet hush of the Godswood. Robb found himself wanting to say something—anything—to keep you speaking, to keep that faint warmth in your voice filling the cold space between you.
“My father says they were born for us,” he said at last, nodding toward Greywind. “To remind the Starks of who we are.”
“And who is that?” you asked, tilting your head slightly, genuine curiosity in your tone.
Robb hesitated, his breath misting in the air. “Honourable,” he said finally. “Loyal. Perhaps too much so.”
You smiled faintly, the expression small but sincere. “Those sound like virtues, my lord.”
“They can be the kind that get men killed,” he replied simply.
Your expression softened, your gaze thoughtful as it lingered on him. “Then I suppose they’re also the kind that make sure your names are passed down through the history books,” you murmured.
He blinked, caught off guard by the quiet conviction in your voice. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable—it was something gentler, fragile and new. Robb was still watching you when you finally rose, brushing the frost from your skirts. Greywind gave a soft whine in protest as your hand left his fur, his small tail sweeping the snow.
“Well, Greywind,” you said, your tone light and warm as your gaze flicked between wolf and man. “It was lovely to meet you both.”
You turned to go, the snow crunching softly beneath your boots. Robb’s eyes followed the sweep of your cloak, deep crimson against the white—like fire cutting through frost. Something in him stirred before he could stop it.
“You don’t need to leave,” he said, his voice careful as if not to startle you away. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I often come to the Godswood to think.” He paused, his mouth twitching faintly. “I didn’t expect that you—or your family—might visit this place.”
You gave a soft huff of laughter, your breath curling white in the cold air. “I doubt my mother would step foot in this place unless the gods themselves demanded it.”
Robb’s lips twitched, amusement flickering there for a moment. “Aye,” he said. “I imagine the Old Gods wouldn’t care much for southern prayers.”
You glanced over your shoulder, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at your lips. “Or southern pride,” you added, voice light but tinged with truth.
Robb’s mouth curved faintly, but his eyes didn’t waver from you. “There’s much being said about us,” he finally brought up after a pause. “More than either of us asked for.”
“I noticed,” you murmured, your gaze lowering to the snow-dusted ground. “Apparently I’m the North’s next great insult—or its salvation, depending on who’s gossiping.”
He hesitated, as though weighing whether to press further. “And what do you think?” he asked finally, his voice quieter now.
You lifted your head, meeting his eyes. “It’s no matter what I think,” you said evenly. “If my father and yours decide on our betrothal, then I will do my duty.”
He studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding once—slowly, as if he understood more than he cared to admit. “My father would say duty is the only thing that keeps us honourable.”
You straightened. “And my mother would say it’s the only thing that keeps us useful,” you replied, your tone steady but tinged with quiet bitterness. “Either way, there’s little choice in what we would want.”
Robb tilted his head slightly, eyes searching yours. “And what is it you want, Princess?”
The question caught you off guard. Such a simple thing—and yet, no one had ever asked it before. Not your father, who spoke of alliances and bloodlines as though you were part of his crown’s ledger. Not your mother, who viewed choice as an illusion beneath the weight of duty. Never anyone who cared for you beyond what you represented.
Your breath misted in the cold as you turned your gaze toward the heart tree, its red leaves whispering softly in the wind. “I’m not sure I’d know how to answer that,” you admitted after a moment. “I’ve spent my life doing what’s expected of me. Perhaps what I want…”—you hesitated, voice softening—“…is a chance to know what freedom might be like. To make a choice for myself—not because it’s required, but because it’s mine.”
Robb was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly, he said, “You’d fit the North better than you think.”
You glanced back at him, one brow arching, uncertain if he was teasing. “Would I?”
“Aye,” he said, and there was no jest in it. “You value freedom, and you speak plainly. You’d find honesty here, even if it’s cold and rough-edged. And I think you’d hold your own against it.”
Something unguarded flickered in your eyes as you looked at him. You hadn’t expected kindness from him—not the sort that saw beyond your name. “You and your family are kinder than I expected, Lord Stark.”
A small smile touched his lips. “And you,” he said quietly, “are not what I expected at all, Princess.”
You looked back toward the pool of still water, its glassy surface reflecting the red of the Weirwood leaves. Your voice was soft when you finally spoke. “Do you think your father will agree to it?”
Robb was quiet for a long moment, the weight of your question settling in the still air between you. His gaze drifted toward the heart tree, its carved face solemn and knowing. “I think he’ll do what he believes is right for the realm,” he said at last. “As will the King. The rest of us will learn to live with their choices.”
You met his eyes again, and for a fleeting heartbeat, the rest of the world seemed to fall away—the crown, the politics, the heavy chains of your parents’ expectations. In that stillness, you could almost imagine another life. One where you weren’t a Baratheon princess bartered like gold, but a woman who chose her own path. A woman who could stay here, in this quiet northern stronghold, where the air was pure and the people were honest.
You could almost see it—a future with Robb Stark. You’d be lucky, you thought, to be his wife. He wasn’t much older than you, and unlike the courtiers you’d grown up around, there was nothing false in him. He was kind, and honest, and strong in the quiet way that made others listen. If the betrothal fell through, you knew your next match would likely be some aging lord looking to get his hands on a young Highborn wife, grasping for status through your name.
“I should return before someone notices I’ve vanished,” you said at last, drawing your cloak around your shoulders. “If my mother realizes I’ve been out here, she’ll lecture me about the impropriety of frolicking out in the wild.”
Robb’s expression softened. “I won’t keep you, then.” He hesitated, his voice lowering. “But you’re welcome here, whenever you need quiet. The Godswood belongs to no one.”
You paused at that, turning back to him. The smallest smile curved your lips, faint but genuine. “Thank you, Lord Stark.”
“Robb,” he corrected. “I’m not Lord Stark yet—and I think we’re past the point of formalities.”
You held his gaze for a moment, something unspoken passing between you, before nodding. “I’ll see you later, Robb.”
It was the first time you’d said his name without title. The sound of it on your sweet lips, felt like a spark in his heart, a warmth that lingered long after you turned and walked away.
Days passed, and with each one, Robb found it harder to ignore what Jon had said that night in the training yard.
You weren’t like the rest of your family. There was no sharp vanity in your tone, no hunger for control in your gaze. You carried yourself with quiet poise, yes—but it wasn’t born from arrogance. It was the kind taught through years of lesson. The kind a person learned when they’d been watched all their life, weighed and measured against what they could offer.
He saw it in the way you walked through Winterfell’s courtyards, shoulders straight but eyes watchful, politely enduring the stares and whispers that trailed after you. He saw it when you stopped to help and speak with the servants, asking—not out of idle curiosity, but genuine interest—about life in the North, about the work and the weather and the long winters to come. And when you bent to greet a stablehand’s hound, unbothered by the mud on its fur, Robb found himself watching longer than he should have.
There was kindness in you—a gentleness he hadn’t expected from a lioness raised among vipers. But there was something else, too. A restlessness. A spirit that longed to stretch its wings, to break free of gilded walls and southern expectations you’d grown up with. You looked at the North not with disdain, but with wonder. This was a world you had been raised to look down upon, yet you seemed intent on understanding it.
The decision of your marriage still lingered in the air like the heavy promise of a storm. The King and his father had yet to speak it aloud, though everyone knew it was coming.
Sansa, for her part, had taken to her chambers most evenings, whispering fervently to her mother about her destiny to be beside Prince Joffrey. Robb had passed their door more than once, catching the sound of her pleading voice—soft, desperate—begging Catelyn to convince their father to agree to the match.
Robb tried not to listen. Tried harder not to imagine the kind of life his sister would have beneath that boy’s thumb. He’d seen Joffrey’s nature, clearer than most. Beneath the polished manners and perfect smile lay something rotten. He was spoiled, vain, cruel in ways that made Robb’s skin crawl. He treated the servants as though they were less than human, mocking them when they stumbled, taking pleasure in their punishments when he thought no one else was watching.
The thought of Sansa bound to him—chained to that kind of arrogance and cruelty—made Robb’s stomach twist. No. He would rather sacrifice his own happiness, his own future, than see her endure that fate.
And though he would never say it aloud, the more he thought of it, the clearer it became: if someone had to be bound to the lions, he would rather it be him than his sister.
The truth was… the more time he spent near you, the less that sacrifice felt like one.
He had begun to seek your company without meaning to. Somehow, you always seemed to find your way to the Godswood or the courtyard, and more often than not, Greywind was padding loyally at your side. You had taken to feeding the wolf treats when you thought no one was watching—though Robb had noticed, more than once.
He pretended not to notice the first few times, content just to watch from a distance. You would look around before crouching down in the snow, your crimson silks brushed pale white at the hems, your voice gentle and cooing as you murmured to the growing pup as if he were a child. Greywind, though already larger than most hounds, behaved with startling gentleness around you—ears low, tail wagging, his enormous head nudging against your arm in quiet affection.
You smuggled bits of bread or dried meat from the kitchens, unbothered by the dirt or the snow that clung to your gloves. Each time, Greywind would take the food delicately from your palm, his golden eyes softening before he devoured it, tail thumping against the frozen ground.
Robb decided to approach you finally and the way you startled at being seen nearly made him laugh.
“Does my lord intend to scold me?” you’d asked, voice carefully measured, though your cheeks were pink with embarrassment.
He’d shaken his head, a small smile curving his lips. “Hardly. Greywind seems to like you more than he does most of my kin. I’d be a fool to interfere.”
You’d relaxed then, your shoulders easing as you looked down at the wolf nuzzling your hand, his great head pressing insistently into your palm.
Robb leaned back against the cold stone of the courtyard wall, arms loosely crossed, watching you toss a small scrap of meat into the air for Greywind to catch. The wolf snapped it up easily, rumbling in satisfaction. Robb wasn’t entirely sure when it had begun—these moments, these quiet meetings—but he realized he had come to anticipate them.
He told himself it was curiosity. That he only wished to understand the woman who might one day be his wife. But the truth was simpler—and far more dangerous.
You had begun to occupy the corners of his mind in ways he couldn’t quite name.
You laughed softly as Greywind pawed at your cloak, demanding another treat, and Robb found himself smiling despite the strange tightness that bloomed in his chest. You weren’t the woman he’d imagined when the King had first spoken your name that night at the feast. There was no hauteur in you, no cold detachment born of noble breeding. You were earnest, curious—so very alive.
He’d heard the whispers, of course. That you were a lioness raised in gold, your mother’s beauty and your father’s temper wound into one. But he had seen no cruelty in you, no vanity. Only a quiet grace—and a loneliness that, to his surprise, mirrored his own.
“You know,” you began, brushing snow from your gloves, a hint of playfulness threading through your voice, “you seem to be making a habit of finding me in the cold.”
“Or perhaps,” Robb countered easily, “you’re making a habit of keeping company with my wolf.”
You smiled faintly, eyes glinting. “Then I suppose we’re both guilty.”
Greywind trotted between you then, tail wagging, as though satisfied with the truce. Robb hesitated for a heartbeat, then gestured toward the path that lead to the Godswood. “Walk with me?” he asked, a trace of warmth softening his tone. “Before he decides to eat your hand next.”
You laughed—soft and breathy—before straightening and accepting his arm. Your personal guard fell into step a few paces behind, close enough to preserve propriety but far enough to grant you both the illusion of privacy.
“Does it ever stop snowing here?” you asked after a moment, genuine curiosity lacing your tone.
He grinned, the corners of his mouth lifting boyishly. “Not long enough for us to forget what it feels like.”
You smiled in return—small, unguarded—and for a fleeting heartbeat, it made Robb forget himself.
You brushed a light dusting of snow from your sleeve, still smiling faintly. “I enjoy it here,” you admitted. “The cold is… refreshing.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Robb said, amusement colouring his voice. “Most southerners start complaining before they’ve been here a day.”
“I’ve done enough complaining for a lifetime,” you replied softly. “It doesn’t change much.”
Robb turned his head slightly, studying you. Though your voice remained light, there was something in your eyes—a quiet, familiar sorrow you rarely let show. “You don’t seem the sort who sits idle,” he said carefully. “If you wanted something changed, I think you’d find a way.”
You glanced at him then, the corner of your mouth curving in faint amusement. “You think too highly of me, my lord. My father can move armies with a word. I, however, can’t even choose my own husband.”
The words hung between you, sharper than you meant them to be. Robb’s smile faltered slightly. “If our fathers do decide it,” he said after a pause, his voice low and measured, “I’d hope you’d never feel caged here.”
You tilted your head toward him, curiosity softening your features. “You’d let me speak freely? Do as I wish? Hunt, ride, even argue?”
He grinned, the boyish spark returning to his eyes. “Only if you promise not to best me at any of those.”
That earned him another laugh—brighter this time—and the sound carried through the Godswood, breaking the quiet like sunlight through clouds. Even Greywind perked up, trotting ahead before circling back to brush against your skirts, his tail sweeping the snow.
“You’ve a charming wolf,” you teased, reaching down to scratch his head as he leaned eagerly into your touch. “I think he’s taken a liking to me.”
Robb’s smile deepened before he could stop himself. “I’m beginning to think,” he said quietly, “he has a good choice.”
You looked up at him, surprised, and for a moment neither of you spoke. The words hung between you, fragile and too honest.
Robb cleared his throat and turned away toward the heart tree, his cheeks colouring deeper beneath the cold. “He doesn’t warm to strangers easily, I mean.”
“Of course,” you said softly, though the faint curve of your mouth betrayed your amusement. “I’ll take it as a compliment nonetheless.”
The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. You walked side by side beneath the red canopy of the Godswood, your cloaks brushing with each step, the snow falling in soft, lazy flakes around you.
Finally, you broke the quiet. “Do you ever grow tired of this place?” you asked. “Of duty? Of… being what’s expected?”
He thought for a long while before he answered, his voice low. “Sometimes,” he admitted. “But the North doesn’t change for us. It’s not meant to be easy.”
You smiled faintly at that, your gaze sweeping over the snow-dusted branches before landing on the faces carved in the tree. “I think that’s what I like most about this place. In King’s Landing, everything is handed to us with a single word. Here, everyone needs to help to earn their keep, otherwise they answer to the unforgiving winter.”
Robb nodded, thoughtful. “That’s true enough. Up here, a man’s worth is in his work, not his name.”
“And in the South,” you murmured, “it’s the opposite. A man’s name can make him a saint or a monster before he ever opens his mouth.”
Robb’s gaze lingered on you, studying the way your expression shifted as you spoke — not bitter, only weary. “You don’t sound proud of the place you come from.”
You hesitated. “Pride’s a dangerous thing in the capital,” you said at last. “It makes fools of even the clever ones.”
Robb’s steps slowed, his eyes tracing the curve of the heart tree’s pale trunk. “And yet,” he said, voice quieter now, “you don’t strike me as a fool.”
You gave a small laugh. “Then perhaps I’ve fooled you into believing that.” you said lightly.
Robb’s mouth curved faintly. “Perhaps,” he allowed, “but I don’t think so. You see too clearly for it. You… question things that most highborn don’t.”
You turned to look at him then—truly look—and found that he was already watching you. The torchlight from the path flickered across his face, catching in his eyes and making them seem even lighter, like a storm breaking at sea.
Something in your chest tightened. You’d spent your life surrounded by men who wanted to possess or impress you, to see only what they wished to believe. But this—this was different. Robb Stark looked at you as though he were trying to understand you.
“Most people see what they want to see,” you murmured, meeting his gaze. “You, however, seem to see past that.”
Robb swallowed, the movement subtle, his eyes steady on yours. “Perhaps, I just take the time to look,” he said quietly.
The air between you shifted, the silence thickening like the hush before snowfall. There was something disarming in the way he said it—earnest and unguarded. It slipped past your defences before you could stop it.
“You shouldn’t,” you murmured, though the words lacked conviction. “It’s dangerous to look too closely at people. You might not like what you find.”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I think I’d rather see the truth than live blind to it.”
You looked away then, your gaze drifting to the Weirwood’s bleeding face. The red sap glistened like tears frozen mid-fall. “Truth is rarely kind,” you said softly.
“No,” he replied, his voice low and even. “But neither is the North. We endure both just the same.”
For a time, neither of you spoke. Your steps slowed until you stood before the great heart tree, its red leaves whispering faintly in the cold wind. The face carved into its bark watched over you. You stared at it in silence. It was strange, haunting, but somehow… comforting.
“The Old Gods are different from the Seven,” you murmured, studying the weathered lines of the carving. “They don’t promise mercy.”
Robb nodded once. “No,” he agreed quietly. “But they don’t lie either.”
You turned to him, catching the flicker of reverence in his expression as he looked up at the tree. In that moment, he seemed bound to this place in a way you could only envy. “You have faith in them,” you said, your voice softer now.
“I have faith in what endures,” he replied. “The Old Gods don’t demand our prayers. They aren’t cruel or kind. They just watch. Judge us by what we do. We live and die beneath their eyes.”
You considered that, your breath clouding in the air. “Perhaps that’s why your people are so honest,” you said quietly. “You live with eyes always watching.”
He looked at you then, and for the briefest moment, his gaze felt like one of those eyes— seeing far more than you wanted to reveal. You felt warmth bloom under your skin despite the chill.
You dropped your gaze first, brushing a stray snowflake from your glove. “Perhaps I should start praying to them,” you murmured. “The gods in the south have never listened.”
Robb’s voice softened, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “If you do, be careful what you ask for. The Old Gods don’t always give what we want—but they give what we need.”
For a long heartbeat, the only sound was the wind threading through the red leaves above you. Then, in a voice barely louder than the whisper of snow, you asked, “If the gods do will it—this betrothal—would you… resent it?”
Robb was quiet, his breath misting in the cold air as he turned toward you. When he finally spoke, his words were measured, honest. “No,” he said, almost gently. “I don’t think I would.” He took a slow step forward, the snow crunching beneath his boots. “Would you?”
You swallowed, your heart beating far too fast. “I think…” Your voice faltered, softer now, meant only for him. “Perhaps our union wouldn’t be such a terrible thing, after all.”
You took a step closer—closer than propriety would ever allow—but your guard stood a few paces off, mercifully distracted. The world around, you and Robb seemed to vanish.
You looked up at him, meeting his eyes—grey and steady as winter skies. You weren’t sure who leaned in first, only that suddenly you could feel his breath on your lips, the warmth of it sharp against the chill. Your heart pounded, the space between you shrinking until there was almost nothing left.
And then—
Something struck the side of your head with a sharp thud.
You gasped, stumbling back as snow splattered across your cloak. Robb’s hand shot out instinctively, steadying you before you could fall. For a heartbeat, you were too stunned to speak.
Then a young girl’s voice rang out, “Got you, Robb!”
“My lady!” your guard exclaimed, rushing to your side. “Are you hurt?”
You stood frozen for a heartbeat, snow sliding down your cheek and into the collar of your cloak. The chill hit you, sharp enough to draw a startled laugh from your lips—a breathless, unguarded sound that startled even your guard. You lifted a gloved hand to wipe the melting snow away, still half laughing.
“I’m quite alright, ser,” you said, waving him back. “No need to defend me from such a fearsome assault.”
Robb, meanwhile, had already spun toward the voice, a mix of horror and exasperation crossing his features. His cheeks were red—whether from the cold or embarrassment, you couldn’t tell.
“Bloody hells, Arya!” he shouted. “You got the princess!”
From behind a snow-covered tree, a small head of tangled brown hair appeared, her wide eyes flicking between you and her brother as she tried—unsuccessfully—to hide her grin. “I was aiming for you!” Arya protested, brushing snow off her gloves.
Robb shot her a look caught somewhere between disbelief and scolding. “And missed by half a godsdamned courtyard!”
Arya only shrugged, utterly unrepentant. Then her attention turned toward you, and her grin faltered. “Are you—are you all right, princess? I didn’t mean—”
You interrupted her with a laugh, brushing melting flakes from your cloak. “It’s quite all right,” you said, still breathless with amusement. “I’ve survived far worse than snow, I promise you.”
Arya blinked, startled by your good humour. “Really?”
“Really,” you confirmed with a smile, crouching just enough to scoop up a small handful of snow. You shaped it deftly between your gloves, your tone turning playfully curious. “Though I am curious, what exactly is this game?”
Robb frowned, instantly suspicious. “Wait—“
But before he could finish, you let the snowball fly. It struck him squarely in the chest, bursting into a spray of white powder that clung to his cloak and furs.
You lowered your hands delicately, schooling your face into mock innocence. “Did I do it right?” you asked, your tone light, almost teasing.
Arya’s mouth dropped open—and then she burst into delighted laughter.
“Did you see that!” she crowed, spinning to where Jon was standing a few paces behind his sister, his arms crossed and a smirk tugging at his mouth. “She got him!” Arya grinned, looking back to Robb. “You should’ve seen your face!”
Robb wiped the snow from his chest, a mock glare darkening his features as he turned toward you. “You—” he sputtered, disbelief warring with amusement, “you threw that at me?”
You lifted your chin, maintaining your imitation of innocence. “Well,” you said easily, “it was meant for you originally, wasn’t it?”
Jon chuckled. “Seems fair to me, brother.”
“Fair?” Robb scoffed, though he was already crouching, his gloved hands gathering snow with a practiced ease that should have warned you. A mischievous grin—far too much like Arya’s—curved his lips. “I call that an act of war.”
You gasped, taking a hasty step back, your eyes widening. “You wouldn’t dare—”
But he did.
The snowball left his hand in a perfect arc and struck your shoulder with a soft, satisfying thwack. Cold flakes burst across your cloak, sliding down your arm as you let out a shocked laugh.
“You—!” you began, your voice caught between outrage and laughter, brushing snow from your shoulder as he stood there looking entirely too pleased with himself.
Arya whooped from somewhere behind him, already ducking for cover. “Get her, Robb!”
That was all the encouragement you needed. You bent swiftly, scooping up a handful of snow of your own, the grin breaking across your face nothing short of wicked. “You’ve declared war, my lord,” you said, shaping the snow between your palms. “Don’t think I’ll yield easily.”
In a matter of seconds, the solemn Godswood had transformed into a battleground—snowballs flying, laughter echoing through the air. Arya and Jon took sides without hesitation—Arya with Robb, Jon with you—each barking orders like rival commanders on the field.
Your poor guard stood frozen at the edge of the clearing torn between his duty and self-preservation. He looked utterly bewildered, his hand halfway to his sword as if expecting real danger. He ducked as another snowball hurtled his way—Arya’s, if you had to guess—and let out a startled yelp when it exploded across his chest.
You were laughing so hard you could hardly breathe, snow tangled in your hair, your cheeks flushed from the cold and the sheer absurdity of it all. The world felt lighter—freer—than it ever had before. And through the laughter, the flying snow, and the chaos, Robb’s eyes found yours again—bright, warm, and utterly alive.
For that fleeting moment, it didn’t matter who you were or what fate awaited you.
Greywind barked, bounding between you, snapping playfully at the flying snow as though torn between sides. The four of you spilled from the Godswood into the courtyard, boots crunching over the frost. The few onlookers who happened to pass froze where they stood, blinking in disbelief at the sight of the royal princess and the heirs of Winterfell engaged in a full snow-fight.
At one point, Arya came darting after you, laughter bubbling from her lips as she took aim. You turned to flee—just in time to duck. The snowball soared past you in a perfect arc—right toward the open archway of the courtyard steps, where Sansa and Joffrey had just stepped outside.
Sansa shrieked as the snow splattered across her auburn curls, while Joffrey froze mid-step, flakes clinging to his ornate collar. For a heartbeat, everything went still. Then Sansa was already brushing the snow from her hair, her cheeks burning red with fury and embarrassment.
“Arya!” she cried, her voice shrill and scandalized. “What’s wrong with you?!”
Joffrey rounded on Arya, his face twisted in disdain. “Do you have any idea who I am?” he spat, stepping forward. “You dare to attack the prince?”
The playfulness drained from the air as quickly as the colour from Arya’s face.
She stumbled back, torn between defiance and panic. “It—it was an accident!” she stammered. “I didn’t even see you there! I was aiming for Y/N!”
Joffrey’s eyes cut toward you, his expression souring further. “Aiming for her?” he repeated, voice sharp with disbelief. “You dared to throw snow at a princess?”
Arya blinked, realizing too late what she’d just said. “I—”
But Joffrey was already advancing, his hand twitching at his side, his words venomous. “You filthy little savage,” he spat. “Do you have no respect for your betters? I should make you beg for forgiveness—on your knees.”
Before Robb or Jon could react, you were already moving—swift and steady, the remnants of laughter still dying in your throat as you stepped between them.
“That’s enough,” you said firmly, your tone sharper than anyone had ever heard from you.
Joffrey’s head snapped toward you, disbelief flashing across his face. “Enough?” he repeated, the word spat like venom. “You mean to defend her? She hit me!”
“She’s a child,” you interrupted coolly, your tone calm but edged in steel. You stood tall, unflinching despite the prince’s fury. “And we were playing. You’ve been struck by snow, not steel. I think you’ll live.”
A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. Sansa’s eyes went wide with horror. “Y/N—it was her fault!” she blurted, desperate to smooth the tension.
“Princess,” You corrected, “Do not think you can speak to me so familiarly,” you said, your voice dropping, cold as the northern winter. The sharpness of it startled even you. A little of your mother’s ice—your father’s command—cut through the air as you turned your glare on both of them. “She is your sister. And she has done nothing to warrant your insults or your temper.”
Sansa flinched, her face colouring as she bowed her head. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“She attacked us!” Joffrey snapped, indignant fury twisting his features. “It’s an insult!”
You arched a brow, every inch the queen you were born to be. “If you cannot tell the difference between an insult and a game, then perhaps you are the one who should be sent to the nursery.”
His face turned crimson. “Watch your tongue,” he hissed, stepping closer. “I am your prince!”
You didn’t move. “And yet you act like a spoiled child,” you stated calmly. “Titles don’t make men, Joffrey. Actions do.”
He froze, his pride striking like a wounded animal. The sneer crept back onto his lips, his voice thick with spite. “You forget your place, sister. I’ll not be shamed before these northern savages—”
“Enough!” The single word cut through his rant like a blade. “You will hold your tongue,” you said, your composure trembling on the edge of fury. “Or I swear by every god—old and new—you’ll prove yourself as much a fool as people already whisper you are.”
Joffrey’s face went red, then pale, the edges of his mouth curling in silent outrage. “You—”
And that was when his hand moved.
He didn’t think—he simply reacted, his pride goading him further. The sound of his glove cutting through the air was sharp as a whip as he raised his hand to strike you.
But Robb was faster.
He caught Joffrey’s wrist mid-swing, his fingers locking around it with unyielding strength. The motion was so swift, so instinctive, that even the prince seemed stunned by it. Robb’s grip tightened—not enough to harm, but enough to make Joffrey wince.
“You’ll lower your hand,” Robb said, his voice low and edged with danger. “Before you do something very, very stupid.”
Joffrey glared up at him, his mouth twisting into a snarl. “Unhand me,” he spat, his voice cracking with indignation. “You’ve no right—”
Robb’s jaw clenched, the muscle in his cheek tightening as his voice cut through the cold air. “You’re standing in my home,” he said evenly, each word heavy with command. “And in my home, you will not lay a hand on a woman—” His voice dropped an octave, a warning growl. “My woman.”
The words had your heart stuttering in your chest. You’d danced around the prospect of marriage, nearly kissed beneath the red leaves of the Godswood, but you’d never let yourself believe he wanted you, not truly. Not beyond duty.
Yet now there was no denying it.
Joffrey froze, his outrage faltering beneath the weight of something colder—fear, maybe, or the realization that Robb Stark was not a man he could cow with titles or threats. Robb was everything Joffrey wasn’t: grounded, unyielding, and very much in control. A man defending what was his.
The courtyard had gone utterly still. The only sound was Greywind’s low, guttural growl rumbling through the air from where he stood protectively by your side. The Direwolf’s hackles stood high, his teeth flashing white as he took a single step forward, golden eyes locked on the prince.
“Call off your beast,” Joffrey spat, his voice cracking, his earlier confidence bleeding into panic.
You stepped closer, your shoulder brushing Robb’s as you met the prince’s glare head-on. “Then perhaps you should return inside, Joffrey,” you said, your tone calm but laced with quiet authority. “Before you embarrass yourself further.”
Joffrey’s mouth twisted, fury flashing in his eyes. For a heartbeat, you thought he might try again—but then his pride faltered beneath the combined weight of Robb’s unflinching stare and Greywind’s low, rumbling growl.
He yanked his arm free, his movements jerky, his voice trembling with barely-contained rage. “You’ll regret this,” he hissed, each word dripping venom.
He turned sharply, cloak snapping behind him as he stormed toward the keep, boots crunching furiously in the snow. Sansa scrambled after him, her face pale and stricken. “Joffrey, wait—please, he didn’t mean—” Her voice faded into the cold as the great doors slammed shut behind them, leaving the courtyard in breathless silence.
The courtyard seemed to exhale all at once. You stood there, heart still pounding, the wind tugging at your cloak.
Robb hadn’t moved either. His hand was still half-raised from where he’d stopped Joffrey, his chest rising and falling steadily beneath his furs. His gaze shifted from the closed doors to you, softening the instant your eyes met.
The world around you was cold, but his voice, when it came, was not.
“Are you all right?” Robb asked quietly. The edge of command that had cut through his tone moments ago was gone, replaced by something gentler—concern, threaded with the faint tremor of leftover anger.
You swallowed, willing your pulse to steady, and nodded. “Yes,” you said softly, exhaling a shaky breath. “Thank you. But I’ve grown up dealing with Joffrey’s tantrums.”
The words came out lighter than you felt, but Robb’s expression didn’t ease. His brow furrowed, his gaze searching your face as if to make certain you spoke the truth.
“No one should have to,” he said finally, his voice low but steady. “You shouldn’t have to grow used to that kind of behaviour.”
You gave a faint, humourless smile. “You’ll find that my brother believes the world bends to his will. He’s never been told otherwise. My mother turns a blind eye, my father laughs it off. He was born thinking he could do no wrong.”
Robb’s jaw tightened. “Then perhaps it’s time someone did.”
Despite yourself, a small giggle slipped past your lips—a soft, incredulous sound. “Careful, my lord. If the king hears you’ve manhandled his heir, there might be a war before dinner.”
Robb huffed a quiet laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally easing. The corner of his mouth curved, but before either of you could say more, a small voice broke through the quiet.
“I… I didn’t mean to.”
You turned to find Arya standing a few paces away, Jon protectively beside her. Snow clung to her hair and lashes, her brown eyes wide with guilt. The defiance that had burned so brightly during the snowball fight was gone—what stood before you now was a child afraid she’d started something terrible.
“Hush now, Arya,” you said softly, your tone gentling as you crossed the snow toward her. “There’s no need to fret.”
You knelt so that your eyes met hers, your cloak pooling around you in the snow. “My brother has always been quick to anger,” you murmured, offering her a reassuring smile. The girl’s lip trembled, her gloved hands still clutching a half-formed snowball she’d long forgotten to throw. “It wasn’t your fault. You were only playing, and he—” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “He doesn’t yet understand the difference between pride and respect.”
Arya frowned, her brows knitting together. “But he almost struck you,” she said in a small voice, glancing between you and Robb. “Because you wouldn’t let him punish me.”
You met her gaze steadily, your tone quiet but firm. “Because you did nothing wrong,” you said.
The simplicity of your words made Arya blink, her wide eyes searching your face. “You’re not like the other southerners,” she said at last, almost accusingly.
A small laugh escaped you. “Is that a compliment?”
Arya’s mouth curved into a tentative grin. “Maybe.”
You reached out and tapped the tip of her nose lightly, dislodging a flake of snow. “Then I’ll take it as one.”
Robb watched the exchange in silence, his expression softening as he saw Arya’s tension dissolve beneath your words. When you rose to your feet, brushing the snow from your skirts, he found himself smiling without meaning to. His gaze drifted to his brother, who was sending him a knowing look. Jon was right. You didn’t belong to the same world as Joffrey.
As you turned to look at him, a faint smile still lingering on your lips, Robb felt something settle deep in his chest—steady and certain. He didn’t know what the King would decide, nor what his father would say when the time came. But for the first time since the betrothal had been spoken of, he knew what he wanted.
He wanted you to stay.
Not out of duty. Not out of command. But because he’d begun to believe the gods themselves had sent you north—not to bind two houses, but to give him something he hadn’t known he was looking for.
And perhaps, if the gods were listening, they would give him that chance.
The day had come grey and cold, a thin veil of snow drifting lazily through the air. Winterfell’s great hall, usually alive with the hum of conversation and clatter of dishes, was subdued—its vast stone walls echoing only with the low murmur of men awaiting the will of kings and lords.
Robb stood a few paces behind his father, his hands clasped neatly behind his back, every muscle in his body drawn taut. To his right, Lady Catelyn sat composed and still, though the flicker of worry in her eyes betrayed her calm. Beside her, Sansa’s expression was bright but anxious, her fingers twisting the silken folds of her gown in her lap.
Across the hall, the King’s court stood in stark contrast—southern finery gleaming beneath the gray light. Your father slouched in his chair, broad and imposing even in his half-sober state. His laughter, usually loud enough to fill any room, had quieted into a gruff patience he seldom possessed.
Beside him, your mother sat like a statue carved from cold marble. Her green eyes gleamed with restrained disdain. She looked every inch the queen, every inch the lioness who would rather be anywhere else than here in the wolf’s den.
And behind her, you stood.
Your head was bowed in perfect decorum, but Robb noticed the subtle tremor in your hands where they clutched your cloak. You looked small beneath the vaulted ceiling, framed by the grey stone and the banners of House Stark.
Robert’s booming voice filled the hall, breaking the quiet. “Well, Ned,” He said, leaning forward with a weary grin, “we’ve danced around it long enough. You know why I came—to bind our houses once and for all. Lions and wolves, standing together. I’ll not have it wait another day.”
Lord Stark’s expression was calm, thoughtful. “Aye, Your Grace. But the choice must serve both houses—and the children themselves. This isn’t a decision to make lightly.”
Cersei’s lips curved in a thin, cutting smile. “The realm has little patience for northern hesitation, Lord Stark,” she said coolly. “The match must be worthy of the crown.”
Robert waved a hand dismissively. “Gods, woman, enough of your prattle.” His attention swung back to Ned, his heavy voice echoing off the stone. “We’ve two fine children from each house. My son Joffrey, and daughter Y/N. Your son Robb, and daughter Sansa. Either match would serve well enough—but which one, that’s the question.”
The silence that followed seemed to stretch.
Robb felt Sansa’s gaze flick toward their father—wide, pleading, hopeful. Her hands were folded tightly in her lap, knuckles white against the fabric of her gown. She had dreamed of this match since the day the royal party had arrived, and though Robb wanted to look away, he couldn’t.
His father’s voice broke the stillness. “My daughter Sansa is of age to wed the prince, should it please the crown,” he said, the words falling with measured restraint. “It would be a great honour.”
Robb’s stomach twisted. He could feel every word land like a blow. The image rose unbidden in his mind—Sansa’s soft smile turned toward Joffrey, the way her cheeks flushed when he looked her way. She saw a golden prince; Robb saw the cruelty that gleamed behind those same golden eyes. The thought of his sister bound to that… boy made his chest tighten until it was hard to breathe.
But worse still was the image that followed—one he hadn’t meant to summon, one that struck deeper.
He imagined a life without you.
You, standing beside some nameless lord in King’s Landing, your fire dimmed beneath the weight of courtly duty. You, smiling that polite, practiced smile that never reached your eyes. You, turning from him in the Godswood for the last time.
The thought clawed at him, sharp and cold as the northern wind. He had told himself it was folly to think of you—to imagine a future that might never be—but now, as the King’s words echoed through the hall, the possibility of losing you settled in his chest like a stone.
You were duty, yes. But you were also more.
And for the first time, Robb Stark found himself praying—not to the Old Gods for strength or guidance, He prayed that fate would be kind.
He drew a slow breath through his nose, forcing his shoulders to remain square, his expression composed even as his heart hammered in his chest.
Across the hall, Robert leaned back in his chair, his heavy crown tilting slightly as he studied the two families before him. “Aye,” he said after a long pause, nodding once. “A fine match indeed.”
But then his gaze shifted—first to you, then to Robb.
He lingered on the sight of you, head bowed in quiet poise, the faint tremor of unease in the way your fingers tightened around the edge of your cloak. And then his eyes flicked to Robb—rigid, jaw clenched, blue-grey eyes stayed fixed on you.
Robert recognized that look. He’d worn it once himself—long ago, for Lyanna Stark.
His brows drew together, voice lowering into something more thoughtful. “And yet…” he murmured. “There’s sense in matching the North with my daughter, too.”
Your head snapped up, hope flickering across your face as your gaze darted between your father and Robb.
Meanwhile, your mother’s head turned sharply toward your father, her eyes flashing with cold fury. “Your Grace—” she began, her voice tight with warning.
But Robert ignored her. His eyes were on Ned, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips. “Tell me, old friend,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “What does your boy think of the matter?”
The hall went still.
Ned hesitated, his gaze flicking briefly toward his son. “He will obey his duty,” he said at last, his voice even. “Whatever is decided.”
Robert barked a laugh, the sound echoing off the stone walls. “A true Stark answer!” he said, raising his cup in mock salute. “But I didn’t ask for duty, Ned. I asked for thought.”
All eyes turned to Robb.
The hall seemed to narrow around him, every sound fading until all he could hear was the rush of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Slowly, he looked toward his father, seeking steadiness in the familiar lines of his face—but his gaze didn’t linger there.
It found you.
Your gaze met his, uncertain but searching. The flicker of hope shifting something in his chest shifted.
And before he could stop himself, he spoke. “I would marry her.”
The words rang out clear and steady, but his heart hammered behind them. He barely saw the flicker of shock that crossed Ned’s face or the sharp intake of breath from his mother. His eyes were only on you—your parted lips, the way your breath caught, the hesitant, hopeful smile that followed.
A low murmur rippled through the hall like wind through dry leaves. Cersei’s expression hardened, the colour draining from her cheeks, while Sansa made a small, strangled sound beside her mother — disbelief and hurt mingling in her wide blue eyes.
Robert’s brows lifted, amusement flickering across his face. “You would, would you?” he rumbled, leaning back in his chair, half in jest and half in curiosity.
Robb nodded once, never taking his eyes off you as he addressed your father. His voice was calm but resolute. “Aye, I would,” he said. “We remember those who stand with honour, and she has done that since the day she rode through our gates. She’s shown nothing but grace and courage since she arrived. The North could ask for no finer lady—” he hesitated, his breath catching for the briefest moment before he finished, softer, “—I could ask for no finer lady. If it please Your Grace, and with my father’s blessing, I would be proud to call her my wife.”
Your eyes widened slightly, a faint breath slipping from your lips. You could feel every gaze on you, but all you could see was him as he stood tall and unflinching in the centre of the hall, the firelight catching the auburn in his hair and tracing the proud lines of his face. His voice had stilled a room full of royalty and lords, yet his eyes were fixed only on you—as though the rest of the world had fallen away.
“Seven hells, Ned,” Robert said at last, a booming laugh rolling from his chest, breaking the tension like thunder. “You’ve raised yourself a proper lord.” He turned his grin toward Robb, still chuckling. “You sound more like your father than you know.”
Then his gaze shifted to you. “Well, girl? You’ve heard the lad. Would you have the wolf for a husband?”
Your lips parted, your breath trembling in your throat. You had been promised, paraded, spoken of your entire life but never once had anyone spoken for you like this. Never once had you felt as though the choice might truly be your own.
And now, for the first time in your life, you knew exactly what you wanted.
You drew a slow breath, steadying the frantic beat of your heart. “If it please Your Grace,” you said softly, your voice clear despite the thundering in your chest, “then I would.”
The hall erupted — some gasping, some murmuring, a few already clapping — but all of it faded into a distant hum. Robb’s eyes found yours again, and this time, you smiled — small, genuine, and full of something neither of you dared name.
Robert leaned forward, grin wide beneath his beard. “Ned?” he prompted.
For a long moment, Lord Stark said nothing. His gaze rested on his son, studying him—not as a father scrutinizing a boy, but as a man weighing the measure of another and his gaze seemed to soften with pride at what he saw.
Finally, he inclined his head toward the King. “I think the matter is decided, Your Grace.”
Robert roared with laughter, the sound booming off the stone walls. “Good! It’s settled then! The lioness of the South and the wolf of the North!” He lifted his cup high, wine sloshing over the rim. “May the gods damn well bless this union—and grant them strength enough not to tear each other apart!”
The crowd broke into applause, the tension snapping like a bowstring. But amid the noise and the celebration, not all faces shared in the joy.
Cersei rose sharply, her chair scraping against the floor, fury flashing in her green eyes. “You cannot be serious,” she hissed, her words cutting through the laughter. Her gaze burned into Robert’s, venom barely restrained.
“Silence, woman!” Robert bellowed, turning on her with a thunderous glare. “You’ll not sour this moment with your scheming tongue. The matter’s settled.”
Cersei’s lips pressed into a bloodless line as she sat, the gold of her crown catching the firelight like a warning.
And you—your breath trembled, your pulse a storm beneath your skin—but when Robb’s gaze met yours again, something steady flickered there.
A strange, unexpected calm.
Because in that moment, for the first time since the betrothal had been mentioned, you didn’t feel like a pawn in your father’s game.
You felt seen. Not as a daughter of the throne, not as a prize to be bartered, but as yourself.
And across the hall, Robb Stark’s hand curled at his side. For him, too, the weight of duty—the burden of blood, of family, of expectation—suddenly didn’t feel quite so heavy.
Summary: The whole Westeros knew the South and the North rarely made a good match; the South was too polished for the North, and the North was too discourteous for the South.
And yet, sometimes fate liked to play its game in an arranged marriage.
Warnings: Mature themes, blood, usual Game of Thrones violent themes (No Red Wedding), separate and specific warnings will be included in each chapter.
Important Notes: Robb and the reader and all their friends are in their 20s, the fic will not follow most of the canon, and the parts from the show will be explained within the fic.
note: not the usual football content, but I’ve found this in my drafts (i think this was written over a year ago?) and wanted to post this cuz’ why not? maybe i should rewatch dps. also who else shipped neil and todd? (jk ofc everyone did, they were soulmates fr)
People often say parties help them ease their nerves and allow them to have a good time in their usually fast-paced, stressful lives. So how the hell did it make you want to kick balls and rip your hair out?
When you and your friend, Ginny Danburry had decided to sneak into her brother’s party you thought you’d have a hell of a good time. Drink a little and dance all night; forget about Henley Hall and the academic stress. It went according to plan until the very moment your brother’s friend, Knox had decided to get himself in trouble. Heck, you didn’t even have a clue how he ended up here. Chet wasn’t exactly fond of him. But it’d happened, there was nothing you could do about it now. You’ve known him since you were children, so after a few nasty punches, you finally chose to help him out of this misery he’d gotten himself into.
“You really deserved it, Knoxious. I’d have kicked you in the balls, too, though. This is the worst way to try to win a girl’s heart. Seriously, the heck is your problem? No is a no, just accept defeat and suck it up. Stop being delusional,” you’d lectured him while wildly gesturing with your hands in the air. Your anger was written all over your face. You felt disappointed and betrayed by Knox, because you had never in your life thought he’d ever do something like this. It wasn’t right, and he will never hear the end of it, that you’ll make sure.
After a sigh from the depths of your soul, you’d grabbed him by the arm and led him outside, away from Chet’s house. The cool air creeped upon your skin, making you shiver a little and sending goosebumps all over your bare skin. You looked over at Knox, who was still in his drunken, unfocused state. You’d shaken your head and sat him down on the concrete, having no other option since the area was lacking benches. Knox was awfully quiet, fixing his gaze on the ground. Well, he should think about what he’s done, you thought.
“I’ll get Ginny, wait for me here,” you’d pointed your finger at him as a sign of warning before disappearing back into the scene of the crime, also known as the Danburrys’ house.
You ran back to the house through the heavy mahogany door, searching for the youngest Danburry. After almost breaking your neck in the process, you finally spotted your best friend near the kitchen. You quickly made your way through the sea of people, feeling suffocated by their sweaty bodies rubbing against you. The sultry air in the room was starting to make you uncomfortable, you wanted nothing but to get out as fast as possible. You hadn’t been feeling this way before, but this incident with Knox made you sober up enough not to enjoy the crowded party anymore.
“Hey, where have you been?” Ginny quickly pulled you to her when you were close enough to reach, saving you from that feeling of drowning in ocean of bodies.
“I took Knox outside, but I have to get him back to Welton. He’s an idiot, but I’m pretty sure he’d die trying to get back alone,” you explain in a hurry to the brunette, “please help me.” The pleading in your eyes must had convinced her, because she immediately took you by the hand and shoved people lightly to make your way out of the house.
When you’d finally gotten outside for the second time, you were greeted with Knox sitting in the same position you left him in, frozen like a marble statue. You sat down next to him with a soft thud and an exhausted exhale leaving your lips. You’d leaned your forehead against the palm of your hand for a few minutes, trying to gather yourself before sluggishly turning your head to your side. Knox was still out of it. Well, too bad you didn’t have all day. You shook him by shoulder and clicked with your tongue to get his attention.
“Come on, we’ll get you back to Hellton. On your feet, Knoxious,” your voice came out stronger than you’d expected, but at least Knox immediately obeyed and stood up (almost falling face-plant into the concrete, but he still made it). Ginny’d helped you drag him along the street without asking any questions before freezing dead in her tracks.
“Wait.How do we get him in? I doubt the janitor would let him in.” Oh. You hadn’t thought about that, at all. Very reasonable question, indeed. Such a reasonable question that any sane person would’ve thought about it. Blame it on the alcohol.
She made a good point. You stopped in your tracks, too, thinking about ways to get the moron in without anyone noticing. Couldn’t you bring him to his house? No, not a good idea. His parents would get furious if they were to find him in this illuminated condition. That’s a no-no, then. You need an insider. A few seconds had passed before an idea popped up in your head. You could almost feel the lightbulb shining above your head.
“Is there a payphone nearby?” you turned to Ginny with a mischievous grin on your face. She cocked an eyebrow in confusion, but replied anyway:
“Yeah, it’s there, in that corner,” she pointed. “But why?”
“That corner?” you asked, and she nodded. “I’m calling someone.” You smiled slyly at her. She rolled her eyes, as if it weren’t obvious. Why else would you need a payphone?
“You’ve got any coins on you?” Ginny sighed and fished out whatever she could find in her pocket. You beamed at her and collected all her possessions, even that stray bubblegum in the pile. She stared at her empty palm, then slowly gazed up at you with an are-you-serious? look, to which you just shrugged.
“Oh, look out for our Don Juan, he might not only fall for your brother’s girlfriend, but from that bench, too,” you glanced at the dirty-blonde boy, half of his body already sliding off the bench. She’d looked at Knox, then back at you and left you to carry out your so called ‘genius idea’. She didn’t forget to give you a doubtful look, though.
“Alright, Nuwanda, guess no more sweet dreams for you.” you mumbled to yourself as you began to dial.
“Good night, Welton Academy. How can I help?” The janitor picked up, you assumed. You’d gathered all your confidence and acting skills before speaking.
“Good night, sir. It’s Mrs. Dalton. I’m terribly sorry for disturbing you at this late hour, but I must speak to my son, Charlie Dalton,” you mustered up your most serious voice. Come on, Mr. Janitor, fall for my acting! You prayed that he’d believe you.
“Mrs. Dalton, couldn’t it wait until tomorrow?” No! You almost groaned in irritation.
“No, sir. It’s an urgent matter. I fear it can’t wait,” you heard silence from the other end for a second, then a sigh, one that probably came from the depths of his soul based on the loudness. Yeah, well, you were annoyed and tired, too. So hurry and wake him up already!
“Alright, Mrs. Dalton. I’ll wake him. Call again in ten minutes.” He ended the call. You nodded in Ginny’s direction, allowing a victorious, almost arrogant expression on your face.
“We have to wait ten minutes until I can call again, but we’ve got it from here.” You semi-shouted to Ginny, who was determined on not letting Knox fall asleep.
“Who are you calling again?” She asked in-between flicking Knox’s forehead.
“A friend from Welton.” You stared at your watch in boredom. Time goes so slowly when you need it to be fast.
“You’ve got other friends? Since when?” The smile faded from your lips faster than the Latin you’ve learned this week.
“Hey! I’m perfectly capable of making friends, okay?” You pouted in fake- offence. “He’s a childhood friend, by the way.” You added.
“Ohh, so he’s stuck with you.” She laughed at your offended face. You really wanted to flip her off. Who needs enemies when you have friends, right?
“Mom, is everything alright?” Charlie’s worried voice reached your ears when he picked up the phone.
“Everything’s fine and dandy, my dearest son, except for that world-class idiot friend of yours.” A smile was threatening to curl up on your lips as you painted the situation for Charlie.
“Huh? Y/N?” You could almost see his puzzled expression right before your eyes. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Knoxious. Long story short, he got himself in trouble, got punished, and now he’s with us. We’ll bring him to the entrance; can you come out for him?” You kicked the tiny rock away you’d been toying with before. You caught Ginny’s sleepy face from the corner of your eye, and you couldn’t help but feel a bit tired, too.
“Of course. See you at the entrance then, Mrs. Dalton.” Gosh, you quite literally saw that stupid, teasing smirk of his. Gross.
“I’ll pretend you never said that. Bye.” You gestured for Ginny to get up.
“Took you long enough.” Charlie leaned against the wall lazily, staring at you. You really wanted to yell at him for enjoying your suffering, but in the dead of the night, that probably wasn’t a brilliant idea. So you stuck with a death stare, hoping that you could condense all your irritation with that stare.
“I’m not used to lifting weights. Hello to you, too.” You let go of Knox, letting him fall into Charlie’s arms. Ugh, that felt so good. Knox really was heavy. How did you even carry him for so long? Maybe those excruciating PE classes actually did something other than make you cuss at the teacher. Perhaps I should start appreciating them. You thought for a hot second, then mentally scoffed at yourself. As if!
“I think we should get going. It’s really late.” The sound of your best friend snapped you back to reality. You nodded in agreement.
You gave a last look to Knox and Charlie.
“Good luck with Sleeping Beauty, Dalton.” You waved at him. His eyes followed you until you completely disappeared from his vision, that fond smile never once disappearing from his lips.He put Knox’s arm over his neck and helped him get inside.
“I think I’m scared of her. She looks like an angel, but she can be like the devil. But I kinda deserved it.” Knox mumbled, barely audible. Charlie just snorted at his remark.
After the Knox incident, you hadn’t been in contact with any of the Welton boys for over a month. Not because you didn’t want to, communication just wasn’t easy. Besides, the academics were piling up, and the promise you made yourself to be an academic weapon this year was down in the dumps; instead, you turned out to be an academic victim. It’s not like you were a bad student, but sometimes you struggled keeping those A’s straight. You found yourself, from time to time, fantasising about Henley Hall burning to the ground.
“Goodness gracious, I hate Latin so much.” You buried your face in your book and groaned. Someone save me. Anyone, really. You begged in your head. Latin was your absolute worst nightmare, right after Trig. You turned your head to the side, settling your gaze outside the window, deciding to find distraction in nature. Winter was nearing, and the trees were stripped of their green glory, now naked and shivering in the cold winds. The death of nature reminded you of your own state, and you wanted to cry out of sheer frustration again.
“What’s up with you? You look like you’re about to cry.” Your classmate, Eliza, plopped down on the chair in front of you. You raised your eyes up at her. Well, she wasn’t wrong. Had she not shown up, you might have actually started sobbing. You have no shame, though. Latin really is that bad.
“Latin.” That was all that needed to be said. She nodded in understanding, biting into the apple she brought with herself. After some time and a bit of hesitation from her side, she bit her lip, probably wanting to bring up a topic, filling the silence. Well, not everyone is comfortable with silence, like you.
“Have you been asked out for the ball yet?” Oh, the ball. You totally forgot about that. Henley Hall and Welton hold a ball for their students every year. Everyone goes crazy about it since it’s the only way to see girls or boys other than during the holidays.
“Nope. Don’t think anyone will either. I mean, I could’ve been asked out twice already. It’s hopeless.” You didn’t mean to sound like you were complaining or throwing a pity party, you’d just shared your unfiltered — quite negative — thoughts. You weren’t bitter about it either; you were losing nothing by not going.
“What about you?” Eliza suddenly became shy, biting her lip again at your question. She fidgeted with her pen. Silence took over you for a moment, and you weren’t sure whether you should’ve asked her about it or not.
“I was, but I rejected him. I’m actually waiting for someone else to ask me out...” She finally looks up at you, her hazel eyes staring into your soul. Your mouth parts in hesitation. Before you could've assumed anything, she quickly clarified:
“Charlie Dalton. You know him, right?” Her sudden question made your head a little dizzy. Charlie, really? Women really just swoon over him, huh? Knox should’ve just asked him for advice, you thought.
“Yep. Is he your Prince Charming?” You wiggle your eyebrow teasingly, although you feel a little uneasy. Why is your chest squeezing like that?
“Well…no. But I’d like him to be. Can you help me?” Her hopeful, pretty eyes staring at you in anticipation had made you answer hastily, and you immediately regretted it.
“Yes, of course I can.” Why the hell did you say that? Are you crazy? You wanted to slap yourself. How on earth could you help? You barely even meet him. You only see him on holidays. What will you do now?
Your internal panic was interrupted by Eliza, soothing all your worries.
“I’ll have a party next week, maybe you could invite him along with you?” That sunshine of a smile of hers made the squeezing feeling in your chest worsen, but you agreed anyway. She excitedly hugged you, beaming and giggling with pure joy prominent on her features. Usually you’d be happy over the fact that you helped one of your classmates, but it wasn’t the case now. What’s wrong with you? That bitter taste wasn’t leaving your mouth, and the tugging on your chest became unbearable. What’s this? Am I going crazy? Your thoughts were tangling into a ball of confusion, and you felt like you needed air to breathe.
sypnosis: reader sends pics of their fav f1 driver to annoy their bf
pairings: footballer!bf x reader
contains: jamal musiala, jobe bellingham, jude bellingham, joão félix, pablo gavi, pedri gonzález
f1 drivers: oscar piastri, max verstappen, sebastian vettel, fernando alonso, carlos sainz, franco colapinto
a/n: okay, so the new ideas: jealous texts or post-breakup drunk texts (like the footballers begging you to take them back). we’ll see. hope y’all enjoy these f1 x football fake texts
